Contradiction in an Apron: Thoughts of a Christian Housewife Pirate

Pics of my Little Girl (or Shameless Plug for a Friend's Company)

2010-11-13T15:54:00.000-08:00

So I'm going to take advantage of Wordless Weekends on Nablopomo, and just post some beautiful pictures of my daughter that our friend Michele took. Her company, cheleybean Photography, is a new photography and portrait company in the MD/DC area, and she is, as you can see, just awesome! Great rates too! Check her out!

Sweet moment with Daddy.

First family photo! Everyone says she favors her father. I don't see the resemblance, personally...

Mommy loves you!

Sporting her cute bathrobe great-grandma gave her!

Family feet!

Of course, she used to look much *more* like a Potato...

You would not believe how much she resembles a Glo-Worm when we put a hat on her in this getup.

Yessir, that's my baby!

We like her, we think we'll keep her.

Smiley baby!

Sporting the beautiful turtle quilt Nana made her!

Ain't she photogenic?

A Steaming Mug and an Eager Pen

2010-11-12T11:59:00.000-08:00

Hello, Company Girls! Happy Friday!
So I finally got around to setting up a Google Reader yesterday, which will hopefully help me keep better track of all the blogs I'm trying to keep up with. I figured I'd share the ones I'm following on here, in case anyone's interested in seeing what sort of blogs catch my eye:

Home Sanctuary: Obviously. Shout out to Rachel Anne! Curiously, I got another girlfriend of mine hooked on your blog because her second daughter has *almost* the exact same name. She's Rachel Anna! LOL.
Then there's two blogs by my fellow Company Girls, found via the previous blog. Roots of Simplicity and Watch the Grass Grow, formerly Emancipation of Me.
Who Said Anything about Common Sense?: Written by my good friend, Sunday School sister, and former boss (she actually paid me to play with her awesome kids-- can you imagine?! LOL), Alias: Leia. She's a fellow nerdette and Star Wars and Trek fan, so obviously I adore her.
Then there's the writing blogs: One Writer's Mind, Write To Done, and The I and the Not I. The first two I actually just added yesterday, but the last one I discovered some months ago via Leia's blog. Small world, how these blogs seem to lead one to another and so on.

I'm still looking for some good writing blogs, by the way, so please let me know in the comments if you've come across any!
Anyway, I've been thinking the past couple of days about getting back into my writing groove again (thus why I was searching yesterday for writing blogs). I think I've realized that, as with any important discipline, I would do much better at sticking to it and finishing my stories if I had some accountability. So I'm trying to think of some friends or colleagues I can get together into a writing group. I figured it'd be better than paying to do another creative writing class wherein I'd be given new assignments instead of being able to finish my own stories. What I really need is to set goals and have someone to hold me to them. Maybe this'd be a possibility with an online group. Any other aspiring authors or poets out there who feel the same way? Drop me a line!
And while we're on the topic of writing, if you're interested, please check out the post prior to this where I put a short-story I wrote. Fair warning: it's a bit disturbing. I can't seem to write short fiction that isn't. It's always some sort of twisted horror story or another. LOL. But as long as it's not somthing along the lines of "This is terrible/wonderful/too long," I'd love some comments and critiques.
Anyway, I'm outta coffee, so I'd best end this now... cheers!

An Original Short Story by Yours Truly

2010-11-11T18:28:00.000-08:00

So I was having lunch with my husband and brother today at the Chinese buffet across the street from his work, and my bro-in-law and I got to talking about writing. We're both aspiring writers and major geeks, so we like to compare notes occasionally. I mentioned that I was short-story handicapped. Every time I start a story it starts out as a novel. Very rarely am I ever able to write short stories, and when I do they are nearly always disturbing psychological horror stories. I was telling him about the most recent one I wrote, last year, for my creative writing class, and how nobody liked it because it was too gory. He expressed interest in reading it, so I figured I would post it on here and send him the link. That way I could kill three birds with one stone:

He could read the story.
I would have something to blog.
Someone would actually read what I wrote on this dumb thing.

Yeah, call me a peacock, but it's really demotivational to participate in Nablopomo without any audience. LOL. So here's a classic example of a disturbingly horrific short-story concocted by my brain. Enjoy!

SILVER
by Stephanie Grove

The numbing patter of water on roofs and leaves had ceased, and the light crouched low in the sky. The evening released its breath in a long sigh. Birds dipped out from sheltering branches and traced arcs in the air, drying their wings. Shafts of dying sunlight sliced through the silvered clouds and bowed toward the earth. Everything was coated with droplets like diamond dust and reflected back the gray and pink and gold of the sunset, which had resumed weaving itself across the western horizon.

Slivers of glowing gold poured themselves in thin streams through the panes of the round window and lit up the beads and various artistic implements in the attic studio. The shifting of the light caught the woman's attention, and she straightened from her work, stretching her back and peering through the window at the damp scenery outside. Locking her arms above her head, she craned her joints upward, and the hem of her baggy t-shirt slipped up to bare the taut gourd of her stomach. Her navel protruded slightly, forming a mound in the fabric as she brought her arms back down. The bead-work on the worktable before her lay in a bright tangle, scattered over with silver dust, and half covered where she had abandoned the rag she was using to polish the strands. Behind her in the small studio hung several more works, dangling in colorful mobiles from the rafters, pewter moons and stars and flowers peeking out from between flourishes of iridescent glass beads, turning in a tight orbit on their delicate wires. Sighing, the woman glanced around at these creations, inspecting them with a critical eye. One hand dropped self-consciously to her belly, and she glanced out the window again. She was restless. Bird calls pressed, muted, against the window glass, and the woman rose from her work. Easing down the narrow staircase, she made her way slowly to the ground floor of the cottage. Lifting a light sweater from the hooks next to the door, she stepped out onto the porch. The damp air welcomed her with its embrace, and she creaked down the stairs, holding the ornate metal railing with one hand, her swollen abdomen with the other. Her soles grated in the gravel of the walkway that led out to the driveway and the road. Everything seemed alive and lazy with the onset of evening. Refreshed, she adopted a gentle gait and made her way toward the road.

Occupying her eyes with the fields and roadside forest of the rural scenery, she let her mind wander. Absently, she fidgeted with the engagement ring on her left hand, twisting it in the groove formed in the skin of the finger. Realizing the motion, she glanced down, paused for a moment, then pulled off the ring, depositing it in her pocket. Though she was dressed in faded jeans and an old t-shirt, the woman didn't have the look of someone who belonged in her rural surroundings. Her highlighted hair was piled high on her head, and her motions, though encumbered by a ballooning belly, still held the brisk urgency of someone who walked city streets and waited impatiently at strip-mall counters for a morning latte-- skinny, no foam. The evening was wearing away at the veneer of stress that pulled at her eyes, however, and she raised her eyes like a penitent to take in the light that dappled the gilded treetops. Autumn was approaching swiftly, running his painter's brush over the countryside foliage, chilling the air with his passage. Deeply inhaling the cool air, she slowed as she passed before a mailbox that hugged the road, bent and slightly dented with age; it stood with the stoic nature of a sentinel who had guarded this road in bygone eras of heavier traffic, and seen it grow old and potholed, covered each year with a thicker and more quiescent coat of fall colors. The cabin beyond it was rustic, constructed of coffee-colored wooden logs which still bore swirls of knotted imperfections, as though whoever had built it had simply hewn down the trees and piled them where they had stood. The place looked old, and could have been abandoned had not a thin trail of gray, pungent woodsmoke coiled up from the brick chimney. The woman gazed at the cabin as she passed, captivated by the old world charm like a tourist in a ghost town. Eventually, though, the protective trees closed it off from her intrusive view, and she waddled on.

The sun was dipping lower, now, and dusk beginning to leech the light from the sky. In the gap between the dimming trees, the harvest moon rested, buoyant in the distance between bordering clouds. Seeing the queen of evening risen from her rest, the woman halted, pulled a cell phone from her jacket pocket. The unnatural glow of the screen lit up her features, ghostly. Turning abruptly, she began the trek back the way she had come. Though she was trim, the exertion of the walk, and the extra weight she carried had labored her breathing, and a light sheen of sweat coated her temples and lips. Nonetheless, she walked a little faster, swaying side to side like a lost vessel on the night sea, instinct driving her indoors before primordial darkness claimed the world.

Hearing a rustle on the other side of the road, she looked sharply, her adjusting eyes craning past the veil of night. A dog had broke from the underbrush and trotted along the road opposite her, tongue lolling from one side of his mouth, eyes forward. “Hey, there,” she crooned, calmed by the sound of her own voice piercing the quieting forest. The dog glanced at her, slowing it's gait almost imperceptibly. It was a gangly thing, with a shaggy coat of fur and alert ears that perked toward her, gaging her position in the thickening air. It looked wolfish, a Husky or Malamute crossbreed, perhaps. She patted her leg, beckoning it over with the delight of a child. “Come here, boy, it's okay.” The animal hesitated, retracting the tongue back into its dark muzzle. It wet its nose, evaluating her invitation. “Come on,” she encouraged. The dog assented, veering off the dirt roadside and trotting over the asphalt road. “There you go,” she soothed, patting her leg again, and holding her hand out, palm up. The animal slowed as it approached, sniffing the air and lowering its head. The night was rapidly darkening, and she did not realize the creature had bared its fangs until she heard the low growl issuing from its throat. Blinking, the woman straightened, took a step back. The dog crouched, hackles raising, growl rising in volume. The woman took another step back, eyes locked on the dark canine shape in the road. Her arms enveloped her stomach protectively, and a throb of adrenaline began to pulse at her temples. Suddenly the growl twisted into a snarl, and the creature leaped at her, forepaws extended. The woman gave a gargled cry as the paws hit her, knocked her to the damp earth. Instinctively, she raised her forearm, and felt a needle of pain fire through the nerves of her arm as the animal's teeth pierced her skin. Now the cry broke free from her lips, filling her ears. She felt the weight of the animal, its hot fur and breath enveloping her, felt the pain as claws and teeth fought against her flailing limbs for purchase. Rolling, she tried to protect her belly underneath her, grasping the back of her neck and screaming. The animal scrambled against her, nosing and snapping at her spine and fingers, growling in a half-crazed pitch like a woman in labor or ecstasy. The woman's sleeve was soaked with blood, and she felt consciousness ebbing and flowing in her mind like a tide. The report of a rifle echoed through the woods, and her mind melded into the darkness of the night.

When she awoke, it was to the sterilized light of a hospital room. The fluorescent glare seemed to set fire to her retinas, and she snapped her eyes shut again. She shifted under the thin sheet that covered her, feeling thousands of nerve endings blare pain like trumpet blasts through her body. Opening her eyes in slits, she hesitantly surveyed the damage. Her left arm was tucked close to her body in a sling, thickly bandaged but not casted. She was propped up on pillows and her stomach where she was bent ached and stung. Lifting the sheet and the thin shift she wore, she inspected it. A neat half-circle of stitches stretched across her lower stomach, and the skin was stretched and deflated like an empty sack. She began to hyperventilate.

A youngish Korean woman with a jet braid and a clipboard walked in, saw the panic in the patient's eyes, smiled reassuringly. “Hello,” she said brightly, melodic American accent pinging off the white walls like the sudden chime of bells. “How are you feeling?”

“Where is my baby?” the woman asked, desperation curling the edges of her voice.

“Don't worry. She's fine. They have her waiting for you in the nursery. Didn't want to wake you up. You needed your rest.”

The woman considered this, chewing her lower lip and studying the nurse. “Is she... okay?”

“Of course,” the Korean woman replied, laugh lines crinkling the sides of her almond eyes. “She's a healthy bright-eyed baby girl, six pounds, eight ounces, fourteen inches long.” The nurse glanced at her clipboard, then back at the woman. “Still waiting for a name though. Would you like to see her now?”

“Emily Lynn,” the woman sighed, resting her head against the pillows and closing her eyes. Then she sat up again. “Can I see her?”

“Sure,” the nurse chirped. “Let's just check you out really quick, and I'll go and get her right away.” The Korean woman approached the bed. Her tan hands, nails and cuticles finely shaped, smelled of lotion, and she held a ball-point pen which she used to track the various lines, numbers, and read-outs on the monitors surrounding the bed, before jotting them down on the papers on her clipboard. “How are you feeling?” the nurse repeated, smiling warmly.

“Okay,” the woman replied. “A little sore.”

The Korean woman laughed. “Well, I'm not surprised!”

“What exactly happened to me?” the woman asked. “And how long have I been here?”

“Do you remember anything?”

“Well, yes... I remember taking a walk. And there was a dog...”

“Oh, is that what it was?” the nurse interrupted. “The man who came in with you just said you were attacked by an animal.”

“Man?” the woman echoed, frowning. “What man?” There was an emphasis on the question, and the nurse lifted a thin black eyebrow.

“I think his name was Henry. He said he was a neighbor.”

“Oh.” There was an odd mixture of disappointment and relief in the word, like the woman had both hoped and feared for who else this man might have been. But the nurse did not inquire further.

“Anyway, he said he heard you screaming and grabbed his shotgun and ran outside. He told us all he could see in the dark was you struggling with some kind of animal, and that he fired off a shot and it took off into the woods. He brought you in unconscious, but you had gone into labor so we had to do an emergency c-section. We also gave you a rabies booster, just in case.” And she winked, as though they were just indulging in a little girl talk.

“And how long have I been here?” the woman persisted.

“Just a little over forty eight hours. You woke up a few times, but you were a little feverish there for awhile, probably just a minor infection. We put some antibiotics in your IV, and that seemed to take care of it.”

The woman gave a short nod, satisfied for the moment, and the Korean nurse wrote a few more things on her clipboard. “May I see my daughter now?” the woman asked.

“Of course. Let me just go get her for you,” the nurse replied, and she was gone. The woman glanced around the room again, resting her eyes on the slit of night sky visible through the windows between two thick brown curtains. It was raining again. A streetlight somewhere out of view threw its glow up against the droplets on the glass, lighting the window like a Christmas scene. The woman looked back at the doorway.

The nurse had returned, pushing a hospital crib-cart. Within the clear plastic container rested a wrinkled infant, wrapped in white blankets. The woman smiled, craning to see her baby as the nurse brought it closer. “Here you go,” the Korean woman half-whispered, bequeathing the bundle into her mother's arms like a sacred offering. The woman clutched the child to her chest, gazing raptly into the scrunched face under the white cotton cap.

“Should I... is she hungry?” she asked, hesitant.

“Well, you should probably just keep her on formula for a while. You want to give all that medication time to work its way out of your system so she doesn't get it through your breast milk. But I can fix up a bottle really quick if you want to feed her.” The woman nodded, gazing at the infant again. The little black eyes peered up into hers, then shifted away, and back again, mouth working open and shut. The hands, buried beneath long white sleeves, flailed and rested in spurts.

The nurse returned with a can of formula and a bottle, and mixed a solution at the hand sink. Handing it to the woman, she cooed. “Aw... she knows her mommy already. Look at that face!” The woman just smiled, fitting the silicon nipple into the tiny mouth like a plug, watching the muscles along the infant's jaw pulse as she pulled forth the warm liquid.

The hospital released them the next morning, and, after filling out the necessary paperwork, the woman called a taxi to take her and the baby home. After tipping the driver, she crunched back over the gravel to the front door and carried her child over the threshold. “There you go,” she breathed, laying the baby down in the cheap plastic bassinet she had set up next to the bed in the little bedroom. Collapsing into a chair, she watched her daughter suck on two fingers, eyes closed. The woman sighed, leaning back against the soft cushioning of the recliner.

When she awoke again, the digital clock on the table beside the bed read 10:34, and the baby was crying, a suppressed wail that barely broke through her mother's heavy sleep. Reaching into the bassinet, the woman brought out the baby, and cradled her in her good arm as she made her way into the kitchen. Her stomach stung, and each step felt like she was tearing out the stitches. Maneuvering the child further onto her hip, she dug her bandaged hand into her purse on the counter top until it closed on a bottle-- a gift from the hospital. Extracting a container of dry formula from a shopping bag next to her purse, she managed to dump most of a scoop of powder into the bottle and carried it to the sink. As the baby brayed its thin cry, she filled the bottle with warm tap water, eying the amount, then screwed on the lid and shook the contents until they looked creamy. Shuffling back to the bedroom, she set down her daughter on the mattress and disentangled herself from the restrictive sling. Then she stretched out on the bed beside the baby and nursed her from the bottle. As the child's whimpers ceased, her own replaced them, quiet sobs that forced themselves from her chest like hiccups. Tears coursed down her cheeks, a few dripping off the tip of her nose onto the baby's forehead and sliding back into the downy hair. The child grunted as she drank, sucking air through her nose and swallowing urgently. When the child was done, she picked her up, tucking her against her shoulder and patting her back gently, tears still coming. The woman glanced at the cell phone on the bedside table, looked away. Her engagement ring lay next to the phone where she had deposited it when she had arrived home, along with her keys; the significance of her life, in three unassuming objects. When the child had burped, the woman laid her back in the bassinet, covering her with a small blanket-- another token from the hospital-- and sat back on the bed, staring at the phone. Shyly, one hand reached for the object, flipped it open, pressed a number on speed dial. She held it to her ear, breath pausing in her throat, listening. The tinny ring quivered in the air... again. Eventually there was a click, and an electronic voice bade her leave a message at the beep. “Hey... it's me,” she croaked at the prompt. “I... just... wanted to talk. Anyway... call me back.” The snap of the phone shutting made her shiver, and she pulled the covers over her head.

The next day was bright, filtering through the lacy curtains until her exhausted resistance became futile and she cranked open her heavy eyelids to confront it. The child was awake, sucking on a miniature fist and gazing inquisitively at the patterns of light on the ceiling above her bed. The woman slowly sat up and dropped her bare feet to the floor, trying to remember how few hours ago the last feeding had been. She had awoken five-- six?-- times in the night, and each successive time had felt more blurred and indistinct. Moaning, she finally pushed herself from the bed and reached for the infant. The little eyes locked on her face, feet kicking weakly in the air until they rested against her chest. Her arm hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her head hurt.

Shuffling back into the kitchen, the woman set the infant on the clean tile floor and searched through a cabinet. Pulling out an old, stained Black and Decker coffee machine, she set it on the counter and plugged it into the wall. A quick perusal of two drawers revealed a stash of individually packaged coffee grounds and some filters, and the woman sighed in relief. Rinsing out the pot and filter basket and filling the pot with water from the tap, she hastily reassembled the machine and set up a pot of coffee to brew. The trickle of liquid as the rich aroma filled the little kitchen made the woman's stomach gurgle, and she opened the refrigerator, inspecting its contents. Extracting a block of cheddar cheese and a Chinese-takeout container of leftover white rice, she grabbed a fork from another drawer and alternately carved fork-fulls from the container or block and plunged them into her mouth. When the coffee was done, she poured a tall mug of it and drank a long gulp, burning her tongue and leaving an acrid taste in her mouth. Reconsidering, she pulled milk and sugar from other niches and adjusted the concoction until creamy brown liquid edged the rim of the cup. Sipping carefully, the woman swallowed and sighed. The baby, still squirming slightly on her back on the floor, chirruped and gave a short cry, and the woman set down her mug and bent to retrieve her, wincing at the pang in her stitched abdomen.

Later, after they had finished off the rice, coffee, and two more bottles of formula, the woman put on her coat and tennis shoes and replaced the white cap on the baby's head. Tucking the old handgun she had brought from home and stored in the bureau drawer into her purse, she nestled the baby in the crook of her arm and stepped outside, locking the cottage door behind her like an older, wiser Red Riding Hood. Breathing deeply and pursing her lips, she walked down the driveway and into the road. The baby gurgled and cooed, yawning against the bright daylight. The air was unseasonably warm. Fluffy clouds scooted across the sky before a teasing breeze, patching the deep cyan with myriads of white shapes. The woods were alight with dancing sunshine that peeked like thousands of blinking eyes through the canopy and winked mischievously at the undergrowth. Occasionally the wind sloughing through the kinked pine boughs loosed a pine cone, and it fell with a soft crash into the mix of dry leaves and needles below.

The woman swallowed, and forced herself to take long, confident strides along the road. Soon she reached the mailbox, and she turned purposefully into the dirt drive past it that led to the rustic old log cabin. As she picked her way over the dips and ruts of the long drive, she attempted to recall the face of the person she was about to thank for saving her life, and likely that of her baby. The nurse had said he was an older man, and the rustic surroundings lended a certain coloring to her imagining of his face. But without features to fill it in, the mug-shot in her mind was merely an empty, wrinkled canvas, cut across with the hint of a friendly smile. She stumbled suddenly, recovering her balance awkwardly as the baby grunted and a skittering of loose stones and dirt echoed up the drive. From the direction of the log cabin came the squeal of old hinges, and the subsequent slam of a screen door. Glancing toward the sound, the woman saw a figure standing in the shade of the porch, still and alert, looking back at her. Straightening her shoulders and scooting the baby back up, the woman advanced toward the figure, attempting a casual smile. “Hi...” she choked out, then stopped to clear her throat. The warm, dusty air had made her mouth dry. “Um, hi,” she began, drawing near the porch. “My name is Jennifer Tankard. I, uh... I just wanted to stop by and, uh... thank you... for helping me, the other night.” And she tossed her head back over her shoulder, as if that night was still following right on her heels like a bothersome stray animal. The man was thin, but tough-looking as if years of life and sun and work had tanned his skin into a thick leather armor over his frail bones. Her idea of the wrinkles had been mostly accurate: laugh lines radiated out from the corners his eyes and rambled haphazardly across his gray-shagged forehead. A short, scruffy beard swirled with pale colors along his jaw line and spread across his upper lip. His eyes were pale, watery-- two ice cubes bobbing in blue punch. They stared out at her from beneath the brim of a brittle old leather hat that was faded at the creases, and they were intense, as if seen through the wrong end of a microscope, larger than life and piercing. The woman dropped her own gaze momentarily, then glanced back up. Now the man was smiling, and he had extended a rough gnarled hand toward her. “Glad t'see yer doin' okay, ma'am,” he said, the warm, hearty voice welling from some hidden source in the withered frame. “We was worried there fer a bit.”

Taking his hand and having her own shook vigorously, the woman accepted his invitation to “come on inside and haver seat.” The screen door repeated its squealing complaint, punctuated with the metallic crash as it raced back to its frame. The inside of the cabin was dark and smelled, unsurprisingly, of wood, sweet and dusty. It was warm and somewhat stuffy inside, and in the big den to her left she saw a dim glow in an old wood stove set into a hearth hollow in the wall. A couple big, faded floral chairs and a sofa that had slouched into itself over a career of decades crowded the room. “Tha's my wife, Eugenia,” the man said, gesturing toward a lump that occupied one of the floral monstrosities, filling in all the corners with loose, pale flesh and a patterned house dress that nearly matched the chair it occupied. At the mention of its name, the figure sort of jerked, sunken eyes in a swollen face roaming briefly in their direction before resuming their accustomed focus on the black and white television that murmured in the background, playing out the tired reels of some old movie. “Nice to meet you,” the woman mumbled hastily, too late to synchronize with the figure's brief attention span. “She's fine,” the man dismissed, as though his guest had hinted in any way otherwise. “Got a touch of Old Timer's. Not all there much anymore.” He chuckled at his own joke, and the woman just lowered her eyes, smiling awkwardly.

“So,” he said, bracing his hands like claws on the edges of the chair where he perched. “Can I getcha anything? I think we have some ice tea...”

“Oh, no, thank you, I'm fine,” the woman replied hastily, and he relaxed his grip, leaning back into the tired cushion.

“Well... so,” he began, eyes roving round the room as though he could locate his train of thought by sight. “So I guess yer better now?”

“Yes,” the woman replied, leaning forward. “I'm-- we're both fine.” He glanced questioningly at the baby on her lap, and she hastily made an introduction. “Uh, this is Emily,” she offered. “My daughter.” She made a brief face after she said that, aware of the idiocy of the explanation. “She was born right after the... ah... attack. In fact, I guess... if you hadn't been there, she may not have been born at all. I just...” she paused, frustrated. “I just wanted to thank you. Is there... anything I can do for you? Both of you?” she added, glancing sidelong at the docile shape in the other chair.

“No, no,” the man said, drawing out the words like a sigh. “Glad to help. Just glad I heard ya out there. Lucky I wasn't asleep yet. We both sleep like logs, dead to the world.”

The woman glanced at the man's absent wife, then at him, carefully avoiding putting that sentence in any kind of disturbing mental context. “Did they catch it?”

The woman snapped back to attention. “Sorry?”

“I asked ya did they catch it?”

“Catch it?” she echoed.

“The, uh, the whatchama-- the animal that had ya. What was it, a moun'in lion?”

“Oh, no, it was a... um... a dog I think.”

“A dog, huh?” he mulled this over. “Musta been a big 'un.”

“It was,” the woman affirmed, warming to the topic. “I think it was a Malamute, or maybe a Husky.”

The man leaned forward, frowning. “Eh?” he remarked, leaning a big ear toward her.

“It was dark,” she explained, and he nodded, leaning back again as though satisfied.

“It could have been a wolf, I guess,” the woman mused, then jumped at the slap of the man's hand on his jean leg.

The man was shaking his head, heaving slightly in silent laughter. “Weren't no wolf, I'll tell yer that,” he huffed. “Ain't never been wolves in these parts, not fer hundreds of years.” The woman shrugged, not responding. “Naw, it was prob'ly jest some stray dog some tourist brought out for a weekend at that campground down the way”-- he jabbed an arthritic thumb-- “an' ran away, went wild. Animal kin live a good life in these woods, s'long as he kin catch 'im some squirrels.” And he laughed again, loudly. The figure in the other chair shifted irritably, leaning its bulk closer in to the television set.

“Anyway,” the man surmised. “'E's prob'ly long gone by now. Had the sense to run when I shot 'im a warning.” He leaned conspiratorially toward her. “I woulda taken a proper shot at 'im, 'cept it was dark, and my eyesight ain't as good anymore. Didn't wanta hitcha by accident.”

The woman smiled appreciatively, and he relaxed.

“So,” he began, changing the subject. “Yore husband work 'round here?” The woman froze, mouth dropping open slightly.

“I'm... uh... not married,” she explained, quietly. The man frowned, glanced toward her ring finger for confirmation. “Well, I'll be. You know who the baby's father is, then?”

Striving to smile past the mild insult, the woman cleared her throat a little. “Yes, I do. We're... um... separated at the moment.”

The man lifted one bushy eyebrow, narrowing his eyes a little. “He know he's a father?”

“Of course,” the woman lied, gritting her teeth and wrestling the smile back onto her face. Her stomach was twisting uncomfortably now, and blood was pulsing in her ears.

“Good,” the man concluded, nodding. “Good.” He waved his hand dismissively. “It'll all work out. You young folks're always splittin' up an' getting back together.”

The woman just smiled.

It rained again that evening, a torrential downpour that set the roof to clanging like a full drum line. The woman cooked a boxed meal and sat in front of the computer to eat it, with the baby asleep on a blanket on the floor. She checked her email, slumping dejectedly when she saw no new emails. The pasta was bland, and she ate only half of it, setting it aside. The calendar on her email was predictably empty, noting only a full moon on Friday night and a couple of bills due. She ignored both, and logged off. The baby had woken up and flopped feebly on the blanket, grunts building into a sustained cry. The woman got up to fetch another bottle full of formula. The rain rushed against the kitchen window out of the dark sky, and the woman glanced out the window, shuddered. Passing by the front door on her way back to the living room, she locked the deadbolt.

Picking up the child, she surveyed the lamplit room. Cheerful country-inspired decorations and generic hotel-room paintings hung on the cream-colored walls. The plaid furniture clustered around an immaculate oak entertainment center, which displayed a hulking television balanced precariously on a small VCR. The computer desk sat in the corner like a reject from some earlier, more peaceful era, bare and inoffensive. The whole room had the appropriate feel of a vacation rental. The woman sighed longingly, and felt at the pocket of her jeans. But the cell-phone had not rung yet. Turning, she carried the baby to the bedroom.

The woman awoke to thunderclaps in the distance. The rain continued its mindless rage against the glass of the bedroom window, and flickers of white light lit the corners of the room sporadically. The woman sat up on her elbows, looking over the wall of the bassinet near the bed. The baby slept soundly on her stomach, little arms tucked close to her sides. The woman dropped her head back to her pillows, staring at the ceiling. She had been dreaming; in her dream a wolf came from the edge of the forest and attacked her, dragging away her daughter. The creature broke and ran back the direction whence it had come, carrying the child by a bloodied shirt. As it ran, it had morphed slowly into a dumpy creature with beady eyes wearing a ragged floral dress that grimaced at her through a mouth like a smooth cavern. The woman pulled the covers back over her shaking shoulders and shut her eyes, trying to block out the sound of the storm.

The next day was a blur of feedings and naps and resting in front of the television. The owners of the cabin had provided a few family-friendly VHS tapes for renters, and the woman dug one after another out of the dusty entertainment center and watched it, until dwarves and flowers and Disney heroes filled her thoughts. On the final scene of Snow White, she broke down, and had to run to the bathroom to find toilet paper to staunch the flow of tears. The cell phone still didn't ring.

Another night passed fitfully, the child waking every few hours for a feeding or change of diaper, and she awoke exhausted in the morning to the sound of her phone ringing. Frantically, she threw back the covers and dug the phone out of her jeans pocket. Answering, she nearly hung up as an elderly voice greeted her. “Hi, mom,” the woman answered, grimacing. Checking the sleeping baby, she quickly exited the room.

After enduring the uncomfortably long conversation with her mother, the woman slumped on the sofa, phone hanging from her hand as a bloodied sword would from a warrior's grip after a grueling battle. The babies high-pitched wail broke the late-morning silence and the woman heaved back up from the couch to fetch a bottle.

Her doctor's appointment that day followed a one-hour drive into town, and she was sore and grouchy by the time she got back out of the car. The doctor seemed rushed, and only tsked at her stitches before prescribing more painkillers and exiting the room. Back at the car, the woman contemplated going to see a movie, then remembered the infant in the backseat, and settled for a trip through a nearby fast-food restaurant's drive thru. The ride back was uneventful, and the baby was wailing for hunger by the time she pulled back into the driveway. The breeze played at her coat as she walked back to the cabin, keys jangling. The night went on as usual, distinguished only by a brilliant sunset that lit up the western horizon like a torch. Exhausted, the woman fell into bed as if the rumpled sheets were the arms of a lover, and sleep claimed her before she could blink.

She awoke well into the day. Bird calls chirupped through her hazy rest, drawing her into animation. She glanced at the clock through half-shut eyes. It was almost noon. Lethargic, she let her gaze rest on the clock, then blinked. The baby had not cried out once during the night. Still, the child was silent, and the woman rose with a start to look into the bassinet. It was empty. Panic flooded the womans veins with the rush of a flash flood. In a liquid movement, she snapped herself out of bed, and dropped to the floor. She lifted the lacy bed skirt, choking on the dust that drifted from the folds. The infant was nowhere to be seen.

Losing all grip on rationality in the wake of the the tide of adrenaline that was now pulsing through her skull, the woman leapt back to her feet and rushed into the hallway. Her bare feet slapped the hardwood floor with vibrations that seemed to shake the whole cottage. She flew through the living room, scanning the sterile beige carpet for signs of the infant's passage, barrelling through kitchen and dining room, tearing the stitches that had just begun to heal in her abdomen as she took the stairs two at a time to the attic and back down. A rushing seemed to be swelling in the air that filled the corners of every niche with a fog. She was crying, hot tears that slid off her chin without her notice. “Emily!” she cried. “Emily!” Her voice was hoarse, harsh-- she didn't recognize it. She grabbed at the front door, twisting and almost dislocating her own shoulder before realizing the deadbolt was still latched. Nonetheless, she strode down the wooden steps, screaming her child's name to the eerily sunny morning. Birds mocked her with playful melodies from the cover of their gilded canopies. The woman coughed out the infant's name again, doubled over on her knees, blood seeping through her pajama shirt and disturbing the pattern of the staid plaids. “Emily...” she trailed off, sobbing. The word was like a prayer.

Rising, the woman turned back to the door of the cottage. The pink frame gaped open like the mouth of some monstrous doll. The woman walked back through it, and stood, framed by the still-open doorway, looking right and left like a lost child herself. She turned back down the hallway toward the bedroom. A movement caught her peripheral attention, and she turned. It was her reflection, contained within the borders of a cherrywood-framed mirror. Her eyes scanned the familiar image, and it took a moment to place the disturbing quality in the image. Her dark brown hair was tousled from sleep, and coiled over her shoulders haphazardly. Her eyes were wide, shadows playing across them like playful imps. Her skin was smooth, milky in the dim light, and smeared with something red. Entranced, the woman raised a hand to the streaks that lined her lips and jaw. It felt sticky and stiff. She tried to move her lips, fighting against the congealed substance that held them like plaster. Her teeth were white, though, glistening in the sparse light. They looked cruel to her, sharp and alien in the cleft of her mouth. One finger poked tentatively at the substance on her face and pulled it away. She inspected it. Smelled it. Rubbed it with her thumb. It printed itself along the ridges of her thumb like a scarlet letter. Carefully, the woman raised the finger to her mouth and tasted the stuff, watching herself warily in the glass. Slowly, the iron spread over her tongue, acrid, bitter. It tasted of life, of pain.

Drawing in breath suddenly, the woman's chest heaved, and she pivoted, stepping out with the other foot like a choreographed ballerina in a B-rated horror flick. The half-shut bedroom door loomed as she approached at a sprint, swung wide at the impact of her clawed hand. She gaped at the bed. Mimicking her reflection, the pale yellow sheets were criss-crossed with bright streaks that had turned a rusty brown in places. Coarse hair lay across the mattress where something sharp had ripped away the linens and exposed it. The woman's feet dragged her forward reluctantly, one hand outstretched, simultaneously reaching for and blocking out the lump under the sheets. The woman flipped off the blankets. What was revealed brought little reaction from her blank, blood-streaked face. A little pile of thin objects, like whittled sticks, lay in a tangled pile on the mattress. Thicker fragments dotted the pile like puzzle pieces or large broken egg shells. Bones.

Sinking to her knees, the woman steadied herself against the planks of the wooden floor, eyes locked on the grisly revelation. Breath came and went in shallow draws from her chest, and everything faded to a still moment, the whole universe centering on this little skeletal altar on the bed. The woman's spine relaxed imperceptibly, her head lolling forward until she gazed at the bones through the fringe of her lashes. She watched the bones like a soothsayer, reading them for signs, awaiting a message from heaven to explain the atrocity that confronted her. None came. Sighing, the woman sat straight again, pushed off the of the floor and rose to her feet. There was a ponderousness to her movements, like her limbs had turned to lead during her repose. Still watching the pile on the bed, she began to move toward the dresser. Reaching it, she finally took her eyes from the bed and focused on the drawer, rifling the contents. Her hands closed on metal, and she pulled the handgun from the mess of bundled socks and underwear. Falling to the bed, she felt the jolt as the firm mattress met her body, but her whole focus was centered on the gun in her hand. Methodically, she checked the chamber, cocked a round. Sliding the cold barrel between her lips, she winced as the metal grated against her teeth, and a shiver passed through her limbs. Instinctively, her hand began to tremble, her tongue struggling against the metal depressor to swallow. Glancing back at the bones-- Emily's bones-- the woman looked back at the dresser. Intently, her thumb, still smeared with red, depressed the trigger.

The sound of the gun going off was like a door slamming in her head. A moment passed, feeling like eons, and she watched the dresser and wall blend into the ceiling as the force knocked her back onto the bed. The pain hit a moment later, and she gasped, drawing in air that burned along the ragged flesh of her palette like a brand. The pain was incredible, like a spike driven slowly through every fiber of her body and rushing to the crown of her head, alighting her hair with wet, sticky fire that poured liquid from the cavity the bullet had left. The woman closed her eyes, concentrating on the pain, waiting for the end. But it did not fade. The damp feeling on her head spread, and she could feel blood resting under her neck and shoulders. Amazed, she reached a shaking hand to her head, touched the blood-matted scalp. Her fingers felt for the hole, and found it, ragged and burning as the salt met the wounded flesh. The woman realized she was crying and tried to stifle the sobs that racked her flaming body. Forcing herself to her elbows, she screamed as the pain instantly expanded in volume. Her screamed turned to an enraged howl, cutting at her bloody throat like a cheese-grater. Blood poured in torrents from the entry hole in her throat, and filled her stomach. She vomited, red dripping into her eyes from her brows and streaming over her face. Again she screamed, like a chained animal. She stood, almost crumpling to the ground. But she did not fall. The pain went on, but it did not end, and she groped half-blinded by her own gory insides out into the hall, swiped at her eyes. The blood streaked across her face like a raccoon's mask, and dripped a slippery trail on the polished wood. The woman raged at heaven, at God, at her own inability to die. Each scream set new fire to the glowing embers of pain in her head, and rivulets of pain rushed to the tips of her limbs. The woman leaned weakly against the banister of the attic stairs, slumped to the floor. Her mind stuttered in chaotic flashes, images of blood and bones and Emily's cherubic face panning across her consciousness. A faint idea crept in the shadows of her delirious mind, fleshing out like the seeds of a nightmare. Her arm where the dog had bitten her burned, pulsed like a thing alive of itself. The woman gaped at it, healed over like an old injury, skin barely dimpled where the fangs had sunk in her flesh. Healed... already. How long ago had the attack been? Five days? But the sealed flesh looked aged by years, tough scar tissue raised a little from the surrounding skin. The woman blinked through the blood that caked her eyelids, mulling in a mockery of consideration over the random elements that were knitting together in her crazed imagination. Bitten by a wolf... it had been a full moon last night... Emily's bones were cross-hatched with grooves like the teeth of an animal... blood... everywhere blood.

The woman's eyes widened. “I am...” she moaned. “I am...” Her arms locked across her chest, and she rocked forward and back, spine bumping against the wooden ridge of the stairs. “I am... I am...”

Shakily, weakened from the blood she had littered in puddles across the house, she stood. The blood had stopped flowing now, and congealed on her face and hair and arms. The air was cold against her wet skin, and burned against the gaping hole in her skull. The woman's lips twitched, and she supported herself against the banister. “It's a … what is it? Silver..?” she mumbled erratically, fingers fumbling against the wood. “Silver... silver... silver...” she repeated like a yogi's mantra. Her voice was light, almost rejoicing. Her eyes rolled upward, and she smiled. “Ahhh...” she sighed, and turned toward the staircase. The steps receded up into the glowing light of the attic, and she set one foot on the first step, feeling like a soul ascending into the light. She grunted with the exertion of pulling herself up to the next step. Each one was conquered slowly, methodically... until her blood-streaked foot rested upon the carpet at the peak of the stairs. She twisted her gory head slowly, taking in the attic. She looked zombiefied, blood-loss clouding her eyes and slackening her pale face. Completeing the effect, she moaned, reaching both arms for the work surface in the attic corner. She stumbled through the curtains of mobiles that glittered like a forest of stars. The woman grinned, fancying herself in heaven. Falling to her knees, she clutched at a small brown glass bottle on the work table, fingers curling around it with a vulture grip. She dragged it from the table, knocking the half-finished mobile to the ground. Her red thumb brushed over the label, and she collapsed to her back on the bloodstained carpet, gaping head hitting ground with a jolt that made her cry out again with renewed pain. Raising the bottle to her dimming eyes, she gazed at the black letters like they held the promise of redemption in their sans-serif forms.

CraftsMan Powdered Silver

50 Grams

Purity: 99.9%

Caution: Do not expose to flame.

An unreal cackle rose from the woman's throat. She fumbled with the metal twist-on lid, and as it came loose, glistening dust drifted out onto the carpet. She inhaled and the dust burned her lungs. Coughing, she raised the jar to her lips, pouring the contents into her mouth. It stuck to her gums and cheeks and tongue like flour, and she breathed it into her throat sharply, dry heaving as it coated her lungs. Hacking, she felt the fire of pain blaze to life, and she sighed, smiling. “Emily,” she murmured, curling up as convulsions shook her frame. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she could hear a baby crying. Quietly, violently, she died.

The officer tapped his pen on his knee, waiting. Finally the laboratory door opened, and an older gentleman in a starched white lab coat walked out, peeling the latex gloves from his rough hands. The gentleman nodded at him as he approached, extending a hand in greeting. The men shook congenially. “Got anything for me?” the officer asked smiling politely. The man in the lab coat gave a curt nod, gesturing at an office to his right. They both entered, and the older man eased into a leather chair behind a sturdy desk.

“Looks like the victim died about forty-eight hours ago from a wound to the cranium.”

“That doesn't explain all the blood in the house,” the officer countered. The older man cleared his throat leaning forward.

“Well, that's a little tricky. There are cases of head-trauma victims surviving their wounds for periods of time, even recovering eventually. It looks to me like the shot may have grazed her amygdala and exited through the back of her skull.”

“So she bled out.”

The older man nodded again. “The amygdala has a strong influence on emotions and perceptions. She was probably very disoriented afterward.”

“Well that would explain the way the blood was all scattered throughout the house.”

“Yes it would.” He paused. “Point of interest: I found traces of silver dust in her stomach and lungs.”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “What would that do?”

The man behind the desk shrugged. “Not much, really. It's not toxic. Was the victim a scientist?”

The officer shook his head, frowning. “Not that we know of. She was a single mom, split with her fiance a month prior, on maternity leave from her job.”

The older man stroked the tuft of trimmed gray hair that distinguished his chin. “How about an artist?” he offered. The officer's look brightened.

“We found some mobiles in the attic-- glass beaded things.”

The older man nodded affirmatively. “That's it then. Artists sometimes use powdered silver in their work. How it got in her stomach I don't know though... maybe it was an effect of the delirium?”

The officer shrugged, dismissing the topic. “How about the remains?” he asked. The older man snapped back to attention, lines creasing his forehead solemnly.

“Human infant, female, not even a week old.”

The officer shook his head sorrowfully. “And?”

“Eaten.”

“Eaten?”

“Eaten. The teeth marks on the bones match the mother's dental cast.”

“Oh, jeez,” the officer muttered, dropping his gaze to the floor.

The older man continued in a carefully clinical tone. “I'm guessing post-partum depression and severe sleep deprivation combined with emotional trauma from her recent breakup and that animal attack you told me about tipped her mental balance.”

“She went crazy and ate her own baby,” the officer summarized, bitterly.

“Pretty much,” the older man replied. “Although, you'll want to get a second opinion from Doctor Sayers. I'm no psychiatrist.”

The officer nodded grimly, standing. “Well, thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” the older man replied, extending his hand once more. They shook, and the officer left the office, stalking back down the hallway. The older man sat again, shuffling through some papers on his desk, and checked his watch.

Holding my Baby

2010-11-10T19:02:00.000-08:00

I didn't do anything today. I just held my baby.

Admittedly it didn't start out voluntary. She was hungry every ten minutes today, it seemed, and wouldn't stay asleep, so she was just generally fussy. I didn't even get a shower, so I feel pretty grungy as I write this. I just held her on my lap while I dinked around on the computer, then we slept together through a few movies. I kept thinking I should really try to put her down and get some stuff done around the house, at least do the dishes and put my laundry away. But I didn't.

Tonight when my husband came home, I didn't even let him take her so I could get those few things done that had sat all day waiting for me to have a free hand. I just kept holding her, through our three episodes of TV shows. I didn't even watch much of the shows, I was so intent on the slumbering little body passed out on my chest. For some reason-- the recline at which I was sitting on the couch, maybe, or perhaps the way she was propped on my chest-- I was reminded about the night she was born, and how it felt to hold her for the first time.

I didn't really get a chance to enjoy it that first time. Like so many great moments in life, it was sprung on me before I had rehearsed the perfect big-screen reaction, so instead of weeping and holding her dramatically to my breast fit to win an Emmy, I said something dumb like "Look! I have a stomach again!" that was aimed more to make the nurses laugh than to bring tears to the attending audience's eyes. But thinking back on that moment now, when they first put Hannah in my arms, I get this warm, full feeling in my chest, that fills up my ribs and threatens to explode out the top of my throat.

I was never sure I wanted to be a mom. For some reason I could never feel about it the way I thought most women should in order to be fit mothers: that it's their sole purpose in life and nothing else is more important. I knew it was important to me, but the thought of having motherhood be the only thing I ever did saddened me, and still disturbs me. I can't draw the line at just that, important as it may be. I wouldn't be able to look back on my life without anything else but my daughter to show for it and be satisfied; I will always want to have accomplished more. That's just how I am. Even today, allowing myself a day "off", so to speak, from household duties to spend a whole day cuddling my new baby, I can't say I'm satisfied with how the day ended up.

But sitting on the couch tonight, remembering the day I pushed this little girl out of me and looked into her eyes for the first time, I think I learned something about being a mom. It's this: maybe I won't ever be satisfied with what I accomplish in life, and maybe that's just how it is. How many women ever are satisfied that they've done all they could anyway? But this little girl, who is snoring softly in her bassinet beside me as I write this-- she is always going to be at the top of the list for things I'm glad I did. And no matter what doesn't get done in the process, it will never be a waste of time to sit and hold my baby.

Just Another Tuesday

2010-11-09T12:17:00.000-08:00

It still amazes me how much Hannah determines what kind of day I have. I guess that statement alone gives away my noob-parenthood status. But her nap schedule literally determines whether I clean the whole house or don't even manage to fit in a shower.
Today was an intermediate day. I've already done the laundry and the dishes, but I just barely managed the shower around three o'clock. Then I had a pleasant surprise: I went to put on a sweater I had before I was pregnant. Before I was pregnant, this sweater was a tad on the fitted side. Now I'm practically drowning in it. Yay for losing weight accidentally! :)
We have family dinner night tonight. It's not really my favorite night of the week. I know it's terrible of me, but I just get stressed out getting together every week for dinner with all of Johnny's dad's side of the family. It's noisy and crowded and almost never starts on time, so if you don't eat a snack before you come you'll be past starving by the time everyone actually gets situated at the table. During my pregnancy, that was the worst. Don't get me wrong, I think it's great that the family manages to stay so close. But my family saw each other about once a year, at Christmas, and for special occasions like birthdays or graduations, so I guess I grew up accustomed to more distant relations. Johnny's family, on the other hand, sees each other three or four times a week: Tuesday nights for dinner, Wednesday nights at church activities, Sunday mornings at church, and Sunday afternoons when they all go to someone's house to watch the game or race. And that's not even counting all the family vacations and RV and camping trips they take on every single holiday weekend. These people seriously can't get enough of each other. I feel like a snob saying it, but sometimes I feel a little tired of all this togetherness. But I should really quit whining. I'm sure someday I'll get more used to it. After all, it's only been five years... (I actually didn't mean for that to come out as sarcastic as it sounded.)
Anyway, Hannah's still sleeping, so I'm going to take advantage of my thinner tummy and stuff it with some guilt-free Oreos while I fold laundry. Toodles!

Phew!

2010-11-08T18:50:00.000-08:00

That was a close one! I almost forgot to blog today! Only one week into Nablopomo, that would have been a disgrace! I really didn't do much today, actually aside from steaming the last three pumpkins we had on our balcony to make pumpkin puree for all the pies I'll be making for Thanksgiving. I actually made one pie today. It was rather yummy, though a tad undercooked. Sticking it back in the oven did the trick.

Since I really don't have much to talk about today, I thought I'd tell you about my dentist. We went to visit him today for our semi-annual appointment and cleaning. He always leaves me in a good mood, so he deserves at the very least an honorable mention. His name is Dr. Gregory Keating, and he is the dentist at Calverton Dental practice on Powder Mill Road in Calverton, Maryland.His office is run out of a renovated little house, and building retains the feel of a person's home. You enter into the living room and sign in, then sit and read magazines piled on a coffee table until you're called back to get your cleaning by one of their very friendly and chipper hygienists. Everyone there always remembers our names and sundry little details from our last visit. For example, I was 4 months pregnant at our last visit so when I walked in without the baby this afternoon (Johnny was getting her out of the car while I went to sign in) they were wondering where she was. They let us bring her carrier into the cleaning rooms with us, and took care to put her in the hallway while they did our x-rays, but where we could still see and hear her if she cried. They all cooed over her and exclaimed about how cute she is. Then doctor Keating came in and remarked on the same. He's a middle aged man, about the age of my parents, with a balding pate and a smattering of freckles across his fair face. He has pale blue eyes, and a gentle quiet voice, and he's nearly always smiling. He, too, always remembers our names, though he spends only 5 minutes with us every 6 months. Today, he joked with me, telling me to smile and then saying "Be still my beating heart! Oh, and you have very nice teeth, too. Look at me, flirting with you while your husband's right over in the other room. You can slap me when we're finished here." LOL. He always answers all our questions, and takes his time. He never seems in a rush, even when he has a house full of patients, and gives his full time and attention to us. My first impression of him was pretty stellar, too. See, he's a pretty great artist, and paints with oil and watercolors. At my first appointment I noticed this beautiful watercolor of the moon reflecting off a wooded lake, and I commented on it. He said he'd send me a print since I liked it, and the next week, it arrived in the mail, printed up professionally, and ready to be framed. He has his work hung all over the office, and it's all extremely good. I wouldn't be surprised if I wasn't the first to ask for a print. He also happens to be a God-fearing man, who goes to church every Sunday, and was just discussing working in the nursery with me this afternoon. He said he enjoys watching the little ones once a month.

Anyway... yeah... that's my dentist. Highly recommend him if you live anywhere close enough. I'm going to bed now. Goodnight.

Wordless Weekend: The Best Music Video on Youtube

2010-11-07T09:28:00.000-08:00

C is for...

2010-11-06T15:13:00.000-07:00

Coupons. Coupons have become my big thing lately. I've been bragging to everyone how I went shopping at Babies-R-Us while my mom was out here and bought 180-something dollars worth of stuff and between sales, coupons, and formula checks, I paid less than half of that amount. I'm not feeding Hannah formula, of course, but I'm using all the formula checks I keep getting to collect formula to donate to the Laurel Pregnancy Center for Christmas. I like to give some sort of gift to charity every year, but since we're on such a tight budget this year with my questionable job status and Hannah pushing up our bills, I figured those "free money" checks were just the thing. Then today we went to Babies-R-Us again, and Shoppers, and I managed to save us another $50 altogether. I love coupon collecting. It's like a scavenger hunt to save money! If life's a game, I should win a prize, lol!

Cash. While I'm on the subject of money, I should really be giving some credit to God here for the enormous financial blessings He's been surrounding us with. Not only have I been able to find coupons for almost half of everything we buy, but everything we need lately seems to be on sale, plus we keep recieving money and gift cards and rebate checks in the mail. Now that I stop and think about it, it really has been amazing the way God has provided for us ever since Hannah was born. I know I'm showcasing my lack of faith here, but that was something I was really worried about during the pregnancy. I didn't know how we would manage on JOhnny's income if I couldn't find a job right away. Now it seems God has taken things into His own hands and given me this sort of "trial period" while the disability checks are still coming in to show me He's got us taken care of, no matter the situation. Praise God, the strengthener of my feeble faith!

Coincidence and Cosi in Columbia. We ran into some old friends, a husband and wife, that used to go to our church today while we were at Target, and they ended up inviting us to go out to lunch with them at a little restaurant in Columbia called Cosi. It's a sandwich shop on the level of Panera bread, but with much better food. I had a steak and gorgonzola cheese melt and tomato-basil soup, and Johnny had a chicken tomato-bacon melt. We were both highly satisfied with our purchases. Plus, they actually serve you at your table, which I am beginning to appreciate more and more with a baby carrier and diaper bag to lug around. We chatted about grocery shopping and RV camping and babies. They have two grown boys, one of which just got engaged, so the wife especially was reminiscing about their infancy as she fed a bottle to Hannah. It was fun. There was a family a table over from ours that had ordered what looked like a mini s'mores-making set, and they were toasting marshmallows over a little flame and having a ball. I am definitely getting one of those next time! Anyway, the place was a little noisy, but it was the lunch rush on a shopping center on a Saturday, so that was understandable. Any other time, I think the atmosphere would have been lovely. (You didn't realize this was part restaurant-review blog, did you? lol)

Crying Fits. Hannah was such a good baby today. She waited until 5pm to have her meltdown, and we were at a good stopping place in our grocery shopping spree. It's funny how her crying fits affect me. When she starts really getting mad, she gets to the point where she'll cry so hard she forgets to breathe and makes this choking sound before gasping for air. The second she gets to that point I start crying, every time. I don't know if maybe God just wired me so that was the one sound I couldn't handle or what, but as soon as she gets that frantic, I start breaking down too. If I had been driving the car, I probably would have pulled over right there to feed her and hold her, I felt so awful. Just one more little adventure in this new life of mommyhood.

Christmas. Our whole household is gearing up for Christmas at this point. Johnny has started playing Christmas carols on Pandora, and I've gotten a good chunk of our family gift list crossed off. I need two more gifts for the cousins, or three if you count baby Zachary, who will be a brand new cousin by then. I'm really not sure what to get for an infant, though. We're having trouble figuring out what to get for Hannah, even! We were thinking maybe a playmat... but I'm not really sure how useful those are even. Any moms have some input on that for me? We decided we would each get her something special from us, then one thing we got her together. For my special mommy-gift, I'm going to make her a "Baby's First Christmas" ornament. I'm thinking a big turtle on it's back with a santa hat on, holding a little santa-hat wearing turtle on its belly. I enjoy making stuff out of Sculpey clay, and I'm not too shabby at it, so I think it'll be cute. Also, I'm getting my addresses together for Christmas letters. Sending out announcements has helped motivate me on that. I'm kind of wondering if my biological father will actually respond in time to give me his address. His response time isn't the best, but maybe now that he's remarried his wife will prod him out of his procrastination. Who knows? In any case, I'm excited for Christmas period. Even with the huge to-do list, it's my favorite holiday of the year. There so many good things to eat and do and watch and go to. Plus, this year we'll be enjoying a week off afterward, at the time-share cabin Mommy and Daddy Grove got down in Virginia. Hopefully it'll snow, so Johnny and I can let the grands babysit while we make a snowman together. That would be a blast. ::sigh:: Come on, Christmas...

Laziness and Twi'Leks

2010-11-05T08:03:00.000-07:00

Company Girl Coffee and Day 5 of NaBloPoMo!
I woke up at 7 this morning, just as Johnny was leaving. I heard the front door close as I got out of bed. I was a little annoyed with that, since I had wanted a goodbye kiss. I guess that sorta threw me off my groove, because it's now 11:00 and I haven't even showered yet. I did manage to drink my two cups of coffee and write up a character for roleplaying, though, so I guess the morning hasn't been a complete loss.
My husband does this online play-by-post Star Wars roleplaying game with an old friend of his from Lewiston. Recently he told me they needed more characters, and I've been kinda interested in playing. It took me a while, but I finally got around to asking Johnny's friend if he would let me play, and he said sure, so I typed up a character sheet this morning. I went way overboard on her background story though. She's a Twi'Lek (a colorful humanoid species with two tail-like things growing out the back of her head-- you might remember a green one from Star Wars Episode 6), with a sad history of enslavement, love, and loss. Just for kicks I'll include the background I wrote up at the end of this post. Anyway, writing that story really got me in the mood to do more writing. I've been slacking on my novels,most notably the one about the mage with amnesia. I really need to finish that one, especially since I've sort of placed a mental block on all my other stories till that one is out of the way. It's not that it's a particularly good story-- quite the opposite actually: I cringe every time I go back and reread it. But it's my oldest novel, and closest to being finished, so once I get it done I can put it aside without feeling like a terrible author and work on something of hopefully a little better quality. But I don't know when I'll be able to work on it. I have a long to-do list today, including addressing and sending out Hannah's announcements and making a Freecycle pickup. And the weekend's full already. Hmm... perhaps next week.
In other news, my work sent me flowers. I was sorta surprised, and-- I admit-- a little annoyed. I have this concept of my bosses being evil so ingrained in my head, that even though I know it wasn't thier idea (most likely it was the HR girl I'm friends with who came up with the thought), it still bothers me that they would approve the purchase. Isn't that just twisted? Plus, the flowers make me kind of feel bad that I'm not planning on returning to work there. Oh, sure, I'll go back and give them the option to let me work from home. But I'm 99.999999% sure that they'll say no without even considering it, and I'll be free to find a job somewhere I like more, like Starbucks. (Mmmm, free coffee!) And I really, really, REALLY hate feeling bad about anything when it comes to them after witnessing for nine months how they treat people. Anyway, I'm not going to think about this anymore...
Hehe, Hannah is sitting here in my lap with the hiccups. Poor baby. She gets them at least once a day. More often two or three times. And she always looks so confused and frustrated, but it's so cute when she has them. I can't stop giggling! I'm such a mean mommy.
Anyway, here's the character sketch. Enjoy! And Happy Friday!

Name: Sirena Lekkuna
Type: Cantina Bouncer/Dancer/Waitress
Race: Twi'Lek

Sex: Female
Age:24

Height:5'3”

Weight: 120lbs
Physical Description: Bluish-purple skin tone, violet eyes, lean, graceful, and muscular. She has a pale scar on her cheek just below her left eye.

Background:

I was born Nadaralek'una on my home planet of Ryloth, where my parents were poor rycrit herders. I was the second child born to them, one of a family of five, last I knew. There were too many mouths to feed, so when I came of age and my lekku were grown in, my parents struck a deal with the clan tradesman to have me sold to a traveling slaver. I was but ten years old.

The slaver sold me to the owner of an off-world cantina, who put me to work bussing tables and servings drinks to customers. When I got time to myself at night, I used to sneak out back and perform the dances of my people under the stars in order to maintain some link to my culture. One night the owner caught me dancing, and after the bruises from the beating he gave me for sneaking out had healed, he put me to work on the stage, dancing for customers in embarrassingly skimpy attire. One such customer happened to be the owner of a traveling stage show. After watching me dance, he approached my owner and made him an offer he could not refuse (aided, no doubt, by the surly presence of his two armed henchmen). That very day I was packed off with the showman.

The showman owned a small vessel, barely large enough to fit the entire cast and supplies. We traveled throughout the Outer Rim, performing for local crowds and nobility. The show boasted several Twi'Lek women, most of which shared a similar history to mine. Under their tutelage, I became a fine dancer, surpassing even their grace and skill, until finally the showman promoted me to the main act, calling me Sirena, Seductress of the Stars, or some such nonsense. But I enjoyed my job, and the perks of being the main act were handsome, including my own quarters on the little starship, and liberty to roam the local bazaars when we were not performing. It was in one such bazaar on the planet Saleucami that I met Mai Tooka, a handsome Wroonian. We hit it off and I invited him to attend a show I was performing that evening. He did, and only afterward did I discover that he was actually a lord of a local estate and a man of considerable wealth and power on Saleucami. He approached the showman and made him an offer for me. The showman, well aware of my value, turned him down outright. But after several days of consideration, in which the offer was substantially increased, while bolstered by the landlock placed on the ship at port via the lord's connections, the showman finally conceded and sold me to Mai.

I was dismayed at first to be leaving the only real family I had ever known. But Mai was kind to me, and upon bringing home to his compound, showered me with gifts and gave me the most decadent rooms I had ever seen. His one desire, he told me, was to have my love, and he would accept nothing else from me unless it was given in love. Mai was unmarried and had a selection of concubines of various races, but he did not touch them after I came into his home, assigning them to other tasks, or giving them their freedom to leave and find work. Loving Mai wasn't difficult: within a month, I was his main consort, a bride in all but name. I shared in his power within the estate and the servants did my bidding with all respect due to the mistress of a fine estate. Meanwhile, Mai taught me new worlds of knowledge: how to read and write in several languages, and even fencing and martial arts. He warned me that I may someday need to use these skills, as he had made several enemies on Saleucami through his shrewd dealings. I became an expert with a dagger, and could take down a full-grown man in unarmed combat.

Mai was wiser than he knew: one night I heard shouting and blaster fire outside the mansion. A moment later, as I was frantically donning my jacket and reaching under my pillow for the little silver dagger Mai had given me on the four-year anniversary of our meeting, Mai entered my room silently. He opened a passage in the wall that I had never seen, and directed me to follow it to the outlet three miles outside the compound. I begged him to go with me, but he refused, insisting upon discovering who it was that had the nerve to attack him in his home. He gave me a bag filled with money, weapons, and clothing and promised to meet me in two days at our penthouse in Oasis City. I made it to the penthouse unscathed and waited for a week. He never came. When I returned to the estate, there was nothing but charred ruins and ashes. Whoever had attacked our home had burnt it to the ground and left no trace of Mai or his fortune. I grieved for a while. Then I caught a ride offworld, intent on fleeing the Outer Rim and my past forever. I found a job on Coruscant, working as a dancer, waitress, and bouncer, as needed, for a thriving cantina. I still think of Mai, but I have little hope: I am sure he is dead. I do not look back.

Bath Day

2010-11-04T11:40:00.000-07:00

Maybe it was inspired by the rain pouring down outside when I finally crawled like some primordial creature out from the warm protection of my down comforter, but for whatever reason, I decided to proclaim today bath day. After wolfing down breakfast while simultaneously trying to balance a hungry baby on one breast, I strapped Hannah in her bouncy chair, found the nail clippers, and went in search of my first victim: the cat.

Most people think it's strange to bathe a cat, and maybe it is. It wouldn't be the first time I was accused of strangeness. In any case, I bathe my cat for a few reasons, the foremost of which being that I am still slightly allergic to cat dander, and the minimal assistance that a monthly bath gives to my immune system is well worth the struggle. The second is that my cat, Bean, has a very thick undercoat of hair, which ends up EVERYWHERE in our apartment. An occasional bath seems to help shed some of this phenomenal layer, and helps our vacuum filter last nearer to its full lifespan. Anyway, I always clip Beans nails, at least the front ones, before giving him a bath. We tend to clip both sets of nails about once every one or two weeks, to help him resist the temptation to scratch up our furniture. My husband wants to get him declawed. I'm a little leery, as I've heard arguments for this being considered animal cruelty (though I consider it human cruelty to go on clipping them, as I nearly always get bitten or hissed at in the process). Regardless, we can't really afford the procedure, and all our furniture is second- or third-hand, anyway, so it's a moot point.

Anyway, I clipped his nails, and managed to get the front two done before getting chewed out in Kitty-ish. Then, after his customary treat for sitting through it, Bean was dragged into the bathroom, and the door shut behind him. I started to run the water, then stood up and looked around. I couldn't find the cat! You can imagine my surprise, as our bathroom is only about 7'x5'. Finally, I found him hiding behind the toilet, and had to drag him out by the ruff. I quickly settled him in our customary position: him standing police-pat-down style, with front paws up on the edge of the tub, facing the wall, and me sitting on the opposite edge of the tub, my left hand holding his collarbone to keep him from skittering halfway up the wall in sheer panic. I had a bright idea today: leaving the faucet running, I turned on the showerhead every time I needed to rinse him down. Not only did this prevent the need for a cup to pour water down his back, but it was also much more effective and actually wet him all the way down to the skin, leaving no soap to make him all slimy. I gently encouraged him through the bath with "Good boy"s and "Great job"s, trying my best to maintain a relaxing tone of voice while struggling to be heard over his plaintive cries. At one point he managed to turn his head enough to give me a soulful look with the biggest and saddest eyes he's ever managed. I steeled myself against this tactic and managed to finish, finally squeezing him out like a wet mop and lifting his flailing body out of the bathtub with a towel. The minute I opened the bathroom door he bolted.

Then it was the baby's turn. A friend at Johnny's work bought us a baby bathtub and supplies, so I lugged those out of her room, along with a towel and washcloth. Then I got Hannah ready, taking off a dirty diaper and carrying her into the bathroom. The little dial on the bottom of the tub read that the water was too hot, and even though it felt fine to me, I managed to dump out a little and refill it with cold water using my one free hand. Then I settled her into the water and began soaping her up. Having had the extensive experience of two consecutive baths at this point, I can honestly say that wet baby is even more slippery than wet fish. The bath is rigged with a little seat and hammock to keep the baby from sliding too far into the water, but nonetheless, I had to save her from drowning several times. Finally I finished washing her and grabbed the towel to dry her off and get her ready to shampoo her hair. I was bundling her on my lap when I suddenly felt a warm wet spot grow on my leg. Lo and behold, the little darling had peed. Well, that seemed to upset her even more than it did me, because she started squalling, and I had to take her in to the changing pad and get a diaper on her and bundle her in a dry blanket before I could do the hair. Well, once she had started, she had no intention of stopping, and continued to cry and whip her head around all during the shampooing. I am proud to report that I managed not to get any shampoo in her eyes, regardless of the flailing. After drying her head off and adding a hat, I had to take a brief break to feed the poor bath victim before I could finally bathe myself.

All told, I think I prefer bathing cats to babies. But at least babies forgive you quicker. It took my cat three hours to come over and sit next to me again. And they both smell lovely and look beautiful now, so I suppose it was all worth it.

Thoughts on Coffee

2010-11-03T06:50:00.000-07:00

I love coffee. It is in fact probably my favorite drink, if not my favorite thing extant, altogether.
But all during the pregnancy I couldn't drink it. I had blood pressure issues both before and during, so I avoided caffeine like the plague. Plus, the constant smell of cheap coffee brewing in the office made me sick. I did occasionally have a tall decaf latte at Starbucks, but I don't consider that coffee, neccesarily. Coffee is the casual everyday morning liquid, not the $6 investment bought and consumed in less than five minutes.
Anyway, when my parents flew out last week I made a point of purchasing a coffee maker (I know, shocking that I didn't have one right? My last one, a cheap little one-cup maker, broke, and my husband's a tea drinker, so given our tight budget, I had just been making due without.). We stoped to pick them up some coffee, so I decided to buy some decaf for myself, and every morning since, I've been enjoying a hot cup of decaf with my breakfast. And it has just reminded me how dearly I love coffee. I love the smell of it, the taste of it, the way it brings people together. I love how sipping it provides for the occasional thoughtful pause in conversation. I love how it seems to awaken and relax people all at once. I love how it pairs with all sorts of flavors and textures, and goes well with any meal at any time of day, or even alone. Coffee is like God's cover-all liquid. And I love it.

Taking the Soapbox on Political Advertising

2010-11-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

I didn't vote today.
On one level, I feel like a bad American because of it. I believe in voting, and I also believe in the saying that you shouldn't complain if you're not going to exercise your right to have a say in the selection process.
On the other hand, we just moved into a new county which I didn't really realize until yesterday evening, since a good chunk of the city we live in is technically still part of the county we used to live in. Also, my daughter stayed up until 3am after an early morning the day before and no nap for me, so I'm willing to cut myself some slack. But I'm wondering what the outcomes will be.
I'm especially wondering whether Question A will get passed, to install slots at the mall. This particular question has been on my mind a lot, helped along by the smattering of posters both for and against, as seen on every major thoroughfare in the area. The thing that really peaked my interest is how roundabout a way the "for" party took to try and get you to vote yes. Instead of saying exactly what it was, they said something like "Better Schools: Vote Yes on Question A", or "Lower Taxes: Vote Yes." I've also seen "Funding for Firehouses", "More Jobs", etc. Compared to this, the antis seem pretty straightforward: "Against Slots at the Mall: Against Question A". I guess this irks me because I really hate the way the "fors" market their concept. Instead of coming out and saying what it is or how it works exactly, they try to sell you on it by telling you only the good thing that will supposedly happen because of it, leaving you feeling like if you don't vote for it, you are actually hindering the progress of schools and the lowering of taxes, and depriving the poor firemen. This strikes me much the same as the people who sideline you in the mall working for charities, and immediately guilt you by asking something like "Are you against cancer?" Well, who isn't against cancer exactly? But I always have the urge to answer "No, actually, I'm pro-cancer. Cancer all the way! Metastasize me!" I hate being made to feel like I should give my support or vote or money to something based purely on a statement as general as "Well, it'll help with this societal issue!" I want to know how exactly. I want things explained! And in the case of political issues, I especially want to know what ELSE they're adding on to that Question A, particularly in the area of what the funds are being used for.
I may as well clarify, I am against slots in any case. Regardless of the good they do, they're still an addictive and destructive pastime for many individuals. But I'm particularly against slots at the mall, for one very apparent reason, which you can see in just visiting the mall on any Saturday afternoon: the mall is where kids hang out. If you put in slot, you are automatically exposing every 10-year old on up to the "joys" of gambling, and all the ill behaviors that go with it. Kids today are doing well if they ever learn to be responsible with their money, and exposing them to slots in a public arena where they will-- let's face it, because corporations are unscrupulous-- be conditioned by targeted marketing until the day they hit legal age to throw their money away in that arena, is only going to worsen their financial maturity.
So, what do you think? Should slots be allowed at the mall? Why or why not? And are there any other issues you did or did not vote on today that got you thinking? Any thoughts on political advertising tactics? Let me hear from you in the comments.

Kicking Off NabloPoMo

2010-11-01T15:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, well, as a sleep-deprived new mom with relatives presently in town, I reserve the right to make this a pretty lame first NaBloPoMo post. I figure I'll just list whatever comes to mind and let that suffice for a first post. At least it's something, right?

Hannah is now 3 weeks old, as of 11:26 tonight. She is already smiling, lifting and holding up her head for periods of time, and scooting herself a couple feet along the floor. I'm not exactly the expert on babies, but I feel pretty proud of my little prodigy, since I'm pretty sure that's really early for any of those things to be happening.
My parents fly back to California tomorrow morning, after having spent a week out here helping me with the baby while Johnny was down in Virginia working. This week has been exhausting, and part of me will be relieved when they go back, to be able to sit around the house all day in my pajamas and playing Sims between feedings again. But I know I'm going to miss them terribly. It's always so long between visits, and this time it may be even longer since the next time I see them will have to be when we get the money together to go out and visit them in California. Sadness...
I have taken more photos in the past week than I think I ever have in my life.
Freecycling is the bomb diggity for getting rid of stuff I don't want, but it doesn't seem quite so effective for getting stuff from other people. My dad and I went to make a pick up today and the lady had forgotten to leave the goods on her porch and wasn't at home. And that was the first person who even got back to me about something I requested. ::sigh::

Speaking of Freecycling, I suppose I should go contact that lady to remind her to leave the items outside for tomorrow, so I will bid you goodnight. I promise to be more entertaining tomorrow.
Toodles!

The First Company Girl Coffee in a Looooooong Time...

2010-10-22T08:37:00.000-07:00

Good morning, company girls!
It's really sad just how long it's been since I even stopped by the Home Sanctuary site, much less participated in the Small Things. But I'm hoping to turn that around now that my life has changed so drastically. For a more detailed review of the last nine months (and one really cute picture!), please see the last entry. But suffice to say, I had my first child, a beautiful baby girl, and am now on short-term disability, enjoying the reprieve and waiting to see what other amazing things God is going to do in my life.
Meanwhile, I am sitting here listening to the hum of my computer and the occasional grunt and gurgle of Hannah on the baby monitor as she struggles in vain to wake up from her morning nap. I'm sipping my decaf tea (sadly, I have no coffee), and mulling in awed wonder at how much has changed in just the last two weeks. Not only in my personal life, becoming a mommy, or in my physical condition, getting my body almost back to normal and suddenly functioning on half the sleep I would once have thought necessary. But also outside, in the world around me, the air is getting cooler, and kissing the trees with the colors of autumn. I drove to a friends' house the other day to visit and pick up a breast pump (ours had pooped out, and God miraculously provided an even better one, sparing our finances at least $100-- LOVE it when He does that!), and I was just amazed by the beauty of the Thomas-Kinkade-like quality of the trees in her neighborhood. Everywhere you looked, the cloudy gray daylight played through oranges and scarlets like a huge quilt. God really is such an amazing artist. And all this change seems to have waited until I got home from the hospital to occur, so that everyday, I have some new surprise to look upon just outside my window (or in my mirror).
Speaking of things outside my window, I keep forgetting to steam those pumpkins I had my father-in-law bring home from his weekend in Amish country. I've gotten way into baking my Fall pumpkin goodies from scratch, using real pumpkin instead of the canned stuff. It makes everything taste so much better, and it actually is quite easy. Matter of fact, I could probably share the technique on here:

Wash outside of pumpkin.
Chop off stem and "button" on the bottom.
Chop pumpkin in half.
Use your fingers to scoop out the seeds and drop in a bowl (gotta use up every part, and homemade pumpkin seeds are way easy and yummy!).
Once you have mostly cleared the inside of seeds, use a metal spoon to scoop out the stringy pulp.
Chop the pumpkin into pieces small enough to fit in the steamer basket of a steamer pot.
Steam covered in basket until pumpkin is soft enough to be speared with a fork and rind starts to peel away from the flesh. Cut off flame, uncover, and let cool until you can handle it.
Using your same spoon (to cut down on dishes), scoop the flesh off of the rinds. Throw away (or compost) the rinds. Puree flesh in a blender or food processor until pulpy (should have the consistency of a smoothie).
Can be refrigerated or frozen. To thaw, microwave until mixable, then stir with a fork.

The best pumpkins, I have found so far, are the small, flattish orange ones, between the sizes of a softball and a volleyball. Bigger than that, they start to lose flavor. I haven't, however, gotten around to trying various other types, like the fairy tale pumpkins or white-fleshed ones. Please let me know if you've used these and how they taste! Some ideas of items to make with your pumpkins:

Pumpkin Bread
Pumpkin Ice Cream
Pumpkin Cream Cheese Muffins (make with bread recipe, but pour 1/2 full into muffin cups, and scoop 1 tsp of cream cheese into the center, then backe until a toothpick inserted in bread comes out mostly clean)
Pumpkin Pie
Haitian Pumpkin Soup

Okay, well, I didn't actually plan for this to become a cooking blog, but hey, it's Fall, and nothing says Fall like pumpkin EVERYTHING! LOL.
Enjoy! I'm off to get another cup of tea. Cheerio!

6-Month in Review

2010-10-21T07:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, so for anyone reading this who actually cares about my personal life, I thought I'd do a quick catch-up of the last six months in which this blog has sat idle. There is a reason: I was blogging elsewhere, specifically My Pregnancy Place, a journal and newsletter site maintained by the American Pregnancy Association. It was an awesome way to keep in touch with friends and relatives and keep them updated on the pregnancy. It also provided weekly newletters for me about what to expect for each week of my pregnancy. I highly recommend that site for any pregnant moms. It even has a forum, though I never used that because I was more into the Parents Magazine community forums. It's amazing how many great online resources there are for moms online. One more reason I'm glad to be living in the information age. :)
Anyway, now for the update:

Obviously, I was pregnant for nine months. We found out it was a girl at about 20 weeks, but didn't tell anyone until after both my family and church baby showers, in an attempt to avoid getting tons of clothes (we have a lot of friends with tons of hand-me-downs available). That backfired and we just ended up getting tons of gender neutral clothes. Oh well.
Hannah Loa Grove (named after 2 cousins and my grandmother) was born on October 11th at 11:26pm, a week and 2 days late. We finally had to be induced, and it was not the most pleasant experience. I was hoping to go natural, but by the time I went into active labor, I had been wandering around the ward all day on a minimum of sleep and was so exhausted that I was passing out between contractions. I asked for the epidural, but once they gave it to me, it wasn't kicking in. They tried upping the dosage, but I was still feeling pain. Then I felt like I was going to throw up, which I did, and lo-and-behold, my water broke at the same moment. The midwife was called in, and theorized that the epidural had actually sped up the labor, which was why I was still in pain. But it had taken just enough of the edge off the pain that I could now function, so they told me to start pushing when I felt like it. Five minutes later, I was ready. After 23 minutes of pushing, out popped a 9lb, 6oz baby girl. I'm told 23 minutes is a pretty short amount of time to push for a baby that big. In fact, she was out so fast that she didn't even have a cone-head. The nurses all commented on that, lol. She did have some facial bruising, though. Looked like a little raccoon. Here she is:
Hannah is now a week and 2 days old, and we are both doing great. I'm at home on 2 months of short term disability (yes, I managed to get that out of my job!). Daddy took a week "off" (he got called in several times for "emergencies"), but is now back at work, though he tries to get off early most days to come home and help out. It's great to have my body (mostly) back to normal, and as an added bonus, I'm actually a bit more slender than I was pre-baby, thanks to the daily exercise regimen I stuck to since the beginning of the second trimester. I even walked a 5k in my 39th week, and I have pictures to prove it!
Financially, God seems to be blessing us abundantly. Johnny received a raise and a promotion just before Hannah was born.We've found a place to move into when our lease here is up that will cost us about $300 less per month in rent, and will be much closer to Johnny's parents house. As for my job situation, at the end of my short-term disability, I plan on going back to work with a proposition for them: let me work from home part- or full-time as their official recruiter. Currently I don't get paid enough to afford childcare, and don't really like the idea of someone else raising my child anyway, so my choices are basically either to work from home or find a part-time job that'll work around Johnny's hours. I don't really believe that they'll allow me to work from home. Last time I brought that up, it brought about a bunch of drama that culminated in them forcing me into the role of receptionist when their prior one left for a new position, as well as taking away my laptop and all access to the shared drive where we kept all business development and proposal-related material. Eventually they allowed me to gain back limited proposal duties, but all I was doing was finding resumes to collect for the various proposals we put together. I still had no access to the shared drive, save a specially created folder made after several requests, in which I could store the resumes so everyone had access. Meanwhile, at last count I had 3 official bosses, and about 5 people who considered themselves my bosses. Needless to say, if they decide not to allow me to work from home, I will have very little regret in saying goodbye and going bak to Starbucks or some such position. There is actually a Starbucks hiring in the area, about halfway between here and Johnny's parents' house, so I'm optimistic. And while Starbucks is hardly a high-end job, it is the single most fun I've ever had working anywhere. Plus, it's an active job with good benefits for its type (Free coffee and stock options! Yeah buddy!). and with Johnny's recent raise, I really only need a part-time job to keep us comfortable. I realize Starbucks may not pan out, but it sounds like a decent plan for the moment anyway, and I know God will provide a way. Somehow I can't bring myself to believe that He would give us this precious little girl with the intention of not allowing me the means to take care of her.
Also of interest, my brother-in-law and his girlfriend are currently pregnant with a little boy, due in December. She has two kids from previous relationships, one of which has severe developmental disabilities and physical handicaps as a result of an abusive and neglectful father. My BIL has been taking care of her kids while she works. Finding out they were pregnant actually seems to be the best thing that ever happened to him. It's really started him thinking about taking responsibility for his life and actions, and has kept him in the relationship during moments when he may otherwise have up and left out of sheer frustration. Additionally, the pregnancy has been a delicate one, with the baby dealing with low amniotic fluid levels and possible gestational diabetes. At the last doctors vsit they had pronounced him in the clear, but it seems the issues have resurfaced and they may be having to get a scheduled c-section earlier than 40 weeks. I would appreciate any prayer you could offer up to God for them, the baby, and the other children.
I might as well also mention that my parents and grandmother (the one Hannah is named for) all moved to California. Jobs were scarce in Idaho, and my grandma was gradually degenerating in a home, so my parents put our house in Boise up for rent, and packed down to Huntington Beach, Cali where they are now living with an older, retired gentleman, the father of one of my dad's friends, while they search for a suitable apartment and settle into their new jobs. My grandma is now living with my aunt and uncle in Brea, and has vastly improved in her memory, communicability, and emotional state.
And, in the past six months I have read one series--the Alvin Maker Series by Orson Scott Card (highly recommend)-- and nearly finished another: Piers Anthony's Incarnations of Immortality series (good, but gets a little weird with the last few books). I have also downloaded Skype, signed onto Freecycle, and done very little writing of my own books, a fact which I intend to remedy a.s.ap.

Well, that pretty much wraps it up. It has been a very busy period for me and all of my family, and to be honest I'm looking forward to what I hope will be a somewhat simpler and more restful period with the coming New Year.
I do promise to keep up better on here from now on. As a matter of fact, I plan on participating in NaBloPoMo this November, so I should be able to promise at least a month's worth of daily postings. And on that note-- and to warm up for the aforementioned event-- I'll go ahead and respond to today's prompt:

"If you were going to make a mix of love songs, what five songs would you have to include?"

Don't Want to Miss a Thing by Aerosmith: Hubby's and my wedding dance song.
Fields of Gold by The Police: Always felt this was the most romantic imagery in any song ever.
Can't Take that Away From Me by Frank Sinatra: No love song collection is complete without a little Frankie.
I Can Love You Like That by All 4 One: First love song I ever shared with a boy. We ended up just friends, but he really did manage to love me like that, and set a standard for my future husband.
To Really Love a Woman by Brian Adams: Both romantic and sexy, this song should be every man's instruction book on how to really love a woman.

Catch-Up

2010-03-11T04:53:00.000-08:00

Oh my goodness, it's been a while, huh? Betwixt all the hectic things going on in my life I officially lost track of time. But trust me, I have some good excuses for not having updated in a while, the foremost of which is that I haven't had internet for nearly a month.

We moved to our new apartment last month, and since then, Verizon has been having trouble self-motivating enough to figure out what is wrong with the line so that we can get some internet up in here. I feel like a nagging mom trying to get these people to actually provide the service they say they do. At least they're not charging us, but it also means I've had access to the internet and email and Facebook and blog only at work.

Oh, yes, did I mention I got a job? Well, it was that one I interviewed for, the one I thought surely I had screwed up too much to get? They called me the next day. HA! I just figure it was God trying to reinforce what I had been saying about how if he wanted me to have the job, there was nothing I could do to screw it up. So I started in December, just before Christmas. I admit, the first couple months were miserable. I was constantly looking for a different job and wishing I could just quit. But the longer I work here, the more I see that God gave me this job for a reason. It may not always be pleasant, but I can do it, and I can mostly do it well. In fact, during the big snow storms that hit us out here, my boss gave me a new laptop so I could work from home-- yeah, kind of a pain, but also a sign of growing trust and confidence in me. She also mentioned that she might want me to go on a business trip with her, which is also a good sign. And there are other perks: my boss can be rather demanding, but my coworkers are a hoot. Nearly all of them are Indian, which, if you know me, is a welcome coincidence since I was struck with a heartfelt longing to someday visit India ever since listening to Casting Crowns discuss a missions trip they took out there to work with the dhalits (The "Untouchables") and have been striving to learn more about it ever since. One girl especially, Priya, is particularly playful and friendly, and we sit across the room and google-chat and make faces at each other endlessly. Yes, the longer I work here, the happier I am that I persevered through the bumpy breaking-in period, and had faith that God had provided this job for a reason. Now hopefully I'll still be able to work here past October.

Why am I worried about that if everything seems to be going so swimmingly, you ask? Well, surprise: I'm pregnant. We found out in February, but apparently it happened in early January (or so they tell me). I'm ten weeks along now, just starting to ease out of a few weeks of all-day morning sickness, and we just got the first pictures:

You can see why the baby's nickname is Potato. It seemed approporiate, me being from Idaho, and all. ;)

But mainly I'm just apprehensive because I haven't been working at my new job for very long, and they don't even offer any kind of maternity or short-term disability leave. My fear is that they'll want me to come right back after the birth or they'll find someone else. So in order to allay that fear I've been working my butt off and taking extra hours trying to prove my worth so that when I try to bargain for a part-time work-from-home (or full-time if that's as far as they're willing to go) position I won't get a complete brush off. If that does happen, well, I know enough now that I (hopefully) won't worry too much: God will provide. The idea of working evenings and hardly ever seeing my husband doesn't exactly sound like Paradise. But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do, and I will do what I gotta to keep this baby in the clear! :)

Meanwhile, I'm counting down the days until my graduation in May, because my mom and dad and best friend are all going to be coming out to celebrate with me! It will be a busy week, with a commencement ceremony, graduation party, and early baby shower thrown into the mix, but I feel like it's been ages since last I saw all the people I love, and I just cannot wait. It's going to be fantastic.
Anyway, I'll leave off with this verse, which is giving me a warm heart on this misty morning:

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Jeremiah 29:11

Amen, Lord. I believe it!

Christmas Eve Gift!

2009-12-24T05:31:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve gift, online community! I gotcha!

"Christmas Eve Gift" is a game that my husband's family plays every year on Christmas Eve, along with it's next-day companion, "Christmas Gift." The point of the game is to be the first to say "Christmas Eve Gift" or "Christmas Gift" to everyone else you see before they say it to you. It's silly. It's childish. It's a LOT of fun!

I love Christmas Eve. It's probably my favorite day of the year. It may not have all the presents of the next day, or the fond wishes of Valentine's Day or the green-seeking of St. Patrick's day, but it has it's own kind of peaceful anticipation. Christmas Eve's back home used to be a relaxing family event. My little brother and I would take full advantage of our vacation from school to sleep in late, then get up and lounge around the living room in our pajamas until the afternoon rolled around. Sometimes we'd play games, more often watching Christmasy movies until a parent told us it was time to get dressed and ready to go.

Sometime around four or five we'd all pile into the family car to drive a few blocks over to my dad's mom's house, where we'd arrive with arms full of gifts and be greeted with the smells of good, old-fashioned, heart-attack special, southern-style food baking or frying in the kitchen. Grammy, as I always called the curly-red-haired old woman in sweatsuits who delighted in teaching us how to play Blackjack, would usher us into the living room, absolutely forbidding my mom to help in the kitchen (she always did anyway), and pour both my parents a glass of red wine before retreating back to her Paula-Dean-ery. My uncles and-- in earlier years-- an aunt (who subsequently disappeared off the map) would all make their way one by one into the same room, taking up residence on the ratty old couches. My Uncle Pat, especially, could fill a room all by himself, his loud-voiced arguments and boisterous laughter booming in all our eardrums. Every year my brother and I would eagerly ask Uncle Pat to show us his old burn scar he got when he was our age, and as he peeled up his workman's jeans, he'd tell the story of his foolish play with matches, the moral of the story obvious in the wrinkled folds of scarred flesh. Then dinner would be served, and we would either crowd into the tiny kitchen or balance our plates on TV-dinner stands on the couch.

Dinner usually was a toss up between fried chicken or chicken cordon bleu, with greenbean casserole, and my favorite sugary dish to this day: Grammy's candied sweet potatoes, with the just-brown mini marshmallows crowding the surface of the dish like floating glaciers. After dinner, my mom would once more brave Grammy's wrath to muscle through the dishes. Those two women cleared the kitchen within minutes, for which we as kids were always grateful, as we sat, anxiously chomping at the bit, while staring at the gifts under the colorful Christmas tree. Sometimes we couldn't resist snatching up one or another and shaking them, for which we were promptly chastised, and we would lay it back in place and sit back with a sigh of longing.

Finally, the ladies came out of the kitchen, everyone's wine glass got a quick refill, and everyone sat once more, my brother and I taking up our seats near the tree to hand out presents. Usually, Uncle Pat somehow received the most gifts, and my little brother was always fascinated by the model trains and RC cars he unwrapped from our mysterious septuagenarian great-uncle in Iowa. This same uncle sent us NASA memorabilia, and I always received a doll from Grammy's sister, Rose. Though I was not particularly fond of dolls, I was always enchanted with a new one for at least a few days before that unblinking glass-eyed stare earned such enmity that I stored it in the blackest recesses of my closet, never to return. Sometimes we would receive a set of RC cars, and my little brother and I would have races over the brown shag-carpeted living-room floor, while Uncle Pat and my father argued politics.

When the time finally came to bid everyone goodnight and head home, I would lean in close and kiss Grammy's wrinkled, soft cheek, which always smelled of the powdery makeup that dusted her bathroom counter. We would hug Uncle Pat goodbye, wrapping our arms around his massive shoulders like we were wrestling a bear. I usually waved goodbye to my reticent Uncle Dennis, a tall beanpole who usually sat most of the night with only a sentence or two escaping his mouth. Then we would follow my parents out into the cold winter air, the dry Idaho wind whipping our hair and coats. Tucked back into the car with our gifts in our laps, we would talk about plans for the next day: whose house we'd go to, or who was coming over to ours; which relatives would be in town to celebrate; which wrapped packages under the tree at home we knew were ours. My brother and I took great pleasure in hinting what we had bought for our parents, and I'm sure more often than not, they knew what everything was before they even opened it.

We would arrive home to a twinkling Christmas tree framed in our big front window, with the Christmas lights around the trim of the house softly glowing. It was family tradition that everyone opened one small gift from under our family tree on Christmas Eve, so we would immediately start clamoring for everyone to gather in the living room. I can't decide if I was more excited about opening my own present, or selecting one for my mother to open, but we always opened one at a time, "ooh"ing and "ahh"ing at whatever was inside. Then my parents would send us off to bed, encouraging us to fall asleep quickly because "Santa knows if you're sleeping, and he won't come until you're asleep!"

One year, at our house in downtown Boise that had a loft over the living room where my brother slept, Santa was spotted filling our stockings on Christmas Eve. It was dark when my little brother snuck out of bed to peek over the rails and gain a glimpse of Santa Claus. He told us about what he saw the next morning at breakfast, tight brown curls gently tousled from sleep and his little round face screwed up in innocent confusion.

"I saw Santa last night," he said.

"Oh yeah?" my parents asked, interest instantly riveted.

He nodded, clearly troubled. "But he didn't look like the pictures," he informed us matter-of-factly.

"What did he look like?" I asked. I was fairly sure by now that Santa was imaginary, but not sure enough to completely doubt my brother's obviously convinced earnestness.

"He was skinny!" my brother insisted. I watched my parents exchange a knowing smile, and I held back my own laughter. My little brother had caught my dad stuffing stockings, but in the darkness of the living room, he'd thought he'd spotted a curiously skinny Santa Claus. So from that day on until my brother found out the sad truth about everyone's favorite jolly sleigh-driver, he swore on his honor that Santa was actually a trim and fit figure (apparently with an amazing metabolism when it came to my mom's chocolate chip cookies).

Yeah... I love Christmas Eve. There's something magical about it that somehow gets lost in the hustle and bustle of Christmas morning. It's not the gifts, though. Admittedly, I've always loved getting and giving gifts. But even though I still get gifts, I miss those old days driving over to Grammy's house for Christmas Eve dinner and enjoying the company of my little family just before bed on Christmas Eve. I think the real gift of those Christmas Eves was family. If you think about it, the first Christmas revolved around the gift of family: Mary and Joseph welcomed a new little one into their family, and in so doing, were adopted into the family of God through their faith in the One He had sent. Tucked away in a smelly old barn, that blessed family celebrated the gift of love in the most memorable fashion any family ever did, wrapping it in cloths and laying it in a manger.

Like me, you may be far away from family this year. Or you might be surrounded by a huge family, stressed out at all the demands for gifts and visiting, and so on. Or you may not have any family. Whatever is the case, I hope you can take the chance to appreciate the greatest Christmas Eve Gift: the Son of God who came into the world to welcome you home. Merry Christmas Eve, everyone! And happy birthday, Jesus.

Prescription for the Holiday Blues

2009-12-18T06:33:00.001-08:00

I don't know what it is about this time of year that makes me want to crawl into a cave and wait it out, but I have some pretty good ideas:

* Everyone is in a rush to get somewhere or do something and common courtesy seems to take a lethal blow.

* Nerves are frayed and tempers are fragile (especially on the roads)with all the holiday stress.

* Everyone (which usually ends up including me) is sick with something, and feeling under the weather.

* The job market is dismal as companies lay off workers and cut costs in response to end of the year financial evaluations.

* Its so cold outside.

Obviously, I have a case of the Holiday Blues. Of course, it doesn't help that the hubby is out of town on business all weekend. Try as he might, my cat just doesn't make the cut when it comes to combination bed-warmer and cheerer-upper (although-- shhh! don't tell!-- he got a try at the former last night, despite the ban on kitties in the bedroom. If I change the sheets and vacuum, Johnny need never know!)

Meanwhile, the interview I went to on Wednesday pretty much bombed in my estimation. Though I had been praying over it for a week that God's will would be clear, I must admit I was still a little disappointed when I left the room feeling like I had given a less-than-stellar performance. I keep repeating to myself: "If God doesn't want me having that job, then there was nothing I could have done to get it anyway, and if he does want me to have it, then nothing I did could screw that up." But-- in typical human fashion-- I want to credit all the power to myself, for good or ill, so I am constantly warring with the temptation to rehash the stupid answers I gave to a few of the questions. Okay... it wasn't horrible... but I would still be (pleasantly) surprised if they called me after that interview. Oh well, as everyone keeps reminding me, it's a good learning experience.

Meanwhile, I sort of fell off the wagon with my exercise/diet routine for the past few days. It's amazing how hard it is to fit in two miles of walking between church activities, babysitting, job-hunting, gift-shopping/making, and all the other little leach-tasks that drain away my time. I've been giving myself an excuse because of my cold, though if I'm honest with myself, walking would probably do it some good, what with the sinus-clearing cold air out there. Plus, the surprise cruise my parents bought me as a graduation gift is only two weeks away, and I was (vainly)hoping to have some semblance of a beach-body by the time we boarded. I wonder if they sell liposuction gift cards? Think anyone might buy me one for Christmas? Hmm...

It's so easy to give in to the negative thoughts and musings. If I let myself, I might be in a full-fledged state of December Depression right now. I'm jobless. I don't know where we'll be living beyond February. I barely have money to buy groceries and I'm having to spend my graduation gifts on Christmas gifts for other people. I'm sick. I'm lonely. BUT...

Did you notice that every one of those pity-party sentences started with "I"? I'm beginning to see (and wish I would have learned this years ago) that the focus on me is the fertile soil which allows the seeds of depression to blossom. If I just weren't so self absorbed, I would be a lot happier. That's why I keep having to come back to the realization that, lo and behold, this season isn't about me at all! Despite all the pressure to buy presents and bake goodies and look good, Christmas has only one point: to celebrate the entry into a sinful world of the only precious and perfect Savior, Jesus Christ. And the more I realize, the more everything else just seems to sort of fall away.

Out of work? Think again!

"The work of God is this: to believe in the one he has sent" (John 6:29).

Strapped for cash?

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also" (Matt. 6:19-21).

Worried about the future?

"So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own" (ain't that the truth?) (Matt. 6:31-34).

Feeling under-the-weather?

"But our citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control, will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body" (Phil. 3:20-21).

Wondering what happened to the peace of this "Silent Night"?

"[He] will keep in perfect peace all who trust in [Him], whose thoughts are fixed on [Him]" (Isaiah 26:3). It's that simple!

And, you know, I have no reason to doubt the reality and truth of these promises. Everywhere I look, I see God's hand taking care of me, providing for me, giving me good work to do for His sake and glory. I really have no excuse for not being grateful. I have been redeemed from the grasp of sin and death by the humble birth of the Messiah and his work on the cross: what better reason to celebrate this Christmas?

Are you, too, struggling with a case of the holiday blues? Take two of Isaiah 26:3, and call me in the morning!

'Tis the Season for Martha-Stewarting

2009-11-25T13:56:00.000-08:00

So I have just spent the whole day cleaning and baking. My bathroom looks fantastic thanks to a little ingenuity: I got the bright idea to set up our dehumidifier in there so the steam could actually dry off of things instead of just running down and ruining all my cleaning efforts. Even the cat brushing up against the toilet and bathtub didn't leave the usual swath of gray fur on my pristine white ceramic. I even managed to get all the laundry done (okay, almost, I have one more load in the dryer) and change the bedsheets. I think Rachel Anne would be proud of me. :)
Meanwhile, I am smelling the delicious smells coming from my kitchen in preparation for our church's annual Thanksgiving Breadfeast. It's basically a carb-centric potluck, and I went all out this year: pumpkin bread, mini-cinnamon rolls, and sugar-free pumpkin pie. I totally Martha-Stewarted it. Oh, and in explanation, I figured if McGyver (which I have recently and voraciously discovered) has become a verb, Martha Stewart should be one too. Hence, "I Martha-Stewarted it," meaning "I went all out like the perfect little kitchen goddess." And I did! The two pumpkin products were made from real pureed pumpkin, and the cinnamon rolls were handmade too, courtesy of my handy-dandy electronic best friend, Miss Bread Machine.
So I was telling my mom about this Breadfeast thing, explaining that before the eating, everyone sits in the sanctuary and they pass the mic around so everyone can share what they're thankful for. I usually get up every year and talk, but for some reason this year I think I won't. I do have things to be thankful for, of course, such as being done with my bachelor's degree (by the end of next week, at least) and having figured out a workable solution to my job crisis for the moment (I might be turning my babysitting favor for Leia into a real job and watching another family from church's kids the other three days of the week; I'll know for sure about those by next week.) But for some reason I don't feel like sharing this year. Maybe it's just because I usually only share about church related stuff, like GA successes, and GA's been having a tough year so far. But partly, I think, it's because I want to keep my good news to myself, tuck it all inside and indulge in my own little private joyfest. God provides so wonderfully, and in such surprising ways (I literally felt like the idea for the job issue hit me like a two-by-four between the eyes on Monday), and I just feel like celebrating that between me and Him. I'm so blessed!
Mmmm... okay, temptation has gotten the best of me, I'm going to have to ditch you to go get some of that yumminess!

How I Spend My Money: How Far is Far Enough?

2009-11-19T13:23:00.000-08:00

A little background for those not in my small group: we're reading The Divine Commodity by Skye Jethani in our small group lately, a book that takes a serious look at the impact of consumer culture on modern Christianity (I know, I just totally ruined it by posting the Amazon listing, LOL!)
Anyway, I was reading this week's chapter this afternoon (cutting it a little close since we're all meeting to discuss in about two hours), and it got me to thinking about where we should draw the line when it comes to identifying ourselves by how we spend our money. This week's chapter was (roughly) about brand-as-identity and Christian products being used to identify ourselves as a Christian, rather than acts of faith and love. I totally get how it can be a subtle trap to allow our clothes to speak for us to the extent that we miss out on opportunities to witness because we've become lazy. However, this chapter got me thinking about a common (or maybe not?) saying I've heard almost ever since I became a Christian at sixteen years old, and which has probably features in every "tithing sermon" I've witnessed: "Does the way you spend your money reflect your beliefs?"
Now I know well-meaning pastors who use this one are probably just trying to get us to take a second look at our budget and reevaluate in favor of supporting missions and etc. But it really stuck in my mind this afternoon. Should we even be focused on the way we spend our money when there are so many more important things out there that we're neglecting? And what about the ways we don't spend our money? I know, I know, in all areas we should work as if working for God and so on... but the question stands.
Earlier in the book, the author described a trip he took to a foreign country where a local missionary took him on a tour of the local "sweatshop graveyard" where American clothing companies would rent out a factory and hire thousands of workers for a year or two, mass-produce tons of closing, then simply close up shop, laying off all those people to fend for themselves, jobless and desperate. Then he went on to describe the teens he often stood behind in mall stores, who grabbed items off the racks, items usually made in those countries, probably tired hands in sweatshops. I got a vague feeling of unrest reading that.
The fact is, I buy most of my clothes at Walmart or Target. Any conscientious or human-rights-advocating consumer might smack me over the head for that, but I honestly can't afford anything else! If it's not there, it's at the thrift store, whhere, again, most of the cast-off clothing that lines the racks was probably made in not-so-great environments in other countries where companies can get away with treating people as means to an end. And you know what else (this is a guilty point every time I eat dinner with the lady in my small group who is a bird scientist)? I eat non-organically grown eggs. I also eat chicken and beef that aren't guaranteed organic and animal-friendly. I buy cleaning products whose packaging-- for all I know-- will take until the time my lineage has petered out to decompose.
Point being, I know full well that my spending habits don't glorify God, either by what I buy or don't buy-- at least not as much as they should. Oh, I try to avoid dirty movies and music, and shun any clothing that's immodest or advertises bad stuff (or anything for that matter-- I have a personal vendetta against advertising things on my torso, to which I make an exception only if that thing is both very comfy and very cheap or free). But when it comes to getting so conscientious about the things I'm spending money on and the local and/or global effects of my personal consumerism, I have one major problem: I can't afford it!
Compared to the bulk eggs I can get at Sam's Club (and we go through eggs as regularly as toilet paper), organically grown eggs would cost me a fortune (a fortune much better spent buying things like milk, cheese, butter, fruit, and my non-organically-grown meat products). To be honest, I would love to be able to buy organic foods-- I love the concept of injecting less chemicals and fertilizers and random ingredients into the things I ingest-- but sadly, I just can't afford it.
And the worst part about that is that I feel guilty. What if God himself is looking down upon the poor over-crowded chickens and jobless foreign textile workers I've wronged with my thoughtless cheapskatism and frowning? Is he flipping to the places in his word that speak about being good stewards and treating others with love and giving me a big fat F in his divine red felt pen?
But then I think about the message of this book and I wonder: wait a minute! Am I taking the consumerism thing too far the other way now? Shouldn't I be more concerned about how I'm living than what I'm buying? Or shouldn't I? I'm really mulling over this. What do you think? When it comes to how we use our financial resources to glorify God, how far do you think is far enough? And how far-- in either direction-- is too far?
** In other news, Joanna slept a full hour and a half today! Woohoo!**

Finals and Thanksgiving and Christmas, Oh My!

2009-11-17T09:05:00.000-08:00

So I feel like most of my blogs this month have been kinda whiny. Okay, okay... very whiny. I apologize to anyone who has had to read all that complaining. I tend to get very complaintive when I'm stressed, and only focus on the bad stuff. But just to make up for it, I'm going to spend this blog focusing on the good stuff.

For instance, I had the fastest recovery from an illness that I think I've ever had. This may be because I was actually staying at home and resting, versus going to work/church, etc., anyway. Thank goodness for the hype about Swine Flu. It turned out to be a couple days of fluctuating fever and some coughing, but that's about it. However, the panic going around about how easily it spreads inclined me to stay home, which means I had all the time in the world to sleep and take meds and get better. Praise God for perversely helpful circumstances!

Let's see... what else can I dwell on? Hmm... oh, how about this: my best friend is now on Facebook! Woohoo! While I was sick, I got pretty depressed, so I started calling her almost every day. It's usually a few weeks between times when we catch up, so this was a welcome reunion She's making plans to come out and spend a week with me when I graduate, and I'm already making grandiose plans for visiting New York with her and my mom and renting a hotel room and going out to coffee every morning... yeah, we'll see if I can actually afford all that when the time comes. But still, I'm very excited.

And of course, perhaps one of the best things to dwell on: Thanksgiving is coming up! Now I used to hate Thanksgiving, partly because as a child I seemed to always get sick the week of Thanksgiving, so I couldn't eat all the yummy food. But since I married Johnny, Thanksgiving has come to hold a whole different significance to me: camping! Every Thanksgiving, Johnny and I, his dad, and whatever other uncles, cousins, and friends who want to come head down to the mountain property in Virginia and spend three days "roughing it" (i.e. stuffing our faces with yummy food around a warm campfire and hiking). It's literally my favorite time of year., and it's so close now! Only ten days away!

Oh, and I need to throw one out to my GA girls! Miss Taylor and I managed to run the GA Winter Lock-In (I know, a little early this year) with just the two of us. And it was largely a success! Christine was at home with the hubby, having some rough times, but Taylor and I managed. And I'm so proud of us for getting everything done, especially after having just recovered from the flu!

Finally-- pardon the pun, lol-- finals are on Saturday. Yes, they're on Saturday-- and Saturday only-- this semester, which is a stinker (especially since I no longer have to worry about taking a day off work to go to them). Now technically, that doesn't feel like a good thing, but really it is; once I complete these two finals, I have just one more in December and then I'm home-free... completely done with my bachelor's degree! (Now if only I could use the dumb thing to get a job... oh wait, no whining. I gotcha!)

And the last thing to give my title full significance: Christmas is coming up! There are so many things I've been wanting/needing the last few months that our budget has been too tight to warrant buying (such as new underclothes, the heels of my favorite shoes fixed, more tea from Teavana, etc.). Now that Christmas is here, I might actually be able to get some of those things without spending any of our money! True, I'll have to find money for the gifts we're supposed to be giving. But I can always count on Christmas to bring at least one gift card or check, which will be, to my cash-starved lifestyle, like finding buried treasure! :)

Okay, well, I think I've un-complained enough now. Before I'm tempted to change that, I'd better get off here and go study for those finals!

Laughter Is the Best Medicine

2009-11-13T06:12:00.000-08:00

Proverbs 17:22 "A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones."

I've had a pretty yucky week. I came down sick with something on Saturday last week, which meant I had to cancel on watching kids for the BCMD conference. This means ever since I've been worrying about what I'm going to do for Christmas presents, since I won't have that $250 to rely on. I've also been coming to the depressing realization that an English Bachelor's Degree is about as useful as a high school diploma when one is looking for any kind of specific job. Nobody wants it.

Meanwhile, Johnny came down sick too, so we were both stuck in the same apartment for five days with fevers and bad attitudes. Needless to say, that combination didn't exactly make us very friendly with each other. In fact, it wasn't until last night that we actually even sat down and talked. I've been depressed about my job situation and marriage and school all week. Not a happy camper.

But I'll tell you what: Laughter is the best medicine. I found this "channel" on Youtube called How It Should Have Ended (HISHE), and they have a few on there that literally had me in fits of laughter. Such as this one:

I'm still giggling.

Anyway, I really need to get on the ball. I have a project due for class and my GAs are having a lock-in tonight... and I for one, don't have some insane do-everything-I-need-done gadget on my utility belt. In fact, I don't even have a utility belt. So yeah...

The Biggest Problem in Our Marriage

2009-11-10T15:56:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting here in my darkened living room with the candles all lit and my Enya Pandora station playing on my computer speakers. With a little imagination, the incessant trickle of my turtle’s tank filter could be a nearby waterfall. My imaginary trip to “somewhere else” is interrupted by my husband’s congested voice proclaiming that my cat had diarrhea. Yes, it’s sweet that he cleaned out the litterbox, but still… it’s all I can do to squeeze my eyes shut and grit my teeth, whispering “Please go away!” under my breath. Sometimes, you just want a little down time, a little me-time… a little not-thinking-about-what-the-cat’s-bowel-movements-are-like time…

Okay, to be fair, Johnny and I just had a fight. It was minor, as most of our fights are, but I’m still in my pouty, I-don’t-want-to-make-up-yet stage. I’m waiting for my best friend to call me back so we can commiserate on how—surprise, surprise—our marriages aren’t the paradise we thought they’d be when we said “I do.” Not, of course, that I want out. Of course not! The mere fact that my hubby, who insists he’s allergic to all things having to do with cleaning, has not only cleaned out the cat’s litter box, but is now vacuuming up the stray litter crumbs from the hallway—probably as his way of saying sorry—makes me a lucky woman. But sometimes I look back on how idealistic I was about “how my marriage would be” and I just have to laugh. What a little naïve maroon I was! (Did that sound like Bugs Bunny? Because I sorta thought it did.)

Anyway, where was I? Oh, the fight. Well basically, it was a variation on the same tired topic that has plagued our marriage since the first days: we live across the nation from my family. Now I know everyone has their own little unique issues to deal with in their marriages, but this one seems to top them all because it is literally unsolveable. Case in point: since Johnny’s family lives here in Maryland, and mine lives in Idaho, we can only be near one or the other. If we move to the middle, it would then only require a plane trip either way, for almost the same cost as we pay to visit my family now, if you can believe it. The only way we would be able to live near both our families is if we somehow, miraculously, came up with enough money to pay for one family or the other to move to where we were. The problem with that? Johnny’s mom and dad both have their whole family out here that they would never leave, and my parents don’t like the East coast. I was not kidding when I said this issue is unsolveable!

On top of that same-old-same-old issue, my grandmother is now sick. Well, I suppose mincing words won’t do anyone a favor: my grandmother is dying. She’s been sliding down the slippery slope of dimensia for almost a year now, and it has finally gotten so bad that last night, in response to my pleading of something I could do to help, my mother responded that I should pray for my grandmother to die. You can imagine how that felt. But there is pretty much no way for me to go home and visit, since Johnny insists we can’t afford it. Even if I could get home, what could I do in the one or two weeks I would be there to make a difference? I would still have to come back home, pulled like a cliff-jumper at the end of their tether, back to the relative safety the distance provides from all involvement. But I WANT to do something. I am, you could say, desperate to do something. Yet every time I mention moving back to Idaho, Johnny points out that my father, who has a good deal more experience than Johnny in the same field, has had to move to California to find work. He has a point: Idaho is a desert when it comes to job opportunities for guys like them. Oh, I might be able to find work easily enough, but I’m not sure it would make enough to support both of us. Still, I’m tempted to look.

Even if we did move out there, though, it would only be tearing Johnny away from his family, even as we moved closer to mine. Sense the conundrum? I really don’t know how this issue will ever be resolved. One of us is always going to be upset. Maybe God will give us a miracle: maybe we’ll wake up one morning and the US will have folded in half. I can dream, right?

Apparently Zombies Don't Like Water, But Can Dance

2009-11-06T13:33:00.000-08:00

Hello, and welcome to another issue of "Sharing Our Subconscious" with your hostess, Stephanie! Today we'll enter the mind of a seriously disturbed individual who obviously watches too much news and B-rated horror:

::pan into my face::

"Um... hi. My name is Stephanie. And this morning, um, I woke up from this really like weird dream. The world had been like taken over by zombies, and I was part of a small nomadic group of people who hadn't turned yet. We were, um, traveling along this road when this bunch of kangaroos hopped up. They weren't zombie-kangaroos, just regular kangaroos, except they could talk. They were all girl kangaroos, except for this miniature one who was a boy, but he was the leader and as we were passing a pond surrounded by cattails, the boy kangaroo told all these girl kangaroos they had to go take baths, and so we, the people, decided we'd go hang out with the kangaroos by the water too, because for some reason zombies are afraid of water. Anyway, while we were there, a few of us were sitting around on the shore watching the kangaroos bathing when suddenly this overstuffed old easy-chair haunted by the spirit of Michael Jackson appeared. We weren't scared, but we thought it was sorta cool, so we started talking to him, and it was like he was transmitting from somewhere... not actually there, y'know? And he was literally inside the chair, like we could see the outline of his face in the upholstery, and he was wearing sunglasses. We were asking him questions, and I asked him where he was, and he said he was in hell because he had had an affair with a woman and when the kids had been born he had married her but he didn't love her. Yeah, I dunno. But it was really sad the way he was talking about someday hoping he could get out of Hell and go be with his kids again, so I was getting all choked up and crying. Then someone pointed to a group of town homes built by the pond, and on one of the lit balconies of these town homes, a bunch of zombies were doing the dance from Thriller, and I pointed it out to Michael and was all "Look! Isn't that awesome? You know, I memorized that dance for my wedding!" (which is actually true) and he nodded and gave a sad little smile. So then we were in this vacation house with a pool when this other group of survivors of the zombie-ism came to meet us. For some reason I knew that we met up with them every year, only this year was different. This time, one of them was in a wheelchair, with his hands tied down and he looked like he was halfway-zombiefied because he was really pale and just being mean to everyone. And two more of them came in but suddenly started arguing and as they were fighting their skin on their faces started to turn weird colors and droop like wet clay. I had a teenage son who I was holding onto by a leash, and the two fighting guys were between him and I and I started to pull him over to me except he stopped and said "Mom, don't you think we better not interrupt these guys until we know what's going on?" So I was like "Oh yeah" and stopped pulling him and waited to see what would happen."

Well, folks, that's all the time we have for today! I hope you enjoyed this edition of "Sharing Our Subconscious" with your (deranged) hostess, Stephanie!

::theme music::

Yes, yes, I actually did have that dream last night. Please don't ask, I don't even know how to begin to answer.

In other news, I'm having a fairly interesting day. I say interesting because some parts are great and some are not so great. Ready for it? Here I come with another set of bulleted lists! (I love these things!)

THE GREAT:

* Since I will be busy with a writers conference in DC tomorrow and working a BCMD childcare gig from Sunday night through Tuesday afternoon (i.e. staying in Baltimore for several nights), Johnny stayed home from work to spend the day with me today.

* I got Einstein for breakfast, and bought a pair of cute boots to replace my tired old black heels.

* Johnny got paid today so we could finally buy milk again! I am SO making coffee tomorrow morning!

* I enjoyed reading several zany and beautiful stories by talented classmates for my Art of Narration class. I love it when schoolwork is fun.

* Due to the convenient excuse of a youth fund-raiser, we will be buying Chick-Fil-A for dinner tonight. Yummyness!

THE NOT-SO-GREAT

* The two kids I babysit are sick, possibly with swine flu, and that makes me very sad. :(

* I'm not very much looking forward to the insane two weeks ahead which start tomorrow and don't end until the Saturday after next with the completion of my finals.

* In an effort to keep from going crazy, I tried to get all of my work for this week done early so that I could start focusing on next week's work. Well, I thought I had been successful in that little endeavor, only to find that mid-week, my writing teacher decided to up and change the requirements completely for our final project. Meaning the two page essay I already wrote and posted now needs to be discarded and I have only tonight to do another essay unless she decides to have mercy and change the deadline. Grr! ::assuming a yoga position:: It's almost over, it's almost over, it's almost over.

In other news, I had an absolute blast for a few minutes this afternoon chasing my cat around the house and playing "catch the reflection" with him using the computer screen and the late afternoon light. You can't beat a cat for wonderful randomness. He's getting so big though. Funny how things tend to live up to their names. I didn't know this at the time, but apparently Bean, the character I named him after, starts out very small (as did my Bean) but gets huge as he gets older... like giant-level. Go figure.

Dusting Off the Ol' Soap Box

2009-11-04T05:10:00.000-08:00

Okay, here goes for my second attempt at a NaBloPoMo post.
I am SO tired this morning. I prefer to blame it on the fact that I have no milk to put into the coffee I am so desperately craving. However, I must admit that I did stay up just a tiny bit late last night applying for jobs, putting together a portfolio of articles for submission, and chatting with Steve and Vickie. Roughly translated, a "teeny bit" means 2:30 am. I know, I know... very dumb. But I prefer to see it as paying in sleep what I made up for in blessings of companionship. ;)
And I did, at least, apply for one job. It's a position as an editorial assistant in Bala Cynwyd, PA. Naturally, they'll have to offer me a huge amount of money for us to actually consider moving out there, as Johnny would have to give up his job at SGT. But it's a position with a company whose parent company is Pearson Media, which also owns Penguin Books and Pearson Education, either of which could be a gem when it comes to getting my foot in the door to the editing business. If I was able to take this job, I would be ecstatic. However, It would probably also mean leaving FBCL and most of our friends, so my excitement would be tempered by sadness... anyway, no point in counting unhatched eggs, so I'll just give it up to God, knowing he works out all things for the good of those who love him. And I do! So I'm golden!
In other news (literally, FOX, to be specific) I found out this morning that in the 31 states in which gay marriage has been put to a vote, it has always been turned down. Now, at the risk of getting some particularly nasty notes, I am going to talk about my feelings on this issue and pray that anyone with an opposite opinioon who happens to visit my blog today will extend me the same grace I shall try to extend them. All I have to say, really, is that this information made me feel better. Truth be told, I don't like denying gays thier right to marry other gays. In fact, if it weren't for my biblical and personal convictions, I would probably never do so. However, the Bible does, in several places, explicitly state that homosexuality is a sin. So, being a Bible-believing Christian, I find it impossible to ignore that when asked to vote. I have heard that some people separate their religious views from their political views in an effort to maintain American objectivity in politics. However, I cannot do so. If my aim as a Christian is to become more like Christ, should I not then think like him, even on issues that are not particularly popular? And my personal issues with the gay marriage thing stem largely from high school: I used to run around with the "outcast" crowd in high school, many of which were so relegated because of their alternative sexual orientation. Because of my association and friendships with these people, I was usually assumed to be a lesbian myself, which was-- needless to say-- highly annoying. First of all, it irritates me when people assume to know anything about a romantic life they are not at all involved in. Comments about the "homoerotic interplay" between two male characters in a movie when they are literally fighting (see "The Red Shoe Diaries" comments on Hulu) especially irritate the snot out of me. And now that I'm married, the idea of once again having to explain that "No, I mean I'm married to a man," fills me with annoyance. But before you assume I am either anti-gay or homophobic (and whatever connotations those may hold for you), let me expressly state that I do understand the gay rights movement. I understand that it must be difficult and maddening to fight for the same privilege that everyone else but you seems to have, the right to marry legally and enjoy the same tax, insurance, and legal benefits that every other couple receive. However, might I point out that perhaps changing the definition of an institution that is older than homosexuality itself might be the wrong way to go about this? Wouldn't it rather be much more effective to lobby for tax/legal/insurance benefits to be extended to domestic partnerships? This way, the gay crowd could get many straight non-married couples on their sides, as well as turning away much of the enmity of straight marrieds who don't wish to have to specify their sexual orientation on legal forms just below marital status. Just a suggestion. Regardless, I may vote against gay marriage, but it's not because I don't like gay people. They're just people, and I'm generally a people person. Chances are, I'd have just as much fun watching a chick flick or grabbing a latte with a lesbian as with a straight girlfriend, given the chance. I don't like denying anybody something they want, but sadly, faith isn't always about doing the things you like to do. Sometimes it's about choosing God's way of seeing something over everyone elses' be they the media, politicians, or minority groups. Still... it's nice to know that I'm not the only one voting against gay marriage. Like I'm somehow validified in my right to vote the way I see things as being right. Because believe it or not, the media gets to me. All these ads, blogs, books, etc. on how gay's are the next black civil rights wave who are being oppressed by white America does make me feel bad. Then again, I guess I should get used to feeling bad about the color of my skin. After all, by merely being white, I have shouldered since birth the responsibility for every evil that ever entered the world, right? Oh... don't get me started. ::sigh::
Anyway, I should probably step down off this soap-box before someone throws a stone, so I will hope that whoever reads this has a great day in spite of my yammering, and go and take care of my own business. Be blessed!

NaBloPoMo

2009-11-03T05:11:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the alienish acronym title. That gobbledegook, according to a very reliable source, stands for "National Blog Posting Month," which is November, apparently. The rules, according to this source, are that if you post at least something on your blog every day of November, you can win a prize. Well, I'm already short by two days, but I wouldn't have the esteemed online blog-reading community thinking me un-American, so I shall attempt to keep up with the rest of the month from today on.
I am, at the moment, sitting in my soft pink bathrobe (the one Johnny got me three Christmases ago), eating coffee yogurt for breakfast (no, it's not very good), and thinking about an interesting dream I had. I dreamt I owned a mechanical horse. It was small at first, but once you mounted it, it grew to horse-size, and I was riding it every day around a place that was a cross-breed between Lancaster and the Boise foothills. Now, bear in mind that my dreams are usually full of terrible creatures, disappointments, death, and post-apocalyptic worlds, and you must admit that this was a pretty awesome dream to wake up to. I don't know why my dreams are always so depressing... and maybe this is a turn for the better.
So I watched a movie the other night. Now on the normal bases of language, violence, and sexual themes, I would never recommend this movie. But the story it told, and especially the main character, moved me to tears. The movie was called "The Red Shoe Diaries" with David Duchovny (gotta love D.D.!), and I identified more with the leading lady than I ever have with any other character in any other movie. She is who I was only a few years ago, and who I occasionally fear allowing myself to become again. Her passion and fears and obsessions drive her eventually to commit suicide, and while I don't see myself ever going that far now, there was a time when I was in the grip of equally powerful emotions. Anyway, it's just a thought. If you're in the mood for some romantic drama-- if you don't mind liberal doses of all the aforementioned nastiness-- check the movie out. You can find it on www.hulu.com for free.
So finals are coming up... I'm excited about that. But I'm nervous too. I spent nearly three hours yesterday searching for jobs on sites like Monster and Washington Post, and I really haven't found anything that piques my interest. I'm not even really sure what I'm searching for. What I would like most is to find a telecommuting position as an editor, but telecommuting positions for trustworthy companies seem in short supply. There are few, if any, publishing companies, especially in Maryland, large enough to be hiring staff, so that knocks that one outta the ring. Furthermore, the place I used to work (and would very much like to work again should the chance arise) is currently only hiring scientists, which I very much am not. Sadly, it looks like after all this work getting my stupid bachelor's degree, I am still pretty much back to square one: experience is the only useful thing, and I have none. Well, not unless you count watching kids, making lattes, and shelving. That's what I need to find: a job at an internet cafe/library. Ha! LOL. Actually... I do kind of miss my old job at Starbucks. Yesterday I resisted checking the SBux website for openings, but I' not sure how much longer I'll hold out. I know it's a dead-end job unless I want to end up working nights and weekends the rest of my life, but I really miss the company culture. And the free coffee. I wonder how much it costs to start my own cafe? Not that cafes seem to do to well in Maryland. Now in Idaho, that kind of thing would take off. Ah, well... thus the danger of relocation.
Anyway, my coffee yogurt is gone now, and I have a load of homework waiting to be done, so I had best leave this off before it gets too full of fragmentary sentences and parenthetical statements. Ciao!

Company Girl Coffee Talk II: The Splenda Strikes Back

2009-10-30T06:23:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I know that's a goofy title, but I can't help it. I'm in a nerd-mood today. I could really go for a couple hours of wasted time on World of Warcraft, or running a Star Wars paper-and-pen role-playing game with my hubbies friends. Problem being I keep forgetting that I gave up role-playing. Sadly, the idea of it is always much more fun than the reality: sitting there waiting for a free moment to talk to the GM while some overbearing male-geek hordes his attention to ask about how many hits he can get in with his lightsaber and completely ignores me. I'm no feminist, I'll have you know, but I absolutely refuse to play RPGs with men anymore. It's one of the few niches where women's lib has not even made a dent in how things are run. I am shut up, shut out, and down for the count. Anything I do to rebel against the status quo of male-character domination usually either ends up in my character remaining in the same situation throughout the game, or in my characters death by the vindictive hand of a power-hungry GM. So I don't role-play anymore. But I do miss it. On the other hand, there are always alternative creative outlets.
This week has been an eye-opener for me on the subject of writing novels. I think in fact, that God is speaking to me through the many Author's Notes, writing handbooks, and homework assignments I've encountered. In case I haven't obsessed about it previously on here, I desperately want to be a writer. As in professional, actually-gets-stuff-published kind of writer. So I guess author would be a better term (yes, I am an English major!). I have ideas for novels and characters and plot details crowding up the RAM on my computer and stuffed into a tiny notebook in my purse which I carry everywhere. I'm constantly adding to them, like a mental pack-rat. I've started more than a few of them, but I always have trouble once I get a certain way into it. Then I make the mistake of reading over what I've written and realizing how abjectly terrible it is. But the point is finally starting to drive home to me that it's okay for a first draft to be terrible: as long as I complete it, the first draft can be complete garbage. That's what revision is for. I've been so insecure about these awful novels I'm writing because I never really stopped to consider revision. Oh, I knew I'd have to do it eventually, but I've always seen revision as more of a check-to-make-sure-there's-proper-punctuation-and-grammar-and-everything-looks-neat kind of thing, rather than the almost complete rewrite it is for most authors. See, I'm not trying brag, but I've always been pretty girted in academic writing. When I took classes in high school or college that required more than one draft, or peer review, I was usually the person skating by with "Excellent job!" comments and "Don't change this, it's awesome the way it is" written on the peer review copies. But if anything, I realize now, this has been a handicap. By never having anyone point out to me something that needed revising, I have never actually learned how to revise. Therefor, punctuation, spelling, and grammar were my only concerns. I haven't really learned how to truly write at all! What a revelation! So now that that little gem has hit me square on the forehead, I feel better than ever about sitting down and finishing one of these awful novels I've started. Not that I have the time to do so, mind you.
School has been crazy. I'm hanging in there, actually somewhat ahead in most of my classes. The vacation I took this month required me to get a week ahead in all my classes, and I have a short job coming up watching kinds in Baltimore for a BCMD conference series, so I'll need to get a week ahead again. On the whole, I'm proud of myself for sticking to it despite all the distractions, but I feel a little frantic for finals to finally be over. I want to be a free woman. I've been in school (with only a few brief breaks) since I was five. Twenty years later, I feel more than overdue for a chance to finally make my own decisions and live out the life I want to live. To bring this discussion full-circle, I was designing a character for online Star Wars RPGing (okay, so maybe I didn't totally give up the RPG thing) yesterday at the dentist's office (sidenote: I find it strange that I dread going to the doctor's office, but I love going to the dentist) while I was waiting for Johnny to finish his cleaning. The character is a female Twi-Lek (the colorful creatures usually featured as slave-dancers in the Star Wars movies, with one or two tentacle-like branches on their heads)
who was sold into slavery at a young age, and after years of struggling to get her freedom, finally is sold to a decent sort of guy who keeps a decent sort of cantina, who promises to allow her to work toward her freedom as an entertainer and occasional bouncer. At the time the game is played, she will be only a few months from freedom (I'm hoping the other RPGers will catch on that if they pay her/my remaining debt and free her/me she/I will join them on the mission in whatever capacity she/I is/am needed), and she is itching to go out and make her own decisions, travel the stars, and be her own master. Anyway, the point of that long-winded explanation, is that I just realized I wrote myself into that character. I am only a few months from freedom from academia, and I am anxious to go out in the eyes of my imagination and explore the stars, and write about them, of course.
Oh, before I forget, I have a request for any of you Company Girls who might chance to read this long-winded blog (I hope at least all the little ADD-side-notes were entertaining for you): a couple who are friends of ours had a baby girl two months ago named Abigail. The discovered that she had two holes in her heart that were preventing her heart from functioning adequately, so they have now been in the hospital 24/7 for about a month now. The doctors have had glowing reports about the success of her surgery and improved functioning, and have even started discussing plans to return the exhausted couple and their precious little girl home finally. However, this morning I got an update that Abigail's heart function fell to 50 bpms unexpectedly. I am sure that this is a huge source of anxiety for her parents, not to mention the thousands of other people who are praying for her. So I would just appreciate it if, before you even leave this page, you would say a prayer for Abigail's complete healing and recovery. Thanks so much!
Anyway, that's all. Hope everyone has a fantastic week! God bless you all!

A Thought on Racism

2009-10-25T12:55:00.000-07:00

It is a beautiful day. Despite the autumn chill, the sun is warm, soaking through every surface it touches, and gilding them with its liquid gold. I transplanted all the plants on my balcony yesterday while it rained in preparation for bringing them indoors, and spots of caked potting soil and the reds and oranges of fallen leaves had formed collages on my little balcony patio. I decided to sweep: put on my red apron and enjoy the sunshine while I straightened up the mess I’d made.
Outside the neighborhood was drowsy with the lazy energy of a Sunday afternoon. A few people strolled along the fence that surrounds the pond in the green. One of my neighbors had his radio on, blaring a sermon through draped windows. I gathered the dirt and dust in little piles, shifting the leftover pots around on the concrete slab to get at every nook and cranny. I heard a muted bark, and looked over my shoulder, glasses falling slightly along the bridge of my nose. My neighbor had come out on his patio, and teased his eager dog with a football, training him to sit. I watched, smiling. I love dogs, and this chocolate pit bull was wriggling with joy at the prospect of one-on-one attention from his master. The neighbor saw me watching him, lifted a hand in greeting. I nodded at him and turned back to my sweeping. A breeze tufted my hair, and I could smell the roast inside that my husband was preparing for dinner. All things were good.
I finished sweeping, and scooped my big pile into a garbage bag, then set about inspecting the few plants left out on my patio. Their emerald coils concealed a few brittle dead leaves here and there, and I plucked them out, dropping over the railing and watching them flutter to the grass one story below like little brown moths. My neighbor had gone back inside, and let both dogs out to tussle and play on the balcony. I watched them briefly. The sermon was gaining in volume and speakers, a few classic resonant black preacher’s voices, booming with characteristic tremulous emotion. I caught a reference to Isaiah, then to Daniel. I smiled again, a secret smile of satisfaction to be one in on a secret membership, that of faith in a loving God. I felt a warm increase in goodwill toward my neighbor.
Suddenly I heard a word that stopped me cold. I frowned, sure I had heard wrong, but no. Here the voices were again. Only now, where there had been the impression of holy faith and pious zeal, the façade had melted away to reveal something ugly, something disturbing.
“… that’s because those idiots, those stupid fucks worship themselves a white God…”
I was frozen to the spot. The voices went on to discuss stupid white people and their single-minded bigoted devotion to a white God, and the incineration they would receive in Hell for their trespasses, but I barely heard them anymore. Occasionally the sharp punctuation of a “shit” or “fuck” broke through to my numbing consciousness and I cringed.
Finally I set down my broom and fled inside to my husband. I told him what had happened, and he launched into a characteristic tirade on the real racism problem in America. He grew up in this place, made miserable in school by black bullies who tormented him for the whiteness of his skin. But I always thought—secretly—that perhaps he overstated things, just a little. Maybe they just weren’t nice to him, didn’t trust him. But surely, nobody could be so bluntly racist, not in modern day Obama’s America. Surely, he was wrong.
I am from Idaho. This ham-hock-shaped state in the north-west has built an undeserved reputation as a backward, racist state, due to its harboring of the infamous Neo-Nazi commune near tiny Couer d’Alene, Idaho in the north. Though the commune has long since been driven out and the gates of that compound locked for good, people still tend to cling to old rumors and false information. But I am from the biggest city in Idaho, still a small one by most standards, yet beautiful, sprawled along the winding banks of the Boise River Valley. My high school graduating class was proud to claim the few black students there were. Though black families are unusually rare in Idaho (earning it a joking nickname for some of “White-aho”), they are welcomed, and often treated with the surprised pleasure of rare celebrities by most Idahoans. My first boyfriend, in fact, was a half-black boy named Jeremy, and I used to marvel at the way our intertwined hands resembled the creamy consistency of a chocolate-vanilla swirl cone as we walked home. Jeremy was immensely popular with nearly every clique in our school. Welcomed by theater geeks and Goth kids alike, he could also throw one back with the Saturday night partiers, try his foot at hackey sack with the Stoners, or conjugate French with the Nerds like a pro. Everyone liked and admired Jeremy, whether for his charismatic, likeable personality or his seventies-era afro that crowned his head like a giant Styrofoam puffball.
Once, after a history class lesson on the Reconstruction-era South that left me feeling a little disturbed, I asked Jeremy on our walk home if he had ever experienced racism. “Not really,” he replied, shrugging his thin shoulders nonchalantly. “One time someone shouted something out of a car window at me, but I’m not sure what they said.” I had nodded, appreciating the awkwardness of that kind of thing, but relieved, somehow, that the only black guy I knew led a fulfilling, equally-worthy life with his white classmates.
These memories come back to me sharply, and I am reeling now at the contrast. Surely, I think, that neighbor can’t really agree with the words of those pastors on the radio, can he? He, who just smiled and waved at me as I watched him with his dogs, cannot think me one of the White Infidels who will burn in Hell for my belief in a racist God, can he? I try to consider the alternative: that this man, my neighbor, is in fact a believer in these lies; does, in fact, hate me for nothing more specific or dynamic than simply the color of my skin. I think, idly, what would happen if I were to do as he: select a white supremacist broadcast and blare it out of my open patio door. I would be kicked out of my apartment within a day, sent off without a word or a refund of the month’s rent I just paid, at the very least reprimanded harshly against such measures being taken next time. But this man is not advocating white supremacy with his broadcasting selection. He is advertising his own hatred for any person of European descent within earshot. And this is allowed.
Moved from shock to anger now, I slam the glass sliding door shut, blocking out the hateful voices accusing me of a crime I have never committed based only on a profile of pigmentation. Going further, I turn on my computer, intent on playing something—anything—that drowns out those muted tones I can still hear through the glass. My computer clicks on, the screen loads. I select the wrong icon in my haste, and have to close it. Turning on my media player, I select the first album I come to, a Third Day one. The man’s soothing southern voice comes through the speakers like a shaft of light in the smoldering darkness of my emotional pain.
You can all call me crazy
For the things that I might say
You can laugh all you want to
I know there will come a day
When we all will come together
And learn to set aside our hate
If we could learn to love our neighbors
Just like we would love ourselves
We've got to come together
'Cause in the end we can make it - alright
We've got to brave the weather
Through all of the storms
We've got to come together
'Cause in the end we can make it - alright
We've got to learn to love
Again, I am stunned, and the burning edges of anger peel away from my heart for a moment. Come together… set aside our hate… learn to love our neighbors…learn to love. We’ve got to learn to love. I have got to learn to love. I breath in, listening. The chorus repeats, exhorting me to heed its urgent message of forgiveness, reconciliation. Learn to love your neighbor,” it urges. “Learn to love him,” despite what he has done, what he still does. Learn to love the man who would condemn me to Hell for simply being white, learn to love a person who is instinctively inclined to hate me before he has even spoken to me. Can such a thing be done?
Yes, I am a firm believer
In the things that we can do
If we would all just come together
And let the Lord lead our way
It can be done, my heart whispers. You can do it. You can love him, even if he will never love you despite what you do or who you really are. You can love him, pray for him to walk out of this darkness of hatred toward his fellow men and women. You can do it because, while he may believe in a God that smites people based on their lineage, you do not. You believe in a God who loves every person, who cringes at the way we hurt each other and longs for unity among His creation. It is this God, this King of Kings who fills your heart with purpose and love, and enables you to do the impossible, to do what you alone do not have strength to do.
And now, as I feel that strength of holy conviction flowing through me with the words of the song, I drop my head, and the words flow like cleansing water or tears. “Lord… bless that man. Bring him out of the darkness of his hatred. Teach him the truth of your words, and cut away the lies ensnaring his heart. Put your healing balm upon his eyes like you did the blind man’s, and wipe it away to reveal glory and truth and love to him that can cleanse him of his hatred.” The music fades away like the sigh of amen.
Today I have experienced the burn of racism, and it cuts like a foreman’s whip across my heart. But I refuse to succumb. I will not carry on the legacy that has allowed this color-based hatred to span whole generations and switch color lines to corrupt those peoples who were once the innocent victims. Today I have experienced racism, as a white woman in a black man’s land. And I have fought it with the only tool available to those overwhelmed by hatred: love, the love of a Savior who prayed for those who jeered at Him even as he hung on that cross. May you be equally empowered by such transforming love.
(The song, "Come Together" is by Third Day, on their 2001 album "Come Together.")

Coffee Talk

2009-09-18T06:03:00.000-07:00

So this will be the official first for two occasions: a) my first time writing a blog to participate in the Small Things Coffee Talk originated by Rachel Anne, and b) my first time writing two blogs in one day (the previous one was a copy-pasted free-write I found too amusing not to share about my psychotic kitten, Bean).
So to be perfectly responsible, I suppose I should admit that in doing this I am procrastinating on my homework, which at this point also consists entirely of writing. I have been doing a lot of writing lately, actually, all for school, but one piece in particular is stealing my heart as we speak.
I have long been struck by a feeling of obligation to record all of my grandmother's old stories from her childhood on a farm in the wild Northwest. These stories used to lull me to sleep at night with images of dappled ponies and wild boars and cougars. Now that my dear, gentle grandma is falling increasingly into the cruel clutches of dementia, despite a fairly healthy life, I feel the commitment pressing even more firmly on my already over-committed shoulders. If I do not write these stories now, my panicking subconscious whispers, I may never have another chance to make sure I've done them justice. But it seems all things are coming together not only for the good of those who love God, but also for the good of those stories that-- I am sure-- entertained him as well. I am taking a creative writing class now, in my last semester, finally having figured out that the class title, "The Art of Narration," is UMUC-ese for "Creative Writing." And here I was thinking it taught about public speaking or something. Silly me. Anyway, the first assignment for this class is a creative non-fiction piece, at least five double-spaced pages long. I have already written ten. I'm not done yet. Grandma's stories, seemingly locked somewhere within me since those days of pigtails and playing pretend, have come spilling out onto my screen in waves that I cannot staunch. It is like-- please excuse an accurate but slightly disgusting simile-- pleasurable vomiting. For once, in my writing, I am doing both exactly what I should be doing, and exactly what I enjoy doing.
:: Please hold on a moment while I rescue my mouse out from under my cat's behind. He likes to lay on the pull-out section of the keyboard drawer, and it makes productivity slightly difficult. Be right back.::
Okay... where was I?
Well, in other news, Johnny has bought a raft. For anyone who might actually read this and doesn't happen to identify themselves as my mother, relative, or someone in Sunday School, Johnny is my full-bearded, full-figured boisterous introverted maintenance-man husband and best friend of three-and-some-loose-change years. Every year since he was too small to record them in his amazingly accurate memory (I married a man who could tell stories almost as well as my grandmother), Johnny and his family have made the half-day journey to an RV park on the shore of Chincoteague Island in Delaware. Since I have known them, I have gone along three times. This traditional vacation always falls squarely on the week of my husband's birthday, which makes planning for it either easier or harder depending on my personality type for that year. Anyway, the area is chock-full of wildlife, though I've never actually seen the wild ponies Assateague is famous for (Think the child's book "Misty of Chincoteague"). This wild life is largely scattered throughout the many inlets, bays, streams, marches, and estuaries that overrun the area, and is best witnessed from the safety and comfort of a persona boat or kayak. We tried the kayak thing, last year, and I was mostly okay, though I did experience a moment of stark terror when our kayak flipped (that was Johnny's fault) and I landed in pitch black water, briefly went under, and came up with salt stringing my nostrils and thick mud seemingly sucking me down into the depths. I have an irrational fear of dark water (i.e. any water I cannot see what is swimming in it with me). So, of course, my husband's fondest wish every year about this time is to get me out on the water with him and explore. I love my husband. I know what he is trying to do. He thinks facing my fears will negate them. And for all I know, he might right. With a couple thousand years of similar repeated overturnings, I may start to lose my terror of open water. But meanwhile, I can simply enjoy nightmarish imaginings of this years vaunt on the water in his new four-man blow-up raft. And in my mind's eye, it holds to its name and blows up just as we reach the the deepest part of the inlet. ::sigh::
In other news, against my better judgment I am going to post all over the internet (okay, just at the end of a very long blog that I hope nobody will finish reading) my latest secret: I want a baby. Yes, I, who have been infamous for my rantings against the idea of pregnancy, birth, and jumping on the trendy train with all the other women in my Sunday School who have sequentially swollen and burst with new life, am finally to the point of wanting a child. I blame Melissa.

My Cat

2009-09-18T05:55:00.000-07:00

I asked my cat this morning if he was excited to go and have his boy-parts chopped off next weekend. Predictably, he did not respond, but sat tense in my embrace, pushing against my chest with his two small front paws like he had better things to do than discuss inhumane elective surgery. Jumping down to the floor when I released him, he sat cleaning those paws, as though doing his best to forget the inevitable event that was closing in on him. “Besides,” I said, “It’s for your good. We wouldn’t want you having babies and having to stay up with them screaming all night.” He was nonplussed. “Or, worse,” I said, “Becoming like Uncle Shane and getting some mama-cat preggers and running off on her. I won’t have dirt bag dads living in my house.” Again, the cat was silent.
He doesn’t talk much in general. When I’m clipping his nails (to avoid the cruel practice of de-clawing, which I opt out of more for the expense than the animal-PCism) in the bathroom, he gives me a fair earful of plaintive feline wails, of course. Once, he even hissed at me, full on pulling back his soft muzzle to reveal diamond-like shards of baby teeth, as though proving he was part and parcel of that same family of flea-bitten unfriendly strays I found in the window-well and called the SPCA on. But an earful of “No! Bad kitty!” and cuffs on his small head seems to have gotten across the message that backtalk of any kind is unacceptable with this mom, especially when she is cradling a two pound bristling ball of claws in naked arms just before a shower. Yes… I beat my kitty. I know, I know. Bad for his self-esteem. But I don’t see how cats have all that much use for a high self-esteem anyway. They’re born cocky, and could use to come down a notch in my opinion. And he still comes trotting back every time he’s swatted, conveniently forgetting that the same hand that softly strokes his downy underbelly is the one that slapped him off the dining room table five minutes ago. Cats are masters at the art of forgive and forget, as they are at climbing, stalking, and neatly trussing up small dead things as party favors.
I get sad when I think of his family. Of Mama Cat, escaping from that cardboard box where all her babies were stored, shooting across our apartment in the middle of the night and prying the screen-door open, jumping off the first floor balcony and orphaning her children as she streaked away into the night. Of Bean, sole healthy child among a litter of upper-respiratory infected angry little hissers. Of what the SPCA probably did with a bunch of little kittens who were born unhealthy anyway. But my baby was saved, and that’s a small good deed. Not a shot in him yet, yet he’s as healthy as a November wind. And just as fast, imitating his mom in manic streaks across our apartment, leaping out from behind the coffee table as I pass and ricocheting off my shins, proclaiming his proud “Rowr!” to the world.
My cat is psychotic. He fits in well here.

Fleas, and Fruit Flies, and Fallen Pot Racks, Oh My!

2009-08-10T12:04:00.000-07:00

Bear with me for a moment as I rant. In order to keep it brief (and just because I love lists) I will put this in list form:

1. During our trip to Myrtle Beach last week we somehow misplaced the power cord for the PS2 (i.e. no more watching movies in the bedroom).

2. We arrived home last night a full two hours after we intended to.

3. When we got home we discovered that the indoor kitty had somehow gotten fleas.

4. We also discovered that the intense heat we were lucky enough to miss all week had wiped out half of my plants on my balcony veggie garden.

5. It was so hot inside our apartment that a bag of potatoes sitting in our pantry rotted, filling the whole hallway with an awful stench.

6. Though we took out the trash before we left, somebody left a banana peel in the new bag, so we now have our own personal army of fruit flies attacking our kitchen and the rest of the hallway.

7. This morning as I was working on the computer, the pot rack in our kitchen finally gave out and tore out of the wall, sending pots and pans sprawling all over our kitchen and leaving some nice big gaping holes in our kitchen wall.

8. The falling pots and pans knocked over the bottle of triple-strength laundry detergent I had left the lid off of while I ran a load and sent it spewing all over the kitchen floor.

9. Retreating to my computer after wiping up the detergent as best I could, I discovered that a new patch downloaded to my game has somehow turned off an essential add-on and made my game nearly impossible to play in the capacity I'm accustomed to.

10. Getting picked up by my "boss" to go babysit, I was greeted with the rotten stench of an exceedingly stanky poopy diaper that had not been changed, and I got to marinate in the smell all the way to her work and back to her house.

If you have ever read that beloved children's book, "Alexander's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day", then you will understand what I mean when I say I am having one. I am having a day to rival poor Alexander's, complete with pest infestation, stinky smells, and huge messes. I'm just not sure I even feel up to the overwhelming challenge of facing up to these obstacles. Perversely funny as all this is, a small part of me still feels like retreating back to the safe-haven of my bed and waiting for the day to pass, hopefully without the roof caving in or the world ending by fire.

But it's days like this when-- along with the realization of the shortness of my own temper-- I am also filled with a realization of God's faithfulness. I may not be David with a host of enemies pursuing him, I may not be Moses facing off against the Pharaoh, I may not be Joshua invading a hostile Canaan... but I still have enemies. Be they odors, pests, or slimy spills, I have a host of evil lining up to sap my strength and leave me broken and tired of fighting. But God is with me! Philippians 4:13 joyously proclaims "I can do everything through him who gives me strength".
God has not given up on me. He isn't simply watching disinterestedly from the sidelines like a critical audience. He is here, with me, facing the challenges I face, and pouring his mighty strength into me. And with my God, who gives me strength, I can overcome the onslaught of flea or fruit fly. With his loving support, I can nurse those remaining plants back to health. With his mighty help (and a hubby with tools) I can put my kitchen back together again.

Because I've realized this verse isn't just a verse for the big battles and the epic challenges in life. It's for the little things too. The little annoyances that pile up and weary the soul and make your back ache... this verse covers those too. God's strength isn't just a supplement for adrenaline when you're up against a wall: it's for the energy to make it through the rest of the race or finish cleaning the house when you're dog-tired and there's still so much to be done. God's strength is mighty and multifaceted, plentiful and varied. And he is faithful.

So whether you're facing mounds of laundry, wearied by work issues, or going up against Goliath, please know that God's strength is enough for you today and everyday. You can do everything laid out for you to do today through the strength and love of him who created you. Rest in that thought for a moment, and then press forward to reach that prize!

Or, in my case, scour the apartment with a steam cleaner and fly swatter...

Mourning A Family Under Fire

2009-07-13T12:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get in these moods where even though I don't know what to say, I must write, like some primal impetus has taken hold of my fingers and glues them to the pencil or keyboard. This is one of those moments. Bear with me.
It has been a turbulently quiet day. I awoke late, cheeks still salty from a good cry I had the previous night. My grandmother is getting worse and my mother is exhausted as her sole caregiver. My father is working in California and rarely gets to see her, and my little brother will be going back to school in Washington soon and will no longer be able to support her in her efforts. I invited my parents to go on a cruise in January to celebrate the final completion of my long-awaited bachelor's degree. But money and time intervened and they ended up having to say no. And I cried about it. Almost-24-year-old that I am, I bawled like a toddler refused her favorite toy. I know I am being selfish, and bitter, but somehow I had made the mistake of placing the yearnings of my whole heart on that six-day trip with my family. I had imagined the time I would spend with them, being celebrated by them for my accomplishment. I could picture getting dressed up for dinner in one of the fancy on-board restaurants, my father raising his beer and toasting me as their first child to graduate from college. I saw myself rising early and going jogging on the track with my mom impressing her with my unwonted fitness, after which we finally went for the manicure she's been inviting me to every time I've seen her for the past three years, me sporting my shapely, unbitten nails that I had worked so hard to grow for her approval. I could see us exploring Disney World together on the way down, Nassau and the pirate museum on the way back, with my dad offering to rent a sailboat and let me steer like I used to when I was five in the sunny harbors of California. I pictured the pride on my parents faces that their little girl had finally gotten her life together, had finally become someone.
So I cried. I cried that my grandmother is sick and unable to take care of herself, that the care of her and my handicapped uncle has sapped my mom of all her strength and joy, that my father feels second rate compared to his ailing mother-in-law. I even cried, selfishly, because my brother is helping my mom when I can't. I want to be the child she can rely on, the child she turns to when she needs a break, a glass of wine and a good movie to make her forget about her many jobs for a little while. Instead I am locked here on the East Coast, a four day drive or $400 plane ticket away from visiting my family. I have obligations to fulfill here, family to care for that-- while they accept me as one of their own-- are not truly mine in the most basic sense. I have no job, and no money with which to purchase a trip of such magnitude and just pick up and fly to my family's aid.
While I was crying to remembered the times when, in high school, I would get punished for some seemingly insignificant transgression or another, and while sulking throughout my punishment, repeat to myself the most heartbreaking promise I have ever made: "Someday, I'll get away from them. Far away, where I can live my own life and they can't bother me." I regret that promise. What a horrendous way to realize that the old adage holds true: "Be careful what you wish for." I would give anything to be a part of my family once again.
My husband and I discussed the idea of sending me out for an extended visit, for a month or so. I could stay with my mom, after my brother has left for school, and help her attend to my grandmother, take her shopping and clean for her, take her for walks, and finally get a chance to write down all those old stories she told us when we were little about her childhood before they die with her. I hate myself for wishing it, but... if I do make it out there, I want her to die while I'm there. I don't want to learn about her passing from yet another foreboding phone call that leaves me with a phone phobia, like the one that came with news of my brother's leukemia. For nearly a year I rushed to the phone anytime day or night, nearly panicked with the news it would give me. I don't want that again. I want to be there, able to comfort my favorite grandmother in her last moments, able to console my mom and hug my ridiculously tall and skinny little brother so tight that I can clasp both of my own elbows. Able to see my mom and dad free to be a part of each other's lives again. I don't want yet another major family ordeal to happen when I'm too far away to be a part of it, when I come shuffling in after the fact like a dog who knows he's been a nuisance. Obviously I don't want my grandmother to die now. But I also don't want her to live like this, as a burden on my mother and a wedge in her marriage. As an alternately absent and embittered "patient" in a retirement community that she'll never consider home, pushing away and verbally abusing the one child who has stepped forward to care for her in her time of need.
I want... but I don't know what I want, much less what is needed. Only the Lord knows that, the God of Abraham, who has planted and uprooted nations. Does his gaze that encompasses the whole earth see the trials of my family? Does his heart swell with our suffering as does my own? I know it does. The God who watched his own Son die on a cross, helpless to turn the hearts of those he died for, must know what it is like to watch a family put under fire, to watch a loved one fading, to be helpless and faraway while the effects of sin and death on a ruined world hurt the ones you love the most. And if he knows my pain, and if he loves me and my family, which he created with loving hands and died for, how can he not desire to intervene, to soothe the burns with the pure salve of his love? And my God, who is vastly wiser than my selfish, hurting heart, knows exactly what needs to be done, and he will do it in his mighty way, and someday, we will look back on this time, this trial, with gratitude in our eyes. May it be.

Clearing A Clouded Heart

2009-07-09T05:28:00.000-07:00

So I left a rather cryptic status post on my Facebook yesterday about clearing the lies from my clouded heart, and I got just enough response that I figured I'd better clarify before everyone started thinking I'd gone emo on them or something.
Anyway, the realization I had that my heart was "clouded with lies" stemmed from the devotions I've been doing in a bible study lately, entitled "The Disciple's Prayer Life" (). Anyway, it was talking about our perceptions of God and his character. It stated that he created us for fellowship primarily, and that just didn't sit well with me. It's not that I didn't believe it, at least intellectually, but rather that this conceptualization of God's character just didn't mesh with the picture I've held of him in my heart. It asked me to describe how I viewed God, and I had to sit and think about that for a moment. Finally, a concise description came to mind: I view him as a general. I recognize his authority and power, and I feel indebted to him for the salvation and blessings he's bestowed on me, so I serve him as obediently as I can. But when it comes to cozying up to him and being buddy-buddy, the idea strikes me as foreign as a soldier cuddling up to her superior on the couch while watching chick flicks. Just doesn't seem to be realistic.
So that got me thinking. They say your first and greatest impression of God comes from your father. Well, there were two takes I could have on this. My father, the one who raised and cared for me is anything but the military type. He was very loving and caring and treated me in every way as his own beloved daughter. But I don't think he is the one who formed that God-image for me, unfortunately. I think that image stems from even farther back, from my biological father.
My mom got pregnant with me when she was about my age, and she wasn't married yet. It's a typical story nowadays, but it must have been terrifying even then. So the first thing they did was tie the knot. But my biological father was not exactly the "responsible, settle-down-and-have-a-family type". He was in the navy, and was, as far as I can tell, a bit of a charmer, probably a bit egotistical and the like. When he found out my mom was pregnant, his first instinct was to go for an abortion. I try not to blame him for that, because I have never been in his shoes, and he doesn't have the same outlook on human life as I do. Nevertheless, it's hard to think that upon your first conception, your own father was already looking for ways to get rid of you. Regardless, my mom (my heroine) nixed the abortion idea and went ahead with the pregnancy. Bill (my biological father) really wasn't all that "present" during my birth and early infancy, despite their marriage. My mom always gave me the impression he would rather be out drinking or partying than at home playing the part of Mr. Cleaver. So, inevitably, the marriage failed. My parents split up and went their own ways, and my mom took the entire burden of parenting upon herself. Several years later, she met a funny, goofy guy at work, who she later married and had a son with (i.e. my precious little brother). That is the man I call "Daddy".
All this is merely information gleaned from my mom's recollections to me, usually imparted with anything from flippancy to abject disgust and bitterness. I think my mom is still dealing with the scars Bill left on her heart and soul. I wouldn't blame her. But my earliest memory of my first father was from after my real father had already taken the job. Bill didn't keep in contact very well (okay, like at all) during the early years of my life, though my mother never revoked his right to visit and spend time with me. He just didn't seem all that interested in having a kid. He seemed, however, to have a sudden change of heart when he started dating a children's author who loved kids. All of a sudden he was calling to ask if he could take me to the park to ride a pony or up to the mountains to play in the snow. He was suddenly into this "daddy thing". And I was loving it! I still remember the name of the pony I rode: Pepper. Is that pathetic? I had so much fun being the center of attention of this charming and fun-loving man who called himself "Daddy Bill" and his fair-haired lady friend.
But somewhere along the line, Bill's relationship with the author must have fallen apart, because I stopped seeing him anymore. He just sort of faded back out of existence. Eventually I think I just stopped asking about him. Then, one night, after my family had moved to Idaho from our sunny California home, I had a revelation. Shuffling quietly into my parent's bedroom, I stood in the doorway and asked my sleeping mother a life-changing question: "Mama, is Daddy Bill my real daddy?" My mother, too asleep to be tactful, and probably not even aware of the import of my question, simply answered yes, and told me to go back to bed. I cried myself to sleep that night. Thereafter, I had a definite sense of always being the "stranger" in my family, the odd one out, the child who didn't exactly belong. It wasn't that my parents treated me any differently. But now I knew who I was, and the identity I formed from that information was alienating.
I'm not trying to tell you a sob story here, but merely give background. I came to Christ at sixteen, after a turbulent battle with depression, something that has continued to plague my life since, and will probably always be something I deal with. But despite the love poured out on me via the message of God's only son being sacrificed for my sins, I still carried that sneaking suspicion with me that God was in some ways very much like my original father figure. This connection jumped out at me the other day. All this time, despite all the ways He has blessed me and shown me his care and regard for me, I still tend to think of God as a general or commander, who recruited me into his army not based on his value for me personally, but merely because he viewed me as an asset for getting his own way. And obviously, I don't project the desire to impress the ladies onto my Heavenly Father. But how many times must I have simply assumed that God merely wanted me on his team so I could increase his kingdom or bring other's to the faith?
It may sound ridiculous, or, who knows, it may even sound exactly like what you suspect of his motives. Who knows how many of us have gone through life believing that God was the divine carbon-copy of our own fathers: that he wanted to use us, like our fathers did. That he only wanted us as a trophy or a servant, like our fathers did. Or, God forbid, that he didn't want us at all, like so many girls with absent fathers must suspect.
How did we go so wrong? The most basic and well known verse declares God's abundant love for us: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only son that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world [or use the world, or abandon the world], but to save the world through him." John 3:16-17 He loves us! He wants to be with us. Yes, He desires us for other purposes as well, to spread the light of his gospel to the nations, to administer hope and healing to a broken world, to feed the hungry and free the captives, but above all things, let it be known that he first and foremost created us and sent his son to die on that brutal cross because he LOVED us and wanted to be with us. What a powerful truth to clear the lies from our hearts!

My Personal Idol

2009-07-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

So I was reading my rote one chapter of Jeremiah as my devotions this morning, and something hit hard with me in this chapter. Jeremiah 16:18 reads

"I will repay them double for their wickedness and their sin, because they have defiled my land with the lifeless forms of their vile images and have filled my inheritance with their detestable idols."

Now normally when I read about idolatry, the "spiritually open, vulnerable and receptive" part of my brain just sort of checks out on a lunchbreak. If you think of it as approaching the Bible with a checklist in hand, you could say I normally just put a check down for the "idolatry" item and say "Nope, I'm good in this area." I would guess most of us tend to think that way. The way the Bible describes idols, they seem pretty basic: a hunk of wood or stone, carved into some weird shape, and put in a temple or shrine or on a hill and bowed down to and offered gifts. I don't know about you, but I'm past my "bow down to statues" phase. No... I'm serious, I did have that phase; in high school I was a Wiccan for a brief period and had a statue of "the Goddess" in one of her three forms, which I burnt incense to and prayed in front of her little shrine at least once a day. Sounds pretty hardcore, huh? Looking back now, it feels foolish, the way I sat there in my little ritualistic setup hoping and pleading with a ceramic bauble to do something in my life to make me happier, prettier, more successful. It was just a trinket my mom bought me, but I put all my hopes on it to be my god.

I guess that's why when I read in the Bible about idol worship, I tend to check out, because I assume that once I came over to the one true God who needs no statue or incense or magical candle circle to answer prayer, I was past the idolatry phase. It wasn't a problem anymore. I had outgrown that particular temptation. And, in a way, I was right. I have moved on past that specific form of idolatry. Meaning I no longer believe that inanimate odds and ends will be able to do anything more powerful in my life than look good on a bare shelf. That form of idolatry has been beaten out of my life. The temptation is more subtle now.

Looking at this verse, though, the subtlety seemed to ebb away like a thin veil, and God suddenly revealed to me how idolatry is still in my life. He speaks in that verse of how the Israelites have defiled his land and inheritance with their idol worship. Hold on: let's backtrack. That wasn't him talking about their land and inheritance. It was his. Where they lived and the things they had may have been on loan to them, but they still came from and belonged to God. And they just didn't seem to get it when He told them he could take it away if they didn't stop worshipping their idols. This got me thinking: what is the "land" and "inheritance" God has given me? Well, there's the usual Christian list of "thank-you card prayer" fillers: a place to live, food to eat, a good family, etc. But how about the things that really matter to me? Stuff like my money, or even my time? I tend to forget about these things, because in truth, they seem a little abstract. Especially time.

One doesn't usually think of time as a thing that is given. It's more like something that is just there, though there never seems to be enough of it there. You ever get that feeling? How many people do you hear who talk about how busy they are, how there's never enough time in the day to get everything done. Here's the kicker: how many of them use that as an excuse for why they aren't spending time with God? ::sheepishly raises hand::

So I started thinking about how this "time being an inheritance from God" factored into idol worship. Now my track record isn't too great. I tend to have an on and off relationship with my Bible. Meaning I'll read it a chapter a day for about three days, then something comes up, I get busy, or bored, or sick, and decide I can just "do it later". Three weeks later, I finally allow my built up bad-Christian guilt to drive me back to my Bible, but only long enough to take the edge off of conviction, and then something comes up again. Repeat cycle ad nauseum. A thought popped into my head this morning that seemed to point a big meaty finger directly at that not-so-bright spot on my Christian resume and say "here's your idol." Sure, I may be past the whole incense and fairy statues phase, but I'm still a big fat idol worshipper in a very subtle area (to me anyway): my time. Several times I've committed to God that I would spend some time during every day (generally the morning) reading God's word and praying and spending time with him, and it always gets crowded out by other things. Yesterday it was a migraine and several back-episodes of Buffy. The day before that, maybe babysitting or cleaning house. And before that? Ministry, not kidding. But that time that I promised God, it's not mine. He gave it to me, and I dedicated it back to him. It is his inheritance, his property. And I have filled it with every manner of "vile images" and "detestable idols." And, maybe this is a little extreme, but who's to say He isn't getting just as frustrated with me as he was when the Israelites were doing the same thing during Jeremiah's time? Who's to say he isn't getting very close to taking away this time that he has gifted to me? Ever notice that the moment you start enjoying some free time, it seems to go by even faster? I wonder if that isn't just an impression, but God trying to speak to us. Is my constant brush off during the "morning dates" I've promised him resulting in my to-do list getting longer and longer and my goals getting more and more distant? It sounds a little off the wall, but it could be true.

Either way, I've promised Him that time, and it's about time I stop filling it with detestable idols and start making good on my word. For me, this means I’m going to start picking a time every day and spending the full amount of it in the Word and in prayer, even if it means I have to go OCD on myself and set a timer. For you it may mean you need to start thinking of that quiet time as a quality time for you to spend listening to God rather than asking Him for favors. Or maybe it means you need to start thinking about starting a quiet time, or put more priority on your time with him than on your massive to-do list (trust me, I understand how hard that is). But personally, I’m going to trust that God will remain true to His character. After all, he’s never let me down before. And when he says that if I stop misusing the gifts he gives, then he won’t take them away, I’m going to believe Him. And as an added plus, maybe I’ll actually have more time in the day for homework and housekeeping and fun. It’s worth a try.

Filing Cabinets at Midnight

2009-04-19T20:25:00.000-07:00

Organizing a filing cabinet is never something that should be done late at night. But I promised myself I was going to get through my to-do list this week, which included shoveling out the masses of crumpled paper of various sizes and organizing them into miscellaneous piles on my living room floor.
There's something exhilarating about organizing. Yes, this is partly the ravings of an OCD mind, but I love the feeling of knowing that, simply by a little effort of my own limbs, I have pushed back the chaos encroaching on the edge of my reality and reclaimed a little peace for the moment. Plus, once the filing cabinet is organized, my husband will have no excuse for keeping piles of papers coupons, overdue bills and receipts on the counter in the kitchen. Not that he needs an excuse to do so. But we're talking about moral justice here.
Regardless, organizig the filing cabinet was an emotional experience for me tonight. Every little thing I placed into its respective pile held some degree of value.
There were the career assessment survey results from the tests I took in high school. It's funny to look back now and realize what a different person I am now from that chipper, punk-hippy member of the God Squad I was in those days, and yet how much I've stayed the same. These results emphasized my social personality, my love for helping people, and my extreme phobia of anything to do with math or logic. They suggested I pursue a career as a journalist, or a school counselor. Looking back at those results and suggestions I'm hit with a sudden rush of vertigo, as if I am looking back at my potential way back then from halfway up a very steep cliff that I have inched up day by day, until I can feel the thinning air whistling against the bare rocks around me and the only company is the occassional bird that darts past. True, I suppose I still do have a lot of potential. I am only 23 after all. Wrinkles and gray hairs, for the most part, have a few more years to lay dormant. But it's amazing to think how every decision I've made along the way, whether for the right or wrong reason, has had irreversable consequences. Choosing to major in English, for example has practically cut me out of the running for a job in any kind of social work or psychiatry. It's not that I regret that. But it delivers a sort of sense of impending claustrophobia to realize that, like a reverse funnel, the higher I climb, the narrower the way becomes.
And then there's all these bills stubs. So that's where all our money went! Aha!
Notes, drawings, bits of stories and poems... tossed haphazardly into the bottom drawer of our filing cabinet, they may look to anyone else like a bunch of trash. But to me they're goldn. They're an identity that has taken 23 years to form, and generations before that to prepare. And, neatly slotted into thier individual folders, I feel like I have just organized my own soul, categorized it into precise definitions and clean-cut memories. There is quite simply nothing like it.