A Warm Fuzzy Heartache

15,838 / 20,000 (79.0%)

On Today's Menu:

Homemade Peach Cobbler (a la mode)

Okay, so peach cobbler was the only dish I could think of to go with warm fuzziness. It's warm, and peaches are fuzzy, but hopefully not in cobbler. I'm feeling pretty warm and fuzzy now that I'm almost done with the first draft.

The other night I was doing some on-line research for a future project. I was clicking through an employee newsletter for an organization related to a new proposal. Gotta get that research right, you know? To be really cliche, lo and behold, I saw a picture of him. He stood in front of a scientific research plane he'd worked on in an engineering project for NASA. Who'da thunk it?

I got snapped back to sixth grade and riding my bike to school. Every day I hope I'd get a glimpse of Steve. Oh, Steve, an absolutely cute eighth grade boy who didn't know I existed. He was quiet and funny and smart. My best friend was friends with his sister, but still, he had no idea who I was. His locker was in the same row as mine--his at the top on one end, mind at the bottom on the opposite end. We passed each other when changing classes. Please, oh, please, say hi to me. I think once "our eyes met." Really, they did.

Now my Hannah is in her post-sixth grade summer. Her "boyfriend" Scott moved onto Fort Hood and away from our neighborhood three weeks before school let out. She saw him on the last day of school, when he said had her number. He would call. They'd keep in touch. Four weeks now, and nothing. She's been busy and having fun earning money, going to the pool, chatting on the phone, helping in day care, sleeping in sometimes, texturing the walls of her room (we're renovating it in retro style--but that's for a whole other post one day). But still, she will occasionally pine for Scott and wonder what she did wrong. "Nothing," I've told her. "Nothing at all."

It might be puppy love, but puppy love is still real to the puppy.

I moved away my junior year of high school, after Steve had already graduated and gone on to college. I still remember him and the school trip to Bush Gardens my sophomore year (he was a senior). They took a group picture, and I sat next to him. Well, actually he ended up about two feet away when they had us all sit on a stone wall in front of a fountain for the picture, but there I was. Next to him. Still crushing, I guess.

Of course now I'm an old married lady, but I still remember the feeling of the possibility of having something special with someone. Warm, fuzzy. I'm definitely not married to a quiet, funny guy. He's funny, but not quiet. God knew for sure I didn't need a quiet man.

Now I just have to be there for my daughter with her warm, fuzzy heartache. She'll get better. We all do.

Bleary-Eyed

11,499 / 20,000 (57.0%)

I started drafting a scene earlier tonight for Luke, the hero. He's really got a neat personality, but Krista the bride is clamoring for attention. No, she's not a Bridezilla or anything. She's just more emotionally open about her problem at the moment. Combine a blast from the past, a wildfire on the horizon, and a harried bride and groom, and you've got quite a mix. Or at least I hope so.

So here I am, bleary-eyed. Getting a scene down on the Alphasmart led me to uploading it, which led me to making some edits and reading for flow, and there you have it. I need to hit the hay. Work calls in the morning. I'm glad I only commute to my work computer in our room.

An author friend has said she'd be happy to look at my story. I've got plenty of eyes to check it out once I'm ready for that to happen. I'm used to critique partners reading my work, but now, this is the real deal. Makes my stomach queasy just thinking about it.

I'll take a dollop of grace for tomorrow along with some cream and Equal in my coffee. Night-o!

Just Keep Swimming...

10,175 / 20,000 (50.0%)

On Today's Menu:
Filet O' Fish--No Tartar Sauce (Gag)

That goofy blue fish Dory in Finding Nemo had a point. (No, neither she nor her friends are on the menu. I was just pushing the fish analogy, and I happen to like seafood.) When you look at taking a trip, especially a long trip you've never been on before, the whole journey can seem daunting. You think of how tired you'll be. What if you take a wrong turn? Or there's construction, or flat tires, or other obstacles? You can make yourself give up, or just stay home.

But what was Dory's motto? "Just keep swim-ming, swim-ming! Just keep swim-ming, just keep swim-ming!"

Tonight I hit the halfway point in my novella. Yes, I've written longer books before, but each one is its own journey. Right now my printer is spitting out what I've written so far. I've got my pen poised and my editing hat on my head.

This time, the story isn't coming in sequence for me. Instead of fighting through an uncooperative scene, I've been drafting scenes that demand to be put down. Then I circle around to earlier parts of the book. I've never written this way before, but I've got my spreadsheet next to me with my road map. I think it's working. I've also seen my hero doesn't have as much stage time as the heroine. I'm getting into his head a little more, after watching a Nova DVD called Fire Wars, which follows a team of hot shot wildfire fighters through a season. I learned a lot and have a deep respect for these men and women. I hope after seeing their stories, I'll learn more of Luke's.

One thing I'm excited about is I have a northern California reader who lives in the area near my fictitious town of Settler Lake. She's agreed to read my story to see if I "got" the early summer atmosphere of northern Cal in fire season. We'll see. I hope I get it right. In the meantime, I'll just keep swimming.

Besides this project, I'm doing research for another proposal. I had a warm fuzzy happen with this research, a "blast from the past"--my old sixth grade crush. But that's for another time. Night-o!

A Mother's Scream

9,059 / 20,000 (45.0%)

What can fiction accomplish in real life? I look at the numbers above and wonder about their significance. I had a great night writing, even chatted briefly on IM with another buddy who was also doing some research. Oh, yes, I'm a research junkie. You give me an obscure question and I'll rip up Google trying to find the answers, or come close. Tonight, though, as I enjoy the creative process, my heart is a bit heavy.

This afternoon about 4:30, a police car pulled up behind one of our cars out front (not ours really, it belongs to a friend and he's leaving it with us for now, but that's not part of this story). Then a maroon SUV pulled up just past our mailbox. A young black woman left the SUV and approached our neighbor's house. She clutched a few papers and wore a phone headset. A police officer followed her.

My husband heard the scream. I didn't. But he said it was one of those things he'll never forget.

"No, that's my baby!" The teen mother let out a shriek.

I saw the Child Protective Services worker carry the child, maybe 18 months old, to the maroon SUV. The baby was blonde, cute as a proverbial button, and wore a pink outfit. The CPS worker strapped her into a car seat. Then she and the officer conversed for a moment. I found my glass of tea, and then found my discreet spot at my bathroom window*.

Now Patty was outside talking to the CPS worker. Patty lives next door. It's a rather complicated family. The baby belongs to Patty's boyfriend's teenage daughter. She visits next door sometimes, but I'm not totally sure of the living arrangements. Theirs is a case of "yours and mine," a forty-something couple living together with a gaggle of kids, ranging from ages seven or eight to fifteen or sixteen. I can't keep them all sorted out, but I think at least seven kids live next door. At one point, Patty had kicked out her boyfriend and his posse of offspring. Now, two weeks later, they're back together.

How can my fiction help them? How could a story help them? This is something I'm trying to figure out. I want to reach out somehow but they are a very proud family--their utilities have sometimes been shut off.

Quite frankly, I'm tired. My husband and I know a couple who's needed much counseling and prayer in the past year, and I feel like I've been drained of what I have to give. The thought of pouring out to someone else makes me want to go into a corner and curl up.

Somehow writing with an audience "out there" in mind is easier (I know, I was talking about kicking cabinets the other day). But someone next door needs help, too.

Lately at church we've been talking about basic things. Prayer. Bible study. Fellowship. Service. I could simply tell Patty and Company, "Y'all need Jesus, " something which many who don't believe as I do might interpret as, "You need to go to church." But it's much more than that. I wouldn't dream of someone trying to seek answers from a group, or a "club." I can only tell her what Jesus has done for me and it's up to her what she does from there. Witnessing outright has never come easily for me, I'm sad to admit.

I can tell, too, that I need a recharge after the exhausting couple. No wonder Jesus was always going off to pray. People and their problems can suck the energy out of someone. I can't change people. I can't solve their problems for them. I can't "make" them believe. I can only learn to set boundaries and point them in the right direction (and keep writing).

*After writing this, I realize how voyeuristic I sound. But I'm a people watcher. I can't help it. Really. As much as they drive me nuts and I'd love to be a hermit sometimes, I do care about people.

Progress!

7,908 / 20,000 (39.0%)

I'm happy to say progress is coming on the novella. It's a first draft, and I want to get it done so I can go back and make it sing. I borrowed the meter I found on another writer's blog. It's kinda nice to see that I'm getting there.

For so many years, I tried to present work to editors that I "just knew" they had to buy. Or, at least I really, really hoped they'd want. Every book proposal I'd sent received a request for the full manuscript. Good average! And every novella proposal I'd sent came back with a "no thanks." Well, once I never received an official "no thanks." I e-mailed someone and they said, "Oh, we picked the stories we wanted for this book. Guess your letter got lost in the mail, but no you didn't make it." (Note: this was not the publisher I'm working for now, mind you! I won't tell tales in school or out of it!)

At any rate, now I find myself wondering if I can pull this off. After all, how many thousands will get to read this story? I want the readers to love these characters, love the setting, love the story and what my characters discover about themselves and God. Heart's Refuge has a lot to do with forgiving and going on in spite of the past. And how do we learn to trust again when someone closest to us has let us down? How do we know it won't happen again? I won't tell you the whole story, but I'm coming to learn along with my characters that we don't have any guarantees that people we love won't let us down. We're human beings with flawed frailty--look at our Desperate Housewives. As long as we're here, we face that frailty.

Okay, so it's a novella and it's not supposed to be too heavy. Plus, my characters are battling a wildfire that threatens them as well. Did I say a novella isn't supposed to be too complicated? Well, I'm trying NOT to complicate things too much. I've only got a little less than 13,000 words to go!

Kicking Cabinets

On Today's Menu:
Forget the menu, I'm trying to write!


I've signed my contract, and have the first half of the advance. Nice! Feels grrreat!

Like a good writer, I've kept my September deadline in mind and started writing the story where I left off in my proposal. A solid chapter three has taken form, plus an assortment of scenes that come later. Since this is a novella, I think it'll be a minimum of 10 chapters, depending on word count. The maximum for this book is 20,000 words. Right now my book is around the 6600-word mark, about a third.

And I think in its current form it stinks. I've got my synopsis, my road map. But my characters feel like marionettes on a stage, flopping around at my direction. Inside my head, I see the story playing out on a screen, scene by scene. Why don't the words come so vividly?

So I've given myself a time-out to see what's wrong. Maybe I haven't given my characters enough free rein to show their emotions. Or have I not placed them firmly enough in their setting, in northern California wildfire country? At any rate, I picked up a new book I bought at Barnes & Noble on Memorial Day. It's a mystery/suspense, by an author I haven't read before. It's good, it draws me in already.

I think I just need to relax and write. Hopefully these holes will fill themselves in. Plus I hope the characters will cut their strings and live the story on the pages for me.

Now I know what Brandilyn Collins means about kicking cabinets.

I have people counting on me, not just my own personal goal to finish this story and finish well. It's a little scary. But this is what I've longed for! I'm so glad I'm not going it alone.

Graduating!

On Today's Menu:
Graduation Cake, half chocolate, half white

I am so sick of cake. We went to five graduation parties last weekend, and for some reason had cake at four of them. Don't ask me why. When it came time for cake and the plates were passed, we didn't say no. Can you say eating without a brain?

At the last party on Sunday night at church, we watched a Powerpoint presentation of four of the graduating boys as they grew up. With those pictures, I saw my own kids grow up along with two of them. The only thing that makes me want to cry is the fact that a certain boy leaves this summer, and those days of the Fabulous Four--Paul, Matt, Zach and Hannah--are gone. Once upon a time, my best friend Lisa (Paul and Matt's aunt) and I took the kids to the zoo, with all four of them stuffed in the back of her Pulsar with the T-top down. Now Paul's headed to the Marines in July, and life around here will not be the same without him. Meanwhile the two 15-year-old boys and a certain 13-year-old girl left behind will learn about the changes life brings. The tighter we try to hold onto people, the easier they slip through our fingers.

Graduation isn't the ending. Another name for graduation is commencement, which also means "beginning."

I can spend time letting tears fall as I look at pictures of the past, and totally miss the fact that there's changes coming. The future shines bright like an unspoiled morning. Yet I said in a post months ago, "I fear change," like the guy in the Domino's pizza commercial who only orders pepperoni. I shouldn't say I fear change. It's more the unknown that makes me wonder--what if the changes don't bring warm, fuzzy feelings?

Graduation--commencement--beginning--brings change. As a mother, it's realizing my kids aren't kids anymore. Junior high and high school, thanks very much. As an aunt and a friend, it's realizing I get to cheer my nephews on as they step into adulthood, thankful I've had a role in helping them become who they are. As a writer, I feel the weight of trust that a publisher has given me. It's exciting, scaring, exhilarating. When I think of beginning, I think of fresh pages in a notebook, ready to write on. I think of New Year's Day with a whole year full of possibilities, or the first day of school with a new lunch box and sneakers without scuffs.

In all our beginnings, God's mercies are new every morning. I call that a Graduation Guarantee.

Guilty or Not Guilty, But Not Innocent (part 2)...

On Today's Menu:
Still More Just Desserts (Or, A Diabetic's Nightmare)

I was recounting my jury duty experience and interrupted it with the news of my first fiction sale. (Yes, I'm still on that sugar rush--no worries, Robin B., pull up a chair and grab a spoon!) Well, the young woman, the victim's sister, requested to take the stand again after lunch.

Here comes a "Law & Order" twist.

She said, "Well, I'm not sure exactly who I saw look through that blind and shoot my brother."

The defense attorney pounced on this. From that point on, I could not be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that this man was guilty of the crime he allegedly committee. I wasn't sure. I had a very, very strong feeling he could have done it, but we only had one witness's word (and his girlfriend's) about who was inside that house and where they were when the police arrived. Sleeping. Hmmm. And this same witness bore a very strong resemblance to the accused. Even when the DA called a few witnesses at the county jail to testify about some alleged conversations and shouting between the accused and some others who'd been present at the time of the incident, I still couldn't believe these officials had an accurate recollection of what they heard at the time, any more than I had believed the victim's sister.

The DA could not produce enough witnesses to satisfy my reasonable doubts. When my fellow jurors and I went into deliberations, our initial vote was 10 not guilty, 2 guilty. The charge required a unanimous verdict. We decided to have a good lunch and then come back and kick the evidence around some more. Eight of us ladies went to a local Mexican cafe, oh yum. We managed to talk about all kinds of things--men, our kids, our activities, local news, shopping--anything but the trial. Hey, we're women! After an hour's worth of chat and enchiladas, I was ready to work.

Late in the afternoon of the second day of the trial, we had our unanimous vote. The verdict was read, and the accused clenched his fists at his sides and hissed a soft, "Yes." Once the judge continued reading, the young man started wiping tears from his eyes. We as a jury were released from our gag order (which is why I can say all this now).

Michael spent the last nine months in jail. I hope he learned something in the midst of this mess. Whether or not he shot the victim is one thing. Did I help release a criminal to the streets? I hope not. If he was a criminal, I hope and pray he's not a criminal any more.

Fact is, there's lots of not-guilty people running the streets. Not innocent, but those who've been proclaimed "not guilty."

Dancin' in the Streets... Or at least through the living room

On Today's Menu:
Buttercream Icing, A Whole Bowl Just for ME!

I interrupt my jury duty story with a thrilling bit of news. This Tuesday, I received "the e-mail." My novella has been accepted for publication next summer! Three of my author friends and I submitted a proposal together. Oh, I screamed. I scared my husband. I wrote one of my friends and asked her, "Does this mean what I think it does?" The publisher already sent me a PDF contract and I've signed two copies and popped it in the mail to them. This fall, I was planning to go to a writer's conference and now it's all covered.

After my posts of "The Prize in the Cereal Box" and "Uphill Both Ways in the Snow" I'm finally seeing some fruit of my labors. Yes, I believe my writing has a purpose even if it's not accepted for publication. Still, though, I really, really wanted a fiction contract--one with my name on the cover.

My life is full. I have many blessings beyond this contract, beyond writing. I have a wonderful husband, two great teenagers, a good job, family, friends--I could go on. This week though, I feel like I've been handed a bowl of dee-licious buttercream icing to go with my cake. And I can eat all I want. Yes, I've been flying!

I do have to come down and get to work on the book though. The sugar rush feels good!!

Guilty or Not Guilty, But Not Innocent

On Today's Menu:
More Just Desserts


I spent three days at the county courthouse last week on a jury for a criminal case. On day one, I sat around and waited. I didn't think I'd be chosen. My summons read juror #222. They only needed 12. I was certain I'd be back at my work computer that afternoon.

Somehow I fit whatever profile the DA and the defense attorney agreed upon. The 12 of us made the best of it as for a day-and-a-half we heard testimony from a myriad of witnesses about what happened on August 29, 2004 at a particular residence in the town where I live.

The young man was originally booked on a charge of attempted murder, but indicted on assault with a deadly weapon. Sitting in the courtroom, he looked like a polished young man with an inscrutable expression. His dark chocolate eyes didn't glance in our direction very often. I wondered what he wrote when he jotted occasionally on his legal pad. His defense attorney, a no-nonsense woman with a strong sharp voice and bad posture, would glance down at the paper from time to time. I learned later that he had not made bail when I saw him escorted across the parking lot after a day in court, headed towards the county jail diagonally across the street. His slight limp betrayed an ankle bracelet (just like Martha's!) covered up by his tailored khaki pants.

"None of these people are angels," the DA had said when he began the profile of the trial for us, the jury. "You will hear testimony from a young man in Federal prison. Some of these people on both sides of the case have had run-ins with the law before."

At first it seemed cut-and-dry. The accused had supposedly fired out the front window of the house where he was living, wounding a young man in the arm.

"We saw him look through the blinds before he fired," insisted both the young man, and his sister, who first told us she was with her brother at the front door.

The young man who'd been shot glanced over at the defendent. "I--I just wanna be careful, don't wanna send no one to jail if they ain't done nothing. But I know it was him, I mean, I'm pretty sure it was him."

Pretty sure?

Another young woman took the stand. She'd been with the young man and his sister when he was shot. Her long hair hung limply down her back. Her baggy clothes made her look heavier than she probably was.

She raised her hand to be sworn in. "I don't want to do this..." She was ready to cry, but she had no choice but testify. She'd been driven in from the prison, where she was serving a term for a felony misdemeanor.

Another young man testified. He'd been asleep in the house while the accused shot out the window, and he hadn't heard anything until the police came. He too had the same polished demeanor of the accused. I remember seeing their similar facial features and coffee-with-cream complexion and thinking, "They could be cousins," when the bailiff let him into the courtroom.

How easy it is for young people to mess up their lives. No education, no gainful employment, and lots of party time with the wrong crowd. Add in immaturity and a hair-trigger temper, and even the girls would end up in cat-fights. In fact, the night before the shooting, two of them had fought--one had cut another's hand with a knife. The one with the cut hand in turn slashed the tires of the other girl's car. A real "adult" way to solve conflicts, huh?

After a morning's testimony which included an ER physician who assured us the young man had to have the bullet remain in his arm, and a few officers who responded to the shots-fired call, I was ready to eat my sandwich in peace at the park and listen to Days on my car radio.

When we resumed after lunch, though, the first witness returned, telling the court she needed to add more to her testimony...

To Be Continued...

Fruit and Fads

On Today's Menu:
Holy Mixed Fruit Medley!

There's an old song that goes: "They will know we are Christians by our love, by our love..." I remember we sang it around the fire at camp, back in the Kum By Ya era. (I must note that back then I was very, very young.)

Am I showing Christ and how to live a Christian life because I say the right words and know the special secret code catch phrases? (See? I used a catch phrase there--'showing Christ,' as if I carried Him in my pocket to share with the class at show-and-tell.) In some circles, it's not enough to answer, "I'm fine," when someone asks how you're doing. It's better to say, "I'm blessed."

Do we think that because we wear only Christian clothes, read only Christian books, tune into only Christian news, listen to only Christian music, speak only Christian phrases, suck on Testa-mints instead of Tic-Tacs, consume only Christian food and drink that these things make us examples to others? "Be like me, join our club." Do we think someone wants to join in based on just those things?

What fruit do our lives bear? It doesn't matter if we look like Christ's #1 fan on the outside with a T-shirt that says "Go God!" in red festooned with pom-poms.

"The Pharisees, along with some religion scholars who had come from Jerusalem, gathered around him. They noticed that some of his disciples weren't being careful with ritual washings before meals. The Pharisees--Jews in general, in fact--would never eat a meal without going through the motions of a ritual hand-washing, with an especially vigorous scrubbing if they had just come from the market (to say nothing of the scourings they'd give jugs and pots and pans).

The Pharisees and religion scholars asked, "Why do your disciples flout the rules, showing up at meals without washing their hands?"

Jesus answered, "Isaiah was right about frauds like you, hit the bull's-eye in fact:
These people make a big show of saying the right thing,
but their heart isn't in it.
They act like they are worshiping me,
but they don't mean it.
They just use me as a cover
for teaching whatever suits their fancy,
Ditching God's command
and taking up the latest fads."

Jesus called the crowd together again and said, "Listen now, all of you--take this to heart. It's not what you swallow that pollutes your life; it's what you vomit--that's the real pollution.

When he was back home after being with the crowd, his disciples said, "We don't get it. Put it in plain language."

Jesus said, "Are you being willfully stupid? Don't you see that what you swallow can't contaminate you? It doesn't enter your heart but your stomach, works its way through the intestines, and is finally flushed."

He went on: "It's what comes out of a person that pollutes: obscenities, lusts, thefts, murders, adulteries, greed, depravity, deceptive dealings, carousing, mean looks, slander, arrogance, foolishness--all these are vomit from the heart. There is the source of your pollution."

Excerpts from Mark chapter 7 (the Message)

Lord, help me work on my insides most of all. I won't have to say "I'm blessed" or drive down the road with Mercy Me blaring out the windows, or buy the latest Holy Joe wrist band (in rainbow colors!). When You shine through, I won't have to try to look like a groupie.

Uphill, Both Ways, In the Snow

On Today's Menu:
Mississippi Mud Pie

Trying to get my current book written is like going uphill, both ways, for ten miles, in the snow, with bare feet and no coat. Here I go again, hearing that inner admonition that if I really want to do something, I'll do it. Hey, I admit it--for the right item, I'll get to Wal-Mart the day after Thanksgiving at 5:30 a.m. (well-coffeed, of course). Otherwise, I'll sleep in like I will tomorrow morning. Well, to 8:00 at least.

What motivates me to write? Looking back on this blog, I can see that little by little, I've taken a journey and shared snippets of my travels with the world at large. Or small. Thank you, to my two fans! Seriously though, when properly motivated, people will do anything.

What's my payoff? At this point, it's simply finishing what I started. I haven't finished a full-length book in nearly three years. What is wrong with me? I believe part of the problem is getting sidetracked and losing focus. Then it sort of degenerated into a block of some kind that makes me almost think completing another book is beyond my reach. I got stuck in the mud. There, I've said it. A block. I can't remember who said there was no such thing as writer's block, but an abundance of lazy writers.

I'm waving my hand in the back row. The teacher's caught me sleeping in class. But I'm awake now, and working. I wrote seven pages tonight. They may be drivel, but they're seven pages. My heroine's in a tight spot, poor thing, and I'm glad she's squirming right now because I know I'm learning.

Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body. Ecclesiastes 12:12b

You betcha, and I'm tired! Signing off for the evening,

Ms. Lazywriter (but I'm being reformed, really I am!)

A Sob Story

On Today's Menu:
A Pity Party, With Chips


A friend has a problem, and I desperately want to help her. I believe she wants help, but I wonder why she still goes back and does the same things again and again? My compassion is wearing thin by now. Bear with me for a moment as I think aloud.

As a Christian, I believe I have every answer to every problem I'll ever face. Not in me, of course. I can mess things up quicker than a kid can stuff a PB 'n J sandwich into a DVD player and push "play." I succeed when I surrender to what Jesus wants for me in spite of my feelings, in spite of circumstances and when it seems like the world is spinning out of control. I may go along kicking and screaming, but I'm going along anyway. What a relief that my faith is not based on "getting it right" so I can achieve "paradise," or whatever other religions may offer. I would be the worst Buddhist, Christian Scientist, etc., (you fill in the blank) if it totally depended on me. But in spite of my failures and occasional cases of the "uglies," there's hope for me because of Christ.

Why then, do I continually see people who live as if there is no hope for them? They profess that they follow Christ and His teachings, they say they believe in the Bible, but the way they deal with their struggles is anything but hope-filled. So that brings me back to my friend. I wish I could help her, I really do, but until she knows for sure that Jesus is her deliverer and she can be strong in spite of what she's up against, my efforts are futile. All the self-talk and positive thoughts will provide only temporary comfort. She's left with herself and her struggles when the words die out.

Is it any wonder why some choose not to follow Christ? If those of us who do live as though we have no answers, I don't blame them. Then again, when all is said and done, we can't point the finger because so-and-so didn't act like a "Christian."Like when my kids bicker and say, "Well, they're not acting right, so--" No excuses, no sob story, no blame game.

Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.
God can do anything, you know--far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us. Ephesians 3:19-20, The Message

Mi Vida Loca

On Today's Menu:
Hot Tamales, With Extra Salsa on the Side

Most people who know me, I hope, will characterize me as a pretty laid-back person. I don't generally get road rage. I can wait in lines. I don't howl at a red light.

But today, I think, I'm ready for a rant about rude old men. Really. It all started when I was actually in a hurry, on one of my work breaks, and driving Mom's Taxi. Somehow I had to fit in a trip by the grocery store for three things. Three--troi-tres measly items that we couldn't do without until the weekend. In the comedy of errors that was my afternoon, I decided to breeze in and out of our local HEB store with Zach. Ha. Some breeze. We were definitely in the doldrums, no sail, no outboard motor. The metaphor ends here.

Everyone in town had decided to go by the store just before 4:00 p.m. The lines stretched wayyy back down the aisles. Seems everyone in town wanted to buy ten items or less, too. I found myself standing next to the root beer and Mountain Dew.

Then, I saw him. He had gray hair with a Donald Trump comb-over and plastic framed glasses. He stood there, clutching his gallon of milk and other stuff, and seemed oblivious to the world except for the guy in front of him holding French bread and a tub of ice cream. Rrright. He had no clue the line continued down the aisle to his right. I supposed he'd lost all peripheral vision. He proved to be a sly old coot, and a rude one. The line moved forward, and Mr. Combover slid into the respectful line break ahead of us and behind French bread dude. I could feel the air crackle behind me; another shopper had played by the rules and gotten in line behind where he was supposed to.

I looked at Zach. "Did you see that guy? He just cut us!" I had a flashback to high school lunchroom. Ick. I bit my lip. Coming off the PMS would not have caused Christian, kind, uplifting, positive things to come from my mouth. Even my tone would have been bristly, though the words themselves would have been benign. So I gagged myself.

Then the sign over aisle 9 lit up. Whooee! Another man dashed to the aisle. That's okay. I was on my way, and I had a CART. Move over, basket-toters!

Mr. Combover, Mr. Oblivious to the World flew in front of me so quickly I nearly turned him into a speed bump. For a millisecond, I wanted to. Don't let those old guys fool you. They can move when they want to. On any other day, he probably complains about his back or knees or whatever in his body is degenerating, but not today. I ended up staying where I was. Now I was the one behind French bread dude after the mass migration.

Did I mention I also was in the line with the slowest cashier in the store? The other lines moved faster because they were really moving faster. I told myself never to get in Billy's line again. I don't care that he wears an earring. I did care that he moved slower than--well, you fill in the blank for something that moves like a glacier.

Mr. Combover left the store, and I believe I actually heard a sniff of triumph before the sliding doors whooshed open.

I could probably actually write a Psalm, about wicked old men who push their way in line and cut off nice young(ish) moms who are only trying to get out of the store so they can go get the one kid left at school and who's now probably wondering where Mom is by this time and so she can get home and work for another hour. Yes, the run-on is intentional.

One of the things I love about the Psalms is David's--and other writers'--frank emotions. I wasn't calling down fire from Heaven on some older man with a bad hairdo. But I can understand the psalmist's frustration, aggravation, despair, the questioning in his words. Our emotions are timeless, whether our enemies bear swords or come in the form of a man wrapped up in his own little world.

Now that I've allowed my rant, I understand the peace the psalmist felt, after recognizing in the big picture, God's got it all under control. I can vent and (hopefully) not let my anger infect me and spread to others, and I can acknowledge His place in the craziness. I'm not sure if I ever see Mr. Combover again that I'll offer him a place in line ahead of me. But I'll be able to smile at him and mean it. He's taught me I can find a Psalm in the grocery store.

Lost in the Sand Dunes

On Today's Menu:
A big slice o' birthday cake

My son turned 15 last week. Which is why I haven't posted. That, and the tax man came and went. Now life has settled into a blur of overtime at work. Thank you, Lord, for job security!

But about the birthday. I've mentioned before on our morning ride in Mom's Taxi that the kids and I listen to our favorite deejays. At 7:30 they always announce local birthdays and anniversaries that listeners call in. To Zach, this is a big deal. So shortly after 7:00 I tried sneaking a call from my cell phone while hiding in the bathroom. Finally got through to the deejay, gave Zach's name, age, and town, then worked a little until I realized it was 7:29. We flew out the door just in time to jump in the car and listen for the birthdays.

We headed down the street on our regular route. Finally, the guy announced Zach's birthday. For two seconds, Zach glowed in the spotlight. He was a star. Yes, Zach in our town turned 15 today, and everyone needed to know! Somewhere, that mattered to someone. Lots of people, in fact. ( I had to buy 6 large pizzas Friday night for the sleepover.) We're all celebrities in our house, even the kitties.

No matter what culture someone belongs to, they seek significance. It's a pretty sorry belief to think that we're all just "dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind..." and have that be the end of it. Even though I find that old song by Kansas hauntingly beautiful, I refuse to be a fatalist.

Abraham was told his descendents would be as numerous as the sands of the seashore. That's a big family. Looking at the family tree of history, it would be easy to feel lost in the dunes.

Wanna know what I think? No, I believe? Our birthdays are cherished in the largest baby book of them all. Every day, more pictures are added. We all fit, somewhere, in that book. We matter. Often we seek our significance from other people.

Please--love me--validate me--make me believe I count. We look to meaning from other fallible creatures who can sorely disappoint us. Don't get me wrong--the icing on the cake of my life is to be loved by an amazing man, to become a mother to his children, to have friends I can call at 3 AM if I need them, to have girlfriends I can shoe shop with, to have soul sisters who also write--I feel like somehow, I do fit. But what if they all disappeared? Would I still belong?

This why the cry, "Love me--validate me--make me believe I count" cannot just be answered by things and people of this earth. People come and go from our lives. Things decay. Jobs change. Shoes wear out (even the really cute ones, drat it). I'd rather anchor myself to Someone immovable.

I thank you, High God--you're breathtaking!
Body and soul, I am marvelously made!
I worship in adoration--what a creation!
You know me inside and out,
you know every bone in my body;
You know exactly how I was made, bit by bit,
how I was sculpted from nothing into something.
Like an open book, you watched me grow from conception to birth;
all the stages of my life were spread out before you,
The days of my life all prepared
before I'd even lived one day.
The Bible, Psalm 139: 14-16

Those Crazy Lawn Ornaments

On Today's Menu:
An Unexpected Slice of Pineapple

One of the nice parts about working at home is being able to operate Mom's Taxi Service after school. We've got our little routine in the morning, the kids and I. After trooping to the car and settling The Great Daily Controversy about who gets to sit "up front"--you'd think at 13 and nearly 15 they'd have figured out a system by now instead of plowing each other over to get to the car--I turn on the morning radio show with the two hilarious local deejays. We always go the same route. I repeat the identical trip in the afternoon. No big deal.

Going through our neighborhoods of ranch houses of various ages, there's really not much interesting, unless you count the ominous BLUE VAN that belongs to the school district. It looks like a UPS van masquerading as one of the Blue Man Group, and we usually pass it either coming or going each morning or afternoon. Since the school district's maintenance and bus garages are across the street from our house, it's not so big a coincidence to see the BLUE VAN. When we pass it or it passes us, Hannah usually makes the sound, "Bumm-bump!" (think the theme from "Jaws") See? We're easily amused with our overactive imaginations, wondering why the BLUE VAN is following us around town.

Anyway, about our boring commute in Mom's Taxi. One day, going down Robertson past all the cookie-cutter ranch houses, I saw what looked like a giant--something--sitting in a lawn chair in front of a house. Huh?

I made a point to look more closely on the way home. Sure enough, next to an older Pacific Island man, as round as he is tall, sat a giant stuffed lion. They watched traffic go by from their seats on a matching set of lawn chairs. A whole menagerie of fuzzy critters in rainbow colors were scattered about the yard, the porch, and next to some potted plants.

I cracked up. This guy has got to be bonkers, sitting in his front yard with a bunch of stuffed animals!

Now that I noticed the Island man and his friends, I couldn't forget that house on the curve. The zoo never waved "hello" in the mornings. I guess we're all in such a hurry to get where we're going we wouldn't pay much attention, or care.

But going on 4:00 in the afternoon, when I've about wound down my work day and I'm tired, the Noah's ark on the front lawn brings a smile to my face.

Today, a giant teddy bear at least three feet tall sat in the lawn chair. And he wore a turquoise Hawaiian shirt. I almost waved. Maybe tomorrow I will!

The Island man knows what he's doing. Call him crazy, but all he's trying to do is bring a smile in the midst of the mundane. What a guy!

The Great Grout Meltdown

On Today's Menu:
Patty Melt with Swiss Cheese (and perhaps a little wHine)

They finished our new bathroom today. I like to stand in the doorway and just look, even though we still haven't painted the walls, the vintage mirror I ordered off eBay still hasn't shipped, our towel bar is on backorder, and Wal-Mart sold out of the chrome free-standing TP holder. I can hardly believe that, yes, this is our dream bathroom, the first room we ever designed ourselves.

I always get annoyed with designers on home improvement shows who act like the world is ending because a certain feature of their design doesn't turn out right, either because someone does something wrong or an aspect just doesn't work out. I mean, really, be a little flexible, okay? What's the big deal if the paint is cream rather than ecru?

Tuesday morning I looked at the grout after our contractor had wiped the tiles down thoroughly. The floor is slate, a beautiful blending of greens and grays and dark blue and even a little rust, all swirled together to look like ocean water. I am in love with this floor. It will be a cool comfort to my feet on summer days. But the grout, supposedly darker, is a lighter gray than I remembered from the sample card.

"That's the color of the grout?" I tried not to show my disbelief.

"Yeah, this is it." Dave, on his hands and knees, buffed another tile. "Sure looked darker when we put it down."

Buddy, you got that right. No, it wasn't hideous, just not what I expected. I started the morning off in quite a mood and spent a little time trying to hide it. I found the grout color selector card we had used at the store, but of course, the section with the color we'd selected had gotten torn off and probably sent on its way to the landfill. Great. I wanted the grout to blend in with the tiles, not look like I could play tic-tac-toe on the floor.

Slowly but surely, I felt myself transforming into a Home Improvement Diva ready to enter her meltdown phase. "Stop the cameras, please!" The show was ending, the floor was NOT how I'd exactly envisioned it, and it really wasn't anyone's fault. My dear husband noticed, but didn't say much. I think, if I remember while in my diva haze, he did say something about cooling my jets. I walked off the set and to my office.

I suddenly realized how spoiled I've become. I would much, much rather this exquisite room of ceramic, slate, wood, and chrome--even with lighter floor grout than I expected--than have what I had before. NO, I don't want the ugly pink vanity back, or the Pepto-Bismol colored tiles. In twenty years, perhaps even in less time, the grout color won't matter at all.

I kicked myself out of my snit. Grout can come and grout may go, but attitudes are always remembered.

"The blessing of the LORD makes one rich,
And He adds no sorrow with it."

Learning Curves

On Today's Menu:
A Piece of Chocolate Cake (made from scratch)


The more I learn to write, the more I discover how NOT patient I am. Yes, I just used bad grammar. But impatient seems so "fussy"and "proper" in this case. The road to publication hasn't been an easy one. I've had more detours and potholes than I care to relate. I have friends who've had harder journeys. So far I've contributed to about half a dozen books, had some articles published, received some really "nice" rejection letters, and earned frequent flyer miles from going to writers' conferences. I did buy myself a pretty necklace with the first check. Another check helped pay for conference expenses.

What is my motivation? I suppose like most writers it's because I've got something to say through story, and I want to share it. The power of story is what bridges gaps between generations and beliefs. Story helps us understand the "tuff stuff" we can't puzzle through on our own. Combine that with the God Factor and you've got some words with real power. Is it any wonder that the Bible is still the #1 best seller? Sure, real men wrote the Bible, but they wrote as God moved them. There's a consistency that we writers like to call voice that permeates each book. Not that I'd ever expect my writing to come close to the Bible, but I believe stories can point us in the right direction. Some of us understand different messages than others, so that's why I think there's room for all our voices. Now if only the publishers' budgets would agree!

Besides working through "tuff stuff," I think stories should entertain. I've read some great books that made me laugh and cry and transported me to places I've never been. Then, as an added bonus some of them slide around behind me and wham!--I learn something new or I'm challenged in a fresh way.

Thr3e by Ted Dekker did that for me last year. I rode a rollercoaster ride of suspense and had my thinking challenged, too. Not bad. If I can but learn to write half as well. Another book that did that was The Covenant Child by Terri Blackstock, part heart-wrenching tale, part allegory.

Becoming a better writer is learning to hone my craft better so I can entertain while weaving that message in so it shines through without the, "Okay, time for the sermon" moments that make some people scratch their heads or skim. Oh, how I long to aim ever higher, to realize that in some aspects I'm starting to "get it." I'm learning to keep some joy in the journey, even if it's longer than I hoped.

"I Fear Change"

On Today's Menu:
CLOSED for Renovations!

We have been a two-bathroom family "forever." This week, we are shower nomads, going to some friends' house to shower every night. I have never been out so much with wet hair and no make-up. The Teenage Drama Queen runs to the car, and says things like, "Oh, I hope no one I know drives by."

It took the contractor and his assistant less than an hour to gut our whole bathroom on Monday morning. I can't wait to see the end of this project. For nearly seven years, we've lived with a Pepto-Bismol pink tiled bathroom. Thank goodness they stopped the pink tiles halfway up the wall, or I would have really been nauseated every time I took a shower. The giant clunky vanity with drawers (pink, of course) might have been hip in its time. That time came and went about 20 years ago. I won't even get into the ugly tan shower surround.

Back to the contractor. After he tore up the linoleum--another feature I won't talk about--he realized how rotten the floor was. And, worst of all, someone in their not-so-infinite wisdom had cut out a floor joist years ago when they installed the drain line for the toilet. No wonder the floor kind of sagged a little in that part of the bathroom.

"This'll set us back an extra day." And, cha-ching, cost us more, of course. I had lain awake Sunday night wondering exactly how bad the bathroom floor was under all that linoleum glory. Now I knew. We couldn't just plunk down a new plywood floor, nice sturdy concrete board, and then lay our gorgeous slate tile floor. Underneath there would be nothing to hold up the beautiful new surface. So the contractor and his assistant spent most of a day building a new joist and putting a new beam in for under the floor. Now a 250-pound man can jump up and down on the floor and not get a trampoline sensation under his feet. It wasn't that bad before, but I'm horrified to realize how unstable the floor was.

Those of you who like analogies probably see where I'm going with this. Our contractor hasn't taken any shortcuts. In fact, he's a stickler for detail. I ought to know. I've never seen a tiled shower area go up so slowly. (Why does it look so fast and simple on HGTV?) But it's nice to hear him say, "Sweeeet!" when the tile cooperates, and not the crash of ceramic and, "Oh, no!"

I had closed my eyes to the pink tile, the clunky vanity, the icky linoleum, the shabby surround. Once you're used to something, it's easy to ignore. Our bathroom has served us well. There are some people who don't have bathrooms. So it's rough around the edges. Okay, going down the tubes--but I'll cut out the cliches.

We get comfortable in our same-old, same-old, possibly dangerous, often outdated, worn-out, rotten underneath, you-name-it stuff. Why make the change? I've wanted a new bathroom for ages. So my husband and I planned, dreamed, sketched, measured, and bought things here and there, storing them up in the hopes of maybe one day making that dream bathroom something real. Yet that still wasn't enough.

When our situation allowed, we called the contractor, got the estimate, counted the cost. We realized we'd be without our main bathroom for a week. In my mind, that's a small inconvenience. But we had to get to the point where we were prepared to see this project through to the end. We counted the cost. We knew it wouldn't be easy. We weren't happy at the extra cost.

Making changes in our lives is no easier. We can blind ourselves to what needs fixing or what is plain worn out. "Don't touch that, God, it's too much." Or, we could be like some friends of mine who tore up their bathroom themselves and seven years later it's still in a shambles. Really! Trusting can be difficult sometimes. Just remember:

There has never been the slightest doubt in my mind that the God who started this great work in you would keep at it and bring it to a flourishing finish on the very day Christ Jesus appears. (The Bible, Philippians 1:6)

That's what I love about God's contracting projects. He doesn't make it impossible. We never were promised ease, but peace. Even when the floor's ripped up and someone tore out the joist.

Bye, bye pink tiles! And on to that flourishing finish!

The Prize in the Cereal Box

On Today's Menu:
A Bowl of Cocoa Puffs, well-soaked in Vitamin D milk

I admitted before that I can be a pretty cheap mom. Every once in a while, though, I surprise the kids by purchasing something other than generic cereal. Star Wars Episode III is coming out soon, and my 14-year-old practically froths at the mouth every time he sees the trailer. He always has a fact or tidbit to share repeatedly until our eyes glaze over. Well, last weekend my husband and I were performing our weekly grocery shopping ritual. (I hate grocery shopping. It's got to be the most boring shopping category. Get me to Ross, or another discount store, and I can bask among the racks for hours.) We stopped in the cereal aisle, and of course Episode III images were plastered all over the Kellogg's cereal boxes.

Back when I was a kid, cereal boxes always had cool FREE prizes. Remember? You'd open the box and scrounge to the bottom of the bag for the prize before you got caught for tearing the bag? The Frosted Flakes contained a FREE light saber spoon. Really, free! Of course I splurged and bought the box for my son. Even at nearly 15, he still likes little gadgets. He stayed home that day, and our daughter spent most of her time at Wal-Mart in the jewelry and nail polish sections. She bought herself some cute stretchy bracelets.

We arrived home, and our kids performed their weekly ritual of putting the groceries away. My son found the light-up spoon. My daughter promptly found me.

"Mom, why does Zach always get the prizes in the box?" As every parent of a teenage drama queen knows, the TDQ's two favorite words are "always" and "never."

"He doesn't always get the prizes, because for one thing, they don't just give out prizes all the time." Oops, I'd forgotten about the "Robots" game disk that came free in the Pop-Tarts. "Besides, it's not like you're into Star Wars."

"Just for once I'd like a prize." She played with the three stretchy bracelets on her left arm.

My 13-year-0ld daughter does NOT want a light-up Star Wars spoon. It's the principle of the thing. I remembered my one card to play.

"Hannah, remember when you didn't get to go bowling Wednesday night, and I'd given you four dollars for that?" (She'd kept the money, of course, and I hadn't bothered asking for it back.)

"Yes..."

I pointed at her bracelets. "You used it to get those cute bracelets, didn't you?"

She looked a little sheepish. "Um, yeah, I did."

"We didn't buy him anything today. But I let you keep that money." Point made. She fell silent, which is an event in itself, nodded, and left the room.

I do the same thing. I sometimes forget the gifts I've been freely given, and complain when I see someone else get something I think I'd like. Even though I try to remain content, that old competitive nature rears up.

"I want my prize from the cereal box!" Even if it's something whose novelty will wear off, or I don't really want deep down.

A book contract would be nice. But not out of a cereal box! Although it is something I want very, very, very much. Yes, I mean to sound redundant. I'm being honest.

Thank you, God, for the gifts I've received. Always what I need, always very good, and somtimes even what I want. And if and/or when You send that contract, I'll take it too.