Season of Miracles

It’s still not real. I mean, it can’t be. Right?

Early December found me exhausted. I was falling asleep everywhere.

I fell asleep at work. I fell behind on vital projects and was called on the carpet in my boss’ office with no excuse for myself. When she tried to figure out what was wrong, I said something very unkind and promptly burst into tears. She sent me back out with tissues, a pat on the back, and a confused look in her eyes.

I would get home in a daze and couldn’t seem to summon the strength to keep up with laundry and cleaning. Several nights I fell into a dead sleep as early as 6:30 p.m. and didn’t wake until the following morning.

I was convinced it was my new higher-dose, time-release blood pressure medicine. The bottle mentioned drowsiness was a condition of the meds. I went to see my doctor complaining about the exhaustion and my sudden aversion to foods. She said drowsiness she could attribute to the meds, but the food aversion didn’t connect with any conditions she could think of.

It has been two months or so since my last cycle, so I decided I would try to fill my nasty, period-inducing medication prescription and see if that would help me feel any more normal. The doctors have always recommended taking a pregnancy test before filling that particular prescription, just “in case.”

So I went to Wal-Mart and purchased my 200th pregnancy test and took it at 4:00 a.m. the next morning. Normally, I put the stick down and come back in the three minutes. This time, I just stood there tapping my foot and waiting.

To my absolute surprise, for the first time ever, I saw not one but TWO pink lines. I just stared. It couldn’t be, could it? I’d taken the test wrong (not many ways to screw that up, but still!) or I was the 0.01% that wasn’t accurate.

In a daze, I bundled the test in Ziploc bag and stuffed it in my purse.

At work, I called a trusted co-worker into my office and shut the door. “I’m going to show you something and I need you to tell me exactly what you see,” I said, furtively. I was afraid to believe my own eyes.

I flipped the bag dramatically out of my bag and shoved it towards her. She studied it just for a second before saying, “Two pink lines.” Her eyes drifted to the guide on the left, and she let loose with a whoop and a common three word expression that includes the Lord’s name.

I shushed her quickly and swore her to secrecy. She hugged me tightly and with tears shining in her eyes before retreating back to her desk.

In full-blown disbelief mode, I called my gynecologist and explained the positive test. “I don’t believe it,” I told the nurse.

Since my gynecologist and his two nurses are well aware of our long struggle, she didn’t even pause. “Come on in, and we’ll do a blood test,” she instructed.

So, on my lunch hour, I went to the clinic and got my blood test. Later, as I drove home over an icy bridge, my cell phone rang. It was the nurse. She told me congratulations and that I was definitely pregnant. I made her repeat it about ten times before I let her hang up.

The rest of the drive home was surreal. The nurse called back to set an appointment for a viability ultrasound. As soon as she said the word “viable,” I imagined all the things that could go wrong. I imagined an ectopic or tubal pregnancy or a blighted ovum or any number of pregnancy-positive-testing-gone-wrong scenario.

I began to pray as I have never prayed before. Besides my dear co-worker, I told my friends Alice and Carleen. They each rejoiced with me, promised to keep the secret, and gave me books on pregnancy. Carleen even helped me brainstorm ways to tell Brett.

A long time ago, in 2003, I thought I was pregnant. I went out and bought the whitest, softest, most life-like stuffed bunny I’d ever seen. After my test (and subsequent tests) turned up negative, I hung on to that rabbit with the promise that if God gave us a child, the bunny would be his or her first toy.

So, that night, I placed the bunny along with a bib that said, “I love Daddy” on Brett’s pillow. When he got home at 11:30 p.m. and ran up the stairs to talk to me, he found the treasures on his pillow.

“Are you pregnant?” He woke me up to ask.

“Yes,” I said nervously. “I know it’s bad timing financially.”

“Are you kidding me?” He climbed into bed with me and wrapped me in a giant bear hug. “This is the best news ever!”

It was the reaction I had been hoping for, and it took a huge burden off my shoulders.

On December 12, we went for the viability ultrasound. We had prayed before the appointment and were prepared to hear that the pregnancy was not viable. In fact, we were so prepared, that when the nurse told us she saw “it,” we both shouted, “Where is it?!”

She gave us a knowing smile and put her hand on mine. “It’s in the right place.”

Relief and a hundred joys flooded through me as I looked at that tiny little curve and listened to the hushed heartbeat on the screen. Brett smiled at me, and the endless thought stream through my head was thank you Jesus thank you.

For a long time, I’d dreamed about announcing my pregnancy at the Rehfeldt Christmas Eve party. But, since infertility, I thought my chances of getting pregnant were so slim, I’d cast aside that dream and would have been happy with ANY time!

Now, the Lord was not only giving us a baby, He was giving me my exact dream of telling Mom.

It just about killed both of us not to tell anyone. Well, Brett broke down and did tell our Pastor, and I told my friend Angie over our pre-Christmas movie night. But we resisted telling any family.

It was more than worth it on Christmas Eve when “Santa” handed Mom a package. She unwrapped it, gave a look of disbelief at the ultrasound photo, and searched the crowd for me. As soon as she had me in her sights, she looked at me questioningly, and I enthusiastically nodded my head. A moment later, she was yelling, “I’m going to be a grandma,” and running around with her hands in the air like a contestant on The Price is Right.

We pulled it off! The room erupted into pandemonium as family members, all familiar with our struggle, converged on us with hugs, laughs, and many tears of joy. It was a wonderful, memorable night that will live forever in my memory. Thanks be to the Lord for this very real, specific-to-me Christmas gift! We told Brett’s dad the next day, Christmas, with a tiny red onesie that said, “Who needs Santa when I’ve got grandparents?” His family couldn’t have been more thrilled. His dad said he was hanging the onesie in his front window by way of proud announcement!

There are so many more details to this story, and I’m sure I’ll be boring you with them before long. I just wanted to post this unflowery update to all my friends who may not have heard through the grapevine – and by that I mean – my mother.

God has proven to me, once again, that this is His season of miracles!

Nervous Nellie

I know I haven’t blogged in a while, and really it’s because nothing has happened.

Well, except for the fact I am slowly (but surely) turning into my mother.

Now, there are many, many way I wish I were like my mother. I wish I could automatically put other people before myself. I wish I had confidence in God’s all-sustaining power. I wish I thought it was fun to clean the bathroom. But, I am still woefully lacking in those areas.

No, instead I am becoming a nervous driver.

While I was never a fan of merging or highway driving, I happily forged ahead in the wind, rain, sleet, and snow. I drove slowly but joyously, crooning along to my favorite country music.

After my accident, I became more aware of what could happen. I can’t tell you how many nightmares I’ve had of my car careening off the road (again) and crashing into buildings, people, and semi-trucks. My dreams have even changed with the seasons, as my latest nightmare car crash happened on snow covered hills!

My newfound nervousness has also slipped into my relationship with my husband.

Now, Brett is a good driver. He had driven us through many a snowstorm, heavy downpour, and over ice-slicked roads with steady aplomb. But now I find myself clutching the side of my seat and repeatedly reminding him to slow down.

This last time, as we were driving home from church last night, he turned slowly to me and said, “I AM slowing down, Juliet!”

He caught me off guard, and I started laughing as I remembered my dad saying the exact same words to my mom while he was driving.

Oh, I am becoming my mother.

We can only hope the rest of the good stuff will follow.

Seven Things

I've been tagged by my friend Nicole, and have to follow the rules. Here they are –

Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their name as well as links to their blog. Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I’m glad Nicole tagged me, since I didn’t have a great dream last night and had absolutely nothing to blog about today.

2. I met Nicole at a Mary Kay party, where I found out I was in the same elementary school class as her husband. I was Little Bo Peep in our kindergarten play, and he was my Little Boy Blue co-star!

3. The latest thing to get on my nerves is how people use some of the worst spelling and grammar, even thought I KNOW they completed the same high school level classes I did.

4. I’m pretty sure I know more about urban rabbits than most people.

5. I’m almost irrationally excited about seeing Aaron and Linda Sturgill this Christmas. They are one of the few…okay, the ONLY…“couple” friends we have. People usually only like one of us. Me, mostly. (I kid, I kid.)

6. The spiritual lesson I am in the middle of learning is…how to wait patiently on the Lord.

7. I always miss my sweet mother-in-law around the holidays, since she passed away in December of 2005. I rejoice that I will see her again someday!

I tag:
Karyn
Alice
Mom
Valorie
October
Candice
Cindy

Camp Martyr Island

Starring Brad Pitt
Co-starring Kathy Bates

It was a large, sprawling island smack in the middle of the Caribbean. White sandy beaches lined the shore while the island itself towered tall with dormant volcanoes and mountain-like structures.

There were many man-made structures dotting the island. Every mile or so was a sturdy wooden cabin with a wide front porch stretching out towards the beaches. Inside the cabin were ten white rope hammocks hung from the ceiling, along with two private rooms on both sides, and a large bathroom with five curtained showers.

I was 14 years old. My best friend, Flare, lived in the cabin with me and eight other girls of varying ages. We had two camp counselors, one of whom was Kathy Bates. The other counselor was a thin, pinched woman who was mostly ambivalent towards us. The counselors slept in the two private rooms while the rest of sacked out on the surprisingly comfortable hammocks.

Except for the counselors, everyone on the island was an orphan. Our parents had been Christians who were martyred for their faith. In many cases, such as Flare’s, parents had been killed directly in front of their children to send the message that Christianity would not be tolerated under the new World Order.

All of the martyrs’ children were sent to this “camp,” far away from civilization, to be reshaped and reformed before reentering society. Children were kept on the island until they turned 22. If they renounced Christianity and endorsed the new World Order, they were allowed back in the world. If they didn’t, they were sent away, off the island, presumably to die.

There were over 5,000 children on the island. The children were divided into four teams, Blue, Green, Yellow, and Red. Your team was your family - unquestioning loyalty and blind following was encouraged.

Teams competed in two main challenges every two weeks. There was a scholastic challenge and a physical challenge. Winning either competition provided the entire team with extra rations and a traveling trophy.

Life on the island was very regimented. Every child, teen, and young adult had 10 hours of chores, interspersed with 5 hours of school. There was also a “chapel,” where we listened to messages from the new World Order four times a week. There were assigned times to eat, one “free” hour, and time to study/train for the team competitions.

Chores included food service, cleaning, laundry, ground maintenance, and hard labor. Each hour was actually only 50 minutes, at the end of which a loud bell would sound, allowing everyone ten minutes to get across the island for their next assignment.

For each girls’ cabin, there was a brother boys’ cabin. Our brother cabin had the requisite 10 boys, including Raymond, Chase, and Jonathan. Their counselor was Brad Pitt, and another man who I can’t recall.

Brad made the boys call him “Mr. Brad.” He was always driving the boys to work hard and win one of the competitions. When they didn’t excel, he would beat them with a bat he kept for just that purpose.

We were on the Green team. I was on the scholastic team with a specialty in Spelling/English, along with Amy (Math), Jonathan (Science), and Raymond (New History).

Flare was a fantastic swimmer, so she was on the physical team. Chase was also on the physical team as a sprinter.

Our scholastic team played through the rest of the Green cabins. We defeated Yellow, Blue, and then Red. We were champions!

But it wasn’t good enough for Mr. Brad who berated us at every turn, beating the boys for “resting on their laurels.”

Eventually, we hatched a plan to knock him off his soap box, but it backfired, causing him to come down even harder on us.

One of the girls in our cabin, Julie, was almost 22. She had decided to take the pledge to the New Order, and told us to “leave it to her.” She talked to her boyfriend, Oberto, on Red (scandalous crossing color lines like that!).

Oberto, also on the verge of 22, hid in the boys’ darkened cabin and knocked Mr. Brad unconscious, forcing him to be taken to a hospital off the island.

The next day, both Oberto and Julie took the pledge and where shipped off to rejoin society.
The rest of us went on with life on the island.

Some notes:
The girls from my cabin were Flare, Amy, Lacey, Julie, and Raza. There must have been four other girls, but I can’t recall them.

I only remember three “brothers,” even though there must have been ten.

Almost all of us spent our free hour on the beach. It was truly beautiful. The scholastic teams would joke that it was “unfair” since we studied in school rooms, and the athletic team got to practice along the beach.

We all wore sleeveless white T-shirts and khaki shorts. It was the only clothing available on the island.

Mr. Brad was truly nasty. He would get unreasonably angry all the time. Everyone was afraid of him. Even Kathy Bates.

Tag! I’m It!

Ooh-boy! Even though I now know they’re induced by my blood pressure medication, my vivid dreams still keep me on my toes.

I’m even considering using “tags” for these posts, since I know not everyone is interested in my brilliant, hilarious, and thought-provoking dreams.

I’ve never “tagged” anything else. I’ve never really thought I had enough categories.

Possible “tags”:
Ann-Marie complaining about loud, obnoxious children in public places
Ann-Marie complaining about children’s lackadaisical parents
Ann-Marie complaining about infertility
Ann-Marie memorializing one dead person or another
Ann-Marie composing a sappy poem, since she’s too cheap to buy a real gift

And, of course:

Ann-Marie’s medically-induced, whacked-out dreams

But these little gems just keep coming. This latest one featured Brad Pitt as my CAMP COUNSELOR. I am not kidding.

We both wore khaki shorts and everything. Oh, and my best friend’s name was Flare.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

Next post – Camp Martyr with Brad Pitt! On an island!

Thanks, Tears & Telling

I want to thank all of the people who commented on my last post.

Infertility is an ever-shifting, changing weight in my life. The uncertainty and emotional upheaval often send me spiraling into a crash, such as the one at Hallmark.

But I assure you that, like 95% of the time, I am actually somewhat emotionally stable! Well, maybe 85% of the time.

Recently, I reconnected with my college friend, Valorie. Several of you asked me who she was after she commented on my last post. I’m both pleased and delighted to tell you she is the “infamous” Valorie who graciously introduced me to my husband in college!

She was the friend who talked me into participating in GYROFAD where my blind date was with the tall, hairy, bearded man, 9 years my senior, who would one day learn to use the dishwasher (I can dream, can’t I?).

In all seriousness, without God’s using Valorie, I wouldn’t have met Brett! And for that, I’m very thankful!

I say all this, because I was perusing Valorie’s blog, and came upon this post. I found myself smiling and laughing (not crying over a stuffed frog) at her story of a poignantly funny family conversation around the dining room table. I urge you to check it out!

P.S. – Valorie married a Moody “boy,” too. Her husband, Phil, was actually in our class (NOT 9 years her senior), and he always stood out to me as a very kind, decent, and funny person. I did kind of laugh to see that now – after all these years – Brett is completely clean-shaven, and Phil sports a beard! Ah, the irony!

Crying in Hallmark

Brett and I found ourselves in a wonderful place this weekend – home at the same time!

It’s a rare occurrence in our first-meets-second-shift worlds, and when we learned Brett would get the full four-day weekend off, we almost fell to the floor in happy disbelief!

We celebrated Thanksgiving with Brett’s family (and Mom and Gary) in Geneva. We spent most of the day Friday reading and sleeping. We called up Brett’s dad in the evening, and he invited us to a MASSIVE all-you-can-eat buffet at the Grand Victoria in Geneva. It was delicious.

I had my Saturday all planned out. Brett and I would go out to eat at Chili’s, using the generous gift certificate from unnamed sources, and then I’d go put some hours in at the office and try to get caught up. My plans were unceremoniously changed when I developed a head-splitting migraine halfway through our meal.

Brett drove me home where I reveled in Excedrin and my bed for almost four hours. I felt like a new woman upon waking, and Brett and I decided to do a little window shopping.

One of Brett’s favorite places to visit/shop/live is Border’s. I, myself, am not a big book store fan.

My long standing policy is to only buy books if a.) they are a gift for someone or b.) I’ve already checked the book out from the library and loved it so much that I know I will read it over and over again and want my own permission to get the pages dog-eared, read guiltless in a steamy bathtub, and get cream cheese smudged in every 20 pages or so.

I would never, never do that to a borrowed library book, for those of you now terrified you’re reading a rouge paperback I managed to get my grubby hands on.

I agreed to subject myself to the snobby bookstore crowd, only because Border’s is lodged precariously close to my greatest weakness. Hallmark.

Oh, I love Hallmark. I love the style. I love the trinkets, candles, cards, and the imaginatorium that virtually swirls in the clouds above my head every time I visit.

Brett agreed to drop me at Hallmark and proceed on to Border’s where he could read brand-new materials to his little heart’s content.

I practically danced into Hallmark. I took a sweep through the new ornament display, disappointed at the lack of cute rabbit ornaments this year.

I perused the Christmas card case, where I was delighted to find two boxes of Marjolein Bastin’s “rabbit in the snow in front of a watering can” series. It was buy 1, get 1 half off, and a very British salesperson handed me a coupon for $5 off at that VERY moment, which I considered an encouragement from heaven to buy those cards.

Who am I to pooh-pooh signs from heaven?

As I continued my minuet around the store, I found the perfect gift for my co-worker, Nancy. It was an $8 trinket, but it spoke volumes to her kind-hearted personality and the way she mixes a good deal of love and compassion into our business environment.

I was waltzing past the frame section – offering tiny prayers that I will have a frame-free Christmas this year – when something brought me to a solid stop.

It was a simple white and brown tin frame. Around the scalloped edges was a saying written in impressive calligraphy. “This face makes me smile.” Inside, a photograph of a child with wide-eyes and a mischievous grin.

I was embarrassed to find my eyes misting over. I felt two fat tears roll down my cheek, and I furiously wiped my eyes. Determined to avoid a spectacle, I soldiered on to the next section, where I found myself awash in pink butterflies and blue elephants.

The children’s section.

The tears came anew, as I stared at little boxes designed to hold money from the tooth fairy. Tiny stuffed princess dolls, and plush choo-choo trains that whistled when hugged tight. Bright, happy walrus’ grinned at me, and a 3-foot-tall giraffe leaned against my leg. I couldn’t help the tears that were now flowing freely.

Most of the time, I think I’ve got this infertility thing licked.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I’m out and hear a baby screeching. At Wal-Mart, I crack a little smile when I see a parent driven to distraction and toss a coloring book in the basket just to avoid a meltdown. When I was at Olive Garden with Alice and a toddler tried to crawl under our table, I found myself thanking God for His blessing of a quiet car ride home.

So, when people inquire about how I’m doing, I’m honest. I speak the truth.

“We’re content with what God has given us.”
“We trust God to do His will when His timing is right, not ours.”
“Things are tough right now. Kids would compound everything.”

But, right there in Hallmark, with tears running free-range down my face, I succumbed to the quiet moment of despair, helplessness, and - much to my chagrin – envy and bitterness.

On days like this, in moments like this, I’m surprised to find myself NOT angry at God. Instead, I’m angry at myself.

To me, fertility is like a test I can’t pass. I study, and study, and study, and watch as kids who’ve never even BEEN in class, hand their papers in for an +A every time. While, I sit and stare at my paper, angry red X’s, and a giant F marked at the top.

It takes me back to the familiar embarrassment of being last. Of being the last to learn, to do, everything.

I was a miserable eight-year-old when I learned that the bunny went around the tree and in the hole. I wore Velcro shoes until that very moment. My other friends learned to tie their shoes years earlier, and I felt the hot shame of falling behind.

I was eleven before I could ride a bike. The neighborhood kids, five and six years my junior, raced by on their ten speeds, as I played in the yard and waved bravely. I still remember my unfettered joy when Dad raced down the sidewalk behind me, suddenly disappearing, and I braked to a hard, unflappable stop in front of my friend Shannon’s house like I’d been born riding a bike.

It was years later that I would learn my left-handedness, which was responsible for my creative streak and my straight A’s, was also a culprit in my learning common motor skills at a slower pace.

Still, I was always last. I got my period last, my training bra last, and my driver’s license months before I went to college. Infertility swells the familiar feeling of failure. Those dreaded red X’s translate into one dull pink line.

I clutched a furry frog to my heaving chest and couldn’t even draw on the familiar Midwestern tradition of being proper to stop making a scene. As people walked around me, intent on Christmas shopping, they probably just saw a fat woman crying over a stupid stuffed frog.

I tried to hold back the bitterness as it throttled through my chest. Bitterness is the foul odor that permeates my infertile soul.

People jump into my mind, and I try to fight the ire that crawls up my backbone.

I try, I really do, to be happy for pregnant people. I express the joy I feel I should express, although so often the thoughts shooting through my head are hateful and vile.

I once knew a pair of barely-marrieds that announced they were “surprised” by pregnancy. As I shook hands with one and hugged the other, my thoughts were jumbled. Of course, I was happy for them. I’d have to be a little inhuman not to be happy for them, right?

Right?

And yet, all I wanted to say was, “That’s not fair! You have no experience in this. You’ve not been on your knees, faithful as a prayer warrior, begging, pleading, promising to be like Hannah. You need more years of hoping and praying and waiting. It’s not right. It’s not fair.”

I hated her for her fancy, pretty, efficient reproductive system while mine sits unused and broken like a rusted, out-dated iron lung. I wanted to shake her little perfect Barbie head till it snapped off with the urgency of my message. I’m not proud of this, you understand, but it’s undeniably true.

Another acquaintance recently confided she and her husband have decided to have another baby. It will make five for their family. She said, “I thought we were done, but we prayed about it and just feel God is leading us to have another baby.”

I stood, mouth agape, at the news. She spoke casually, as if having another baby was as easy as picking up the phone and adding a second pizza to her Domino’s order. I clamped my lips shut and smiled in broad, fake congratulations.

The thing is - I really do try to feel happy. And sometimes I do. And then I get sucker punched.

Another friend and I were talking recently. She told me that a shared friend of ours was hoping to have another baby to add to their current only child.

“She really wants to have the baby pretty soon,” my friend said.

“Why the rush? She’s still so young,” I asked, thinking of our lovely 26-year-old friend.

“Well, she wants to have the baby before she’s thirty. You know how if you have babies after thirty, there’s more of a chance of….” Her voice trailed off as the devastated look on my face registered in her brain. She fell to silence, not sure how to offer comfort against cold, hard medical facts.

I find myself fighting fury and praying like a torrent against bitterness in my infertility.

By this time, I’d put the stuffed frog back on the shelf and returned to stare at the white and brown tin frame which seemed to hold me in its mesmerizing grasp.

I thought of my sweet niece Brielle and of a snippet I’d read in a book only hours before, “Aunt and uncles have one of the best jobs on the planet and a great responsibility to their young charges.”

I found myself imagining a future where Candice would ask me to take Brielle to tumbling, or pick her up from volleyball practice, and even arrange the occasional sleepover.

I remember, very well, my own sleepovers as a five year old at my then-childless Aunt Judi and Uncle Tim’s. I slept on the fold-out couch, ate the world’s best homemade spaghetti, and got a Barbie on a surprise Toys R Us shopping trip. I never wanted to leave their little house.

I tried to imagine my own life without the laughter and love that flowed from my Aunt Kathy, or the humor and heart for others of my Aunt Louise, or the special spiritual truths spoken in love from Aunt Jan.

I dreamed in that moment of Brielle. I prayed and hoped that when she reaches thirty, she’ll remember me with a measure of the warmth and regard I have for these amazing women who shaped me into the person I am.

I consoled myself with Brielle’s brown eyes and a sappy minds-eye rendition of an eight-year-old Brie, Candice, and I singing Mama Said complete with hairbrush microphones, jumping up and down on a king-size bed.

As I circled back to the ornaments, I found myself in a sad, lingering moment. I find these often in the day, when I dream of my life with a child.

I’ll be driving in the car and glance in my rear view mirror. I envision a car seat and her sweet face. On the return trip, I see a young child in the passenger seat beside me, swinging his legs and singing to the radio, note for warbled note.

I make chocolate chip cookies and see someone leaning against the counter wanting to help. I browse through the library and resist the urge to smuggle Green Eggs and Ham out under my coat.

I imagine setting up the Christmas tree and explaining each ornament, breathing life into the stories I fear will die untold. Truth, honesty, and love that will turn to dust, not given the air to breathe or the child to treasure.

I think sometimes I want a child just so I can stop being afraid of children.

I sat beside my second cousin, Zachary, as he slept in his coma. I watched as his aunts and other, random people from his church stroked his arms, tousled his hair, or simply held his hand. I found myself unable to move.

I was afraid at my touch he would sit up, disgruntled, look me straight in the eye, and say, “Hey, look, lady, I only see you at Christmas. Don’t be touching me.”

Watching other people doing it with such ease left me befuddled. They might well as been covered in butterflies and dancing a highland jig. Something else I can’t do.

I stood at the check-out counter as the British salesperson rung up my rabbit cards and co-worker’s Christmas gift.

“You might want to let that frog dry out,” I said with a smile, trying to keep my voice light, knowing my recent crying jag was visible in my red-rimmed eyes.

She smiled back at me and reached across the counter to pat my hand. “It’ll be all right, dear,” she said, her voice drenched in tea, crumpets, and caring.

I walked to the door holding my bag and took a deep breath before immersing myself in the vibrant cold outside.

Praying that she was right.

Praying that, someday, it really will be all right.

Deluded Dreams

Well, pride cometh before a fall.

There I was - proudly blogging my amazingly detailed, action-packed dreams – envisioning the reason I was so blessed was due to my innate creativity and right-brained wired mind.

So, you can imagine, it came as quite a surprise to me yesterday, as I sat in my doctor’s office, to be told a side effect of my new blood pressure medication is…extremely vivid dreams.

A side effect? Of boring blood pressure medication?

Really?

“It’s quite common,” my doctor told me as I sat there in stunned silence, seeing my reasons for intriguing dreaming reduced to a tiny, two-tone blue pill.

It’s not so bad. I suppose it’s not totally unthinkable that Stephen King, J. K. Rowling, and Stephenie Meyer might also be on blood pressure medication?

Hey, a girl can dream.

God Bless the School That D.L. Moody Founded

Finding another Moody grad in Rockford, especially amid the more conservative Baptist circles, is like finding a diamond in your jewelry box.

I knew I was taking that risk when I decided to follow in my parent’s footsteps and attend Moody Bible Institute.

At my high school/church, there were only a few “officially” endorsed colleges, and Moody was not among them.

Moody was and still is hailed as a liberal college where drinking, dancing, and debauchery is king. (Legalistic, cult-forming, brain-washing, uneducated, and uninformed lies – let me just state right here and now.)

In fact, my high school principal asked if it was okay for him to omit where I – the valedictorian – was going to college when he read my name from the stage.

I flatly told him, “No, it’s not okay. If you don’t say it, I will.”

I had lived and breathed legalistic fundamentalism my entire scholastic life. When I set foot, as a high school sophomore, on MBI’s bustling Chicago campus, everything felt poised to change. The air crackled with enthusiasm.

I spent the weekend orientation meeting other prospective students. There were kids from public school in awe of going to a college where God was mentioned in the daily curriculum. There were non-denominationals, Lutherans, Anglicans, Mennonites, and many, many more. There were kids from mega-churches, country farms, overseas, and inner-cities.

There were smiles at every turn, and I felt swept up by the sound of whooshing Chicago traffic along the college sidewalks. I envisioned myself in a high-rise dorm, storming the underground tunnels in the dead of winter, and reflecting quietly in the woodsy parks embedded in the big city college.

Over the weekend, I went to chapel, tagged along on a Practical Christian Ministry assignment in Cabrini Green, and met scores of other Christian teenagers who weren’t legalistic in the least. I sat in classes where the professors snagged my attention for the whole hour. I was disappointed when the buzzer rang announcing the end of classes.

I spent the night in a high-rise dorm with girls who made me laugh so hard, I cried. By the time I met my parents back at the River North Hotel, I had already decided. It was like God had handed me this giant gift, this treasure, and I had instant peace about enrolling as a student in two short years.

My years at Moody are among the most precious time in my life.

For the first time, I learned about God away from the surface, the external, the right-and-wrong rules. I learned about a true relationship with Jesus Christ. I learned what I believed and why.

I participated in ministry – real, life-changing ministry. I led Sunday School classes, tutored Hispanic children in deteriorated neighborhoods, ministered to female inmates at the Cook County Jail, and spent time on my knees praying with unwed mothers at the massive Cook County Hospital.

Say what you will about big city temptations – a big city offers ministry opportunities like no other.

Moody prepares students and lifeguards them into the ministry waters, even as freshmen. They don’t spend four years force-feeding and then thrusting students into a harsh, real world with no ministry experience.

Moody excels at providing real-world ministry experience.

If it isn’t obvious already, I spent my four year at Moody deep-breathing, after nearly suffocating to death in the staid halls of IFB prison. I was a free woman in the most amazing city in the world.

I’ve been back in Rockford for eight years now. In that time, the only other Moody grad I’ve encountered is my mom.

Until Alice.

When Alice and her family showed up at Mom’s church, the pastor announced they were Moody grads. Mom’s antennae quivered happily, and almost instantly, she and Alice were fast friends.

In short order, Mom introduced me to Alice, via her blog. We started out on how-are-you’s and have progressed to a frantic, writer-y, e-mail relationship that is a continual high point in my life.

Last night, we went out to dinner at Olive Garden. We stayed so long; they practically had to kick us out.

Now, I have no problem imagining we’d still be friends if Alice had gone to Maranantha, Northland, Bob Jones University, Pensacola, Pillsbury, Ambassador, Crown, or Hyles-Anderson (although the thought of Alice there makes me smile). I’ve friends from all those learning institutions who I respect and love dearly.

But there’s just something about a sister Moody grad.

It’s made even more interesting, because Alice didn’t grow up as an IFB. She’s just now navigating the trails where I became an expert tracker. Every so often, she’ll throw questions at me and ask “Why do Baptists do this?” Lately, she bestowed on me the title of Baptist Translator.

I plan to put that on my resume. Just FYI.

We barely talk about Moody. It’s just an unspoken, underlying gratefulness for our education and unique ministry experience that permeates our conversation. Your house rests on a strong foundation, but how often do you reflect on it?

Alice’s friendship has been a joy to me, and the fact she is a sister Moody grad is really just icing on the cake.

But that icing is oh-so-delicious. Sort of like something you might find in a bakery. In Chicago. The best city in the world.

Not that I’m biased or anything.

Thursday Theatrics

I have a head cold/sinus thing that has me walking around with a fogged-up head.

Sometimes it feels a little headachy, and sometimes it feels strangely good. Like I’m gently drugged. It’s the whole wavering between pounding pain and slight euphoria.

Euphoria. What a word. I always picture myself standing in the middle of a gigantic, pale pink flower as multi-colored gum drops rain down from a cotton candy sky.

Sigh.

I’m so tired today. I find myself unable to focus on work (of which I have plenty, let me assure you). I want to wander around and talk to people. I want to wrap myself in companionable conversation like a warm blanket on a frosty day. I love laughing with loved ones, commiserating with colleagues, and alliterating my annotations.

I find my muse has re-inspired me with words. I race to new ideas, character development, and story arcs that threaten to shoot off the page.

I drag myself to the predictable, the ho-hum, the boring. The balance between love and money rarely tips toward love, if you ask this humble scribe.

And, well, onward. Off to work I go. Hi Ho Hi Ho.

The Blogger Has Spoken

Just a little update to my entertainment blog links at right!

I decided to remove Stuff Christians Like. It has drifted away from good-natured mocking of common Christian or “churched” idiosyncrasies, toward more abstract spiritualization that (frankly) I don’t find helpful or grounded in Scripture.

I wish the blog creator had stuck to what he knew best and kept the funny topics and wry observations. Either way, it’s off my list of must-reads.

As an avid follower of pop culture, I am adding Pop Candy. I’ve been checking it out over the past few weeks, and it always provides a laugh along with an inside view of what’s going on in our entertainment culture. I like that it provides quick and easy link lists, and there are usually four of five topics that immediately snag my interest.

If there are other comic-lovers out there, I still highly recommend the *Comics Curmudgeon. Josh, the author, has never let me down with witty comments and undertones that often have me rolling on the floor laughing.

Also worth checking out is the awesome *Television Without Pity. If you like TV AT ALL, and you have a sense of humor, you will love this site.

*these sites are not recommended for people who might be easily offended. Just sayin’.

O Charity, My Charity

Dream a little dream with me.

Last night, a younger version of Simon Baker (from the CBS show The Mentalist) and I were getting a little frisky in the house from The Sound of Music.

Nothing happened, at least not until we got caught, and our parents forbid us to see each other.

The next part of my dream was fraught with drama.

I was part of a small group that was fleeing our other-worldly city. We were trying urgently to get to safety.

We were traveling in an old Buick. My Uncle Jimmy (my dad’s only surviving brother) was driving the car. There was another man in the passenger seat, but his face was obscured, and I couldn’t see who he was.

My cousin Charity and I were in the backseat. Charity had rescued my Aunt Laurie’s baby (!) and had the little girl wrapped up tightly against her.

Uncle Jimmy was driving at breakneck speed, but the flood waters were rising rapidly. Charity and I were holding hands and screaming, as the car careened one way and another, all over the road.

As Uncle Jimmy tried to get the car under control, I was able to get a good look at the city we were trying so desperately to leave.

The buildings were tall and steel-colored. There was a ring of light surrounding the city that refracted gorgeous colors back onto all the shiny surfaces.

A lovely deep purple wall surrounded the city. Water was rushing over it from all sides.

Uncle Jimmy was forced to pull the car off to the side of the road, and the five of us abandoned the car and raced across the street. We climbed into a double-decker bus, and Uncle Jimmy gunned the engine, as we held on to the seat rails.

The baby was crying, and Charity kept whispering that everything was all going to be all right.

Eventually, we got to the edge of the violet wall. Uncle Jimmy yelled up to us – we were on the second level – that he wasn’t going to make it. He told us to leave him behind, and get the baby to safety.

Charity and I climbed out the back window and stood for a second on the top of the wall, the baby still wrapped securely in Charity’s arms.

We stood there in long flowing dresses. The blowing rain and wind lifted the tattered gossamer material into the air, whipping it around our ankles. Water bled over our bare feet.

I gazed at my cousin, so strong, so bold, so maternal. She stared deep into the baby’s eyes and then back at me.

“It’s time to go,” she whispered. We looked down, over the edge of the wall, and saw a turbulent ocean writhing with inky black waves. Above us, the night sky was full of blinding multi-colored stars.

I caught Charity’s hand in my own. She covered the baby with her other hand, and we jumped.

Then, I woke up and just had to write all this down.

Famous in a Small Town

Well, I’m blushing!

My friend Cindy posed a question on Facebook yesterday. She asked if any of her friends had ever received a book as gift and how they felt about it. I answered, and today she mentioned me in her blog post.

So, I’m encouraging you to wander over there and read about this rather interesting topic. Not just because she included me (well, mostly), but because Cindy is a gifted writer, and you’ll be sure to enjoy yourself!

The Doorbell Dilemma

I have an irrational fear.

Okay, I have several irrational fears. Most of them are unlikely to ever happen. For instance, being eaten by a shark. Still, I can’t watch underwater films without freaking out.

“Is this the ocean?” I’ll ask annoyed moviegoers, peering though my finger. “Could there be sharks? Please tell me they shot this movie on a lake!”

When I was in high school, I worked in a daycare. Every Wednesday was movie day, and when I found out they were watching Free Willy, I feigned illness and got the heck out of Dodge.

Mom and I went to see Finding Nemo a couple of years back, and when the toothy sharks swam on screen, I screamed like a little girl. Toddlers all around me gave me annoyed looks, not scared themselves in the least.

I know I’m not the only one.

I have a dear friend who is scared of her car getting stuck on the railroad tracks. She has this horrible vision that a train will appear out of nowhere and mow her car down. It’s such a serious, irrational fear that she has the train tracks mapped out all over town and routes to get everywhere without having to cross any tracks. In fact, she doesn’t even like to walk across train tracks. When I’m driving her, she’ll briefly grit her teeth and close her eyes until we’re over the tracks.

I have another fear, and it’s pretty irrational. Ready?

Okay, I have a fear that the doorbell will ring; I answer the door, and promptly get shot in the face. I TOLD you it was irrational.

I blame it on all the news coverage of the Amy Fisher case. She’s the teenager who was having the affair with the married man, and then tried to kill his wife, via the above scenario. The man’s (now ex) wife survived, but now I live with the irrational fear that someone is going to ring the doorbell and shoot me in the face.

Stop laughing!

I don’t know how long I’ve had this fear, but it’s been a while. I don’t mind answering the doorbell if I’m expecting it to ring. Say, if we’ve ordered pizza, or Mom’s called to say she’s coming over. I get spooked with the doorbell rings, and I’m not expecting it.

Some little kid selling candy might stand on the other side, or in my warped mind, a twisted and sadistic gunman who knows my husband works second shift.

When Mom and Gary were living with us, Gary worked second shift. Around midnight one night, Mom was asleep downstairs, and Brett and I were sawing logs upstairs. I thought I heard the doorbell. I shook Brett awake to see if he heard it.

“Ghnoring blascanman,” he said, which I took for, “I didn’t hear anything.”

I tiptoed downstairs, prepared to scream my guts out, and saw Gary waiting patiently in the dark. We had accidentally locked the glass door from the inside. I let him in and took a quick glance around the dark to see if any twisted, sadistic gunmen lurked in the dark corners, before locking the door behind us.

The next morning, Mom and Brett declared they’d heard nothing. Gary was grateful for my super-hearing, and I was still hyperventilating from the experience. I hate answering the doorbell.

What makes it worse is that Brett also hates answering the doorbell.

“Honey, door,” he’ll yell, even if he’s standing five feet away.

“So? You get it,” I’ll yell back from the safety of the couch.

“It’s probably no one,” he’ll say, as he ducks out of range of our front windows.

“What if it was somebody,” I’ll ask from the couch. “What if it was important?”

“Nah,” he’ll say and wander whistling back upstairs, hoping to be far away if the valiant bell ringer tries again.

There have been many times, I’ll admit it, that we just don’t answer the doorbell. Me, out of liking my face the way it is, and Brett who’s afraid he’ll have to shell out $5 for some neighbor kid’s band candy sale.

Several times, we’ve been sitting in the living room, hear the doorbell, and then look at each other. We do a mental debate over who it might be, and if neither of us can identify a possible known bell ringer, we absolve each other of our responsibility to answer the door.

“We could be in the shower,” I say for the first excuse.

“We could be taking a nap.” Brett joins in.

“We could be so sick, we can’t answer the door!”

“We could be hearing impaired, recently diagnosed!”

“We could be away from home on a long vacation.”

“I’ve got it!” Brett snuggles in close to me. “Doorbell’s broken, and can only be heard on the outside.”

“I love you,” I declare and kiss my never-ending excuse-maker.

The only problem I deal with is that allowing my irrational fear to continue leaves me with a very unpleasant sensation.

Guilt.

I feel so unbelievable guilty for not answering the door. Now, I know that it’s most likely a lobbyist trying to get my vote, Jehovah’s Witnesses, little kids selling candy, etc. But, there’s always the chance, it’s some fresh-faced teen running from a serial killer and seeking shelter in our house.

But, then again, there’s always the chance she’s going to shoot me in the face. So, really, it’s a wash.

The reason I bring all this up is because our doorbell MAY have been rung at 6:15 this morning. I woke up from a solid sleep next to my snoring husband. I waited to see if I’d hear the sound again, but to no avail. I shook Brett awake.

“Did you hear the doorbell?” I asked anxiously.

“Ghnoring blascanman,” he said lightly.

“I think I heard the doorbell,” I fretted, wringing my hands, totally awake and feeling guilty.

“What time is it?” My husband muttered something unintelligible before resuming his snoring.

I snuck out of bed and tiptoed to the laundry room window which overlooks our front door. I peeked over the window, but I didn’t see anyone.

I climbed back into bed. “Maybe it was just the garbage truck. It kind of dings back and forth when it moves down the street. Besides, who would ring the doorbell at 6:15 in the morning? I mean, who!”

Besides a twisted, sadistic gunmen who might be a neighbor.

Still, I remained sitting up in bed. I felt guilty. What is someone had been out jogging and was being chased by a gun-toting, one-armed man? What then? Had I shirked my duty?

My husband was distracted by me sitting ramrod straight in bed. He leaned to one side and considered me out of one sleepy eye. “Are you okay, hon?”

“Just worried about that stupid doorbell,” I confided.

“It’s okay, baby.” He patted me knee. “It was probably just in your dream.”

“Right! Right!” I got comfortable once again and tried to drift back off to sleep. In the back of my mind, I saw all the people who could have been up and ringing doorbells at 6:15 and decided that if it had been that important, they would have rung more than once.

So, if it was you, I’m sorry I didn’t answer the door. But, word of advice, always call before you stop over.

I like my face the way it is too much to risk it, even for you.

Gratitude Attitude

Every so often, I get bitten by the grateful bug.

I don’t know if it comes from watching my Pollyanna VHS tape non-stop as a pre-teen (we didn’t have quality shows like Gossip Girl back then).

My parents may also be to blame with their constantly chirpy announcements on the importance of thanking God for the things in our lives while I was growing up.

Or, it could have been the life-changing excerpt from The Hiding Place where Betsie thanks God for the lice in her concentration camp barracks.

But, I really think it comes from a high school chapel sermon.

As you know, I attended a very conservative, legalistic, Christian school. We had hour-long chapels four days week. Most of the chapels were a complete waste of time. You could have put a monkey with a flaming stick at the podium, and it would have been a better investment in our lives.

A few chapels in particular stand out to me, such as a challenge set forth by a rather rotund “preacher” (this was an honorary title bestowed on men not ordained, trained, or often mentally-balanced, who were featured as guest speakers in our chapels).

The only reason I mention his weight is because he should have had some sensitivity about outward appearance, but he went on to prove he had no such conviction.

He reminded “us gals” that we needed to be “pretty on the inside, too.” I believe his exact illustration was, “You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.”

My friend Amy leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Did he just refer to us as livestock?”

“Yep,” I deadpanned. “I’m not sure he should be bringing up pigs. Invites comparison.”

She stifled a giggle, as our belligerent preacher bellied back up the podium. He thumped his Bible against the microphone. “Now, I’m not saying that women shouldn’t try to be pretty. After all, if the barn needs painting…” His voice trailed off into knowing nodding, as the boys and men in the room laughed.

I took stock of my sister classmates. The more devout supplicants - the ones with breeding, bare feet, and brainwashing in their futures - gave slight smiles, unable to completely suffocate the tiny sliver of their self-esteem gasping for air.

Others of us, would-be feminists (at least in that setting) along with the well-balanced kept straight faces. The same expression was valiantly favored by the female teachers in the room.

For the rest of the semester, the boys reminded us we resembled poorly painted agricultural architecture.

College chapels were also often favored. Young, handsome college men would visit our humble gathering and shill for their school.

I remember two of these colleges, quite clearly. The first one was Bob Jones University. I heard a BJU rep speak at least twice a year from my freshman through senior years. Somehow, I also ended up on the BJU mailing list.

Now, I knew I wasn’t going to BJU. I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I wasn’t going there. A simple flip through the catalog had confirmed my suspicions that it wouldn’t be a good fit for either institution or individual.

By the time I was a junior, I was getting way more mail from BJU than necessary. I believe entire forests were depleted just so I could be solicited as a student. I was fed up with it, but no matter who I called, I kept getting mail.

So, when the BJU rep came back to the school for his second pass-though, my friend Amy and I brainstormed ways to get off the mailing list.

Finally, Amy hit on a brilliant idea. When the rep passed out the cards asking for our addresses and inquiring about our majors, I copied from Amy’s card:

“Dear BJU – I’m so excited to come to your college! Can you please send me all the information on your pastoral ministry? I just can’t wait to be a female pastor! Sincerely, Ann-Marie”

Neither of us ever got another piece of mail from BJU. Message, apparently, received.

One of the more bumbling college reps was from Ambassador College. For the first fifty minutes of chapel, he talked only to the boys.

He extolled the virtues of the college’s pastoral ministry. “Us gals” were bored and ignored. Near the end of his speech, he seemed to remember there was another gender in the room.

“Now, you girls will be excited to hear we’ve just added a secretarial program, so our young men can have some girls to marry!”

I turned to Amy, incredulous. “That’s it? Secretary or spouse? They think that’s some kind of a draw for the college. Please.”

Amy shrugged. We were both battle weary in our fourth year of high school. “Well, at least we know where we’re going to college. Let’s just hope our underclass groundlings choose wisely for themselves.”

But, as you’ll recall, I mentioned there were a few truffles tucked in the mud.

The one I credit with instilling my gratefulness meter was an older man who preached a message on being thankful for unusual things.

He asked us to name the things we normally thanked God for – food, family, and friend, etc. Then he asked us to start thinking of things we had never offered thanks towards. His example was our senses.

“When was the last time you thanked God you can see a sunset, smell cinnamon rolls, pet an animal, sing, and hear a baby’s laugh?”

It became an inspiration to me.

Even now, every day I try to think of something new. Today, I found myself grateful for words and the ability to communicate through a diverse and bountiful language. Words like palatial, exuberant, physicality, gargantuan, and revolutionary.

In looking back, I know I can even be thankful for those many years of chapels, and the absolute truth of Isaiah 55:11.

“So shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”

And, yes, of course, I used the King James Version. For those of you who might have been concerned I learned nothing in chapel.

There, There, Ann-Marie

Okay, I’m going to say it.

I think it EVERY day when I read Facebook. Since I can’t say it there without sounding like a pompous blowhard, I’m going to say it here, on my little ‘ol blog.

Here we go:

There. Their. They’re.

All DIFFERENT words with DIFFERENT meanings. They are NOT interchangeable.

We’re. Were.

Also, different words. Also, different meanings. Also, not interchangeable.

I hate it that most of my time spent on Facebook finds me hunting for a red pen.

Whew! I feel so much better now. Thanks!

And Now Back to Your Regularly Scheduled Freak Show

I just want to thank all my blogging friends for praying for Zachary, my little second cousin who was injured in a car accident. Your thoughts and prayer have meant more than you’ll ever know, both to Zachary’s immediate family, and to those of us in his extended family.

I’ve put the link to his Caring Bridge website on the right. Beth and Brad have been great about posting updates as soon as they happen. The latest of the good news is that Zach is now walking, playing with toys, and even shooting hoops in the play room on the Pediatric Floor – only 6 days after his life-altering injury. What a blessing!

I’ve been having pretty bright and florid dreams lately, so I’ll get back to blogging what I know – a little bit of the crazy.

A Must Read

You have to read this.

Julie gives a very stirring account of what happened during the accident. She perfectly captures what went through her mind as everything around her was occurring at light speed. I was moved by her story and her testimony. I’m sure you will be, too.

If you are moved, please let her know. She was the glue that held so much together when everything was coming apart at the seams.

As a member of Beth’s family, I am eternally grateful for the super-human strength God gave Julie during this time - mentally, physically, emotionally, and (most importantly) spiritually.

I’m so thankful she is such a dear friend to Beth - a most kind, compassionate, and caring friend.

I imagine Julie is the kind of friend spoken about Proverbs 17:17 - "A friend loves at all times, and a brother (or sister, in this case) is born for adversity.”

Thank you, Julie!

Good Signs

Julie has posted an update on her blog. Zachary actually got up and went to the bathroom, showing he could obey commands although in a sleep state! This is a good sign he is closer to coming out of the coma-like state. Praise the Lord!

Here is our local newspaper’s story on the accident.

I was encouraged to see several commentators outraged that the drunk driver was released on $100 bond after:
Driving under the influence
Creating and fleeing one hit-and-run
Being involved in another hit-and-run that sent two adults and six children to the hospital
Sending one little boy to the hospital with a life-altering injury

If there are enough public outcries, maybe the politicians and prosecutors will sit up and take notice!

Zach Update & His Caring Bridge Website

I was able to visit with Beth and Brad at the hospital last night and even stopped in for a quick peek at Zach. Beth told me the doctors don’t want too many visitors in Zach’s room, since it creates too much stimuli for him in his current condition.

Beth asked me to “put the word out” on my blog and Facebook saying they’ve deeply appreciated all the wonderful visitors but are now requesting people call before coming to the hospital, so they can schedule Zach’s visitors.

If you need Beth’s phone number, please feel free to e-mail me or leave a comment.

The Molanders have also set up a site where you can read updates on Zachary’s condition, and sign a guestbook with your get well wishes. The website is www.caringbridge.org. Type zacharyjames in the search bar to go to Zach’s site. The site also gives a detailed explanation of what happened to Zach and how the neurologists describe his condition.

Please stop by, and sign the guestbook. Your thoughts and prayers will mean so much to them!