Sometimes Roxie Writes Stuff...

What I Never Wanted to Write

2009-09-24T00:38:00.003-05:00

Lisa Jo was born to Kathy Galusha Kincheloe July 11, 1968, in Enid and passed away Monday, Sept. 21, 2009, at St. Mary's Regional Medical Center after a courageous battle with cancer. Lisa and Gary Wehrenberg were married April 22, 1989. Lisa attended and graduated from Enid High School in 1986. She graduated from Northwestern Oklahoma State University with a bachelor of arts degree in law enforcement. She received her masters of counseling and psychology with honors from Northwestern Oklahoma State University. Lisa owned and operated The Chimney Sweep until 2005. She was a school-based counselor for several schools. She had a passion for helping children and youth and counseled in many schools, therapy and family settings. Lisa was an active member of Lahoma First Baptist Church.

Lisa especially loved sponsoring youth and children's trips to Falls Creek. She also inspired and encouraged many cancer patients and their families. Lisa loved Christian music and especially enjoyed watching her children's sporting activities. Lisa is loved by her husband Gary of the home; daughters, Tabitha Blythe of Oklahoma City, Kelsi Nicole of Vinita, Okla., and Jayci Alis of the home; her son, William Chase of the home; grandsons, Curtis Hudson and Heston Jo, both of Vinita; and several other family and friends. She was preceded in death by Alfred and Jo Ann Galusha and one grandson.

Lisa was a cherished wife, beloved mother and devoted Grandma Pisa. She did have a beautiful smile, quick laugh and sweet spirit, but she also was a scrappy fighter who tackled life head-on, never shrinking back. Her love for God, her family and others was contagious. A little bit of Lisa will always live on in anyone who was privileged enough to have met her.

That is the official version. Quick, concise, summarizing. Just the facts. Maybe in a few days, I can do a better job of it. Maybe somehow I can find some kind of words to explain it to those of you who don't know her. I hope so. I'll try.

DAY 39

2009-08-26T19:00:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I gave blood. Besides being altruistic, I am cheap. They take your blood pressure for free.

Anyway.

The last time I gave blood, in May--back before I gave up diet soda and quick carbs--my bp was 136/82. And I was happy to see it. Yesterday, it was 130/80. Coincidence? I think not.

Anyway.

Yesterday, I also cowgirled up and mounted the scales. Since the last time I weighed...forty days ago...the day I started eating green and clean...I've lost seven pounds. Coincidence? I think not.

Ok, ok; I suppose seven pounds in forty days isn't anything stunning and dramatic. It won't merit me an infommercial or anything. But I'll take it! Besides, It's a great thing to finally be rid of sugar cravings, to feel like I am really taking good care of myself and my family (at least, as much as they will let me. Nobody else but me seemed to get excited about the unsweetened-yogurt-and-chia-seed-blueberry smoothie. Huh. Go figure.) and to be excited about eating real food.

I mean, when you can get to the place where you see feta cheese with spinach as a real treat, it does something to your head. It changes the way you see a lot of things. It makes you think more about what you are really doing, not just to your body, but to your life...are you packing it with junk food because you aren't getting enough of the real good stuff? You start asking yourself, "Am I eating this because I really want and need it, or because I am used to it and it's handy and quick and colorfully packaged and everybody else loves it and it gives me that fast shot of feel-good?" And then you start asking yourself those same questions about a lot of other things in life.

Enough already. I'm getting off the computer now. I've got, you know, real stuff to do right now.

DAYS 12-37...

2009-08-24T21:10:00.007-05:00

...can all be pretty much summed up like this:

I eat like a squirrel. I am subsisting on nuts and seeds and berries. I am beginning to scamper. And, also like a squirrel, people are either amused by me, or really, really irritated by me and want to pelt me with small stones or sic their poodles and beagles onto me while I munch on my cute little foodstuffs.

To disclose fully here, though, I must admit that I have not been eating clean and green with 100% accuracy. For instance, every Saturday night I throw caution to the winds and eat chips and pico de gallo and salsa and queso with wanton abandon. That particular food habit is not up for discussion here. We shall speak of it no more. Because I ain't quittin' that 'un. And I wash it down with a Clementine Izze Soda. (World's SECOND BEST beverage, right after Metromint water.) And I smack my lips and lick my fingers, if no one is looking.

I have also consumed six chocolate chip cookies and two brownies and two tablespoons of ice cream and maybe half a sleeve of crackers before the raccoon ate the rest of the Gouda that went with them. (Sigh. It was really a lovely cheese. But that's a whole other story altogether.)

To put that in perspective, though, I once could easily have eaten all of that before supper on a week night. If I wasn't too hungry. To say that I ate that much sugar and refined carbs in a 25-day time frame is not just progress--it's a freaking miracle.

Based on that criteria alone, I would call this little experiment a screaming success. Eating less sugar and refined carbs has tamed my cravings. Even now, if I am diligent for a day or two after I overload (a double-chocolate brownie from Starbucks...would you call that cheating? Maybe? Well I suppose you could, if you wanted to get all legalistic about it and all...besides, it didn't even taste that good. I didn't finish it.) the cravings disappear and I am once again happy to eat a tomato for dessert.

Have I lost weight? I honestly don't know. I am scared to get on the scale. But my jeans are comfortable again.

What else?

I feel really, really good...except when I've cheated, then I feel almost hung-over with sugar and vow not to do THAT ever again. My nails are the longest and strongest they have ever been--which greatly pleases both myself and That Man Whose Back Won't Stay Scratched. I have saved $40-$50 in quarters, since I no longer raid everyone's piggy banks for my diet pop fix. That One Tall Kid Who Keeps Insisting I'm His Mother has asked me to feed him more of what I'm eating, and really liked the lentils. How much is that worth?

I am in too deep now. No turning back.

DAY 11

2009-07-30T20:31:00.004-05:00

I meant, the day AFTER tomorrow, I would finish that thought. That's what I meant.

But first, a little word of encouragement for you fellow sugar-kickers: I think, I think, that it really might work. I'm beginning to think it's possible that we maybe, might, could kick this sugar-craving habit. I think. Possibly.

Last night I was working at our family snow-cone stand. (Oh. I didn't tell you that part, did I? Uhm, Yeah. But it's going to help get seven kids through college. The Nobel Peace Prize was founded by a munitions baron. You don't see anybody calling him a hypocrite, do you?) Anyway, I was stuck down there, and I was hungry. I called my son to ask him to bring me an apple. Couldn't fit me into his packed schedule...said to call his sister. I texted my daughter. She was in a movie. Great. I was honestly, legitimately hungry. And there were two chocolate chip cookies on the counter. My mom had left them for the kids. They ate all but two. Two.

Let me reiterate: These were The Home Made Chocolate Chip Cookies of My Childhood. I was hungry. I was bored. I was miffed. They were there.

Heck, yeah, I ate one.

At least, I started to.

And it was sweet. Really, really sweet. Too sweet.

It tasted too sweet.

One half a cookie was enough.

Because it was too sweet.

DAY 9

2009-07-28T19:41:00.005-05:00

I was reading a little about the bio-engineering of our world food supply.

And then I quit, because it was just a little too dad gummed scary. I then went right straight downtown to the farmer's market and bought a cucumber, three zucchini-pineapple muffins and a dollar's worth of beets with the dirt still on 'em. I felt much better.

I don't think I am a conspiracy buff, or an alarmist. But.

Doesn't it just make sense that we should slow down a little in the god-playing end of things? It's the same with global warming. I am not sure why people debate about that. An analogy: Let's say, for example, that I am working on my car. I don't know much (anything at all) about cars. They're pretty complex machines, aren't they? But, suppose I got under the hood and started fooling around with things, experimenting. Maybe I'm trying to increase my gas mileage. Maybe I'm trying to get it to start easier. Maybe I'm just curious. Anyway, here I am, tinkering, when a stranger--who may or may not know more about cars than I do, I don't know...there's really no way to know in this scenario--shouts, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING? STOP THAT RIGHT NOW BEFORE YOUR CAR BLOWS UP AND ENDANGERS US ALL!"

So, let's just suppose that happens. Then what should I do? Ignore him, because I kinda got the hang of things now, thanks, or at least step back and see what's going on before I jam my ratchet back under the thing-a-ma-bob? Maybe he's right, maybe he's an idiot...but I think I would like to learn just a little more about the cause for his alarm before proceeding. I am an err-on-the-side-of-caution kinda person. Especially when it comes to things like food, shelter, and life as we know it.

As for people who are so adamantly indifferent about the environment...it's a pretty complex machine. I'll give you that scientists don't know all there is to know about global warming. I'll give you that all the projections could be wrong. I hope they are. Probably they are.

But. Would it kill us to just take a step back and look things over before we decided for sure that it's all bunk? I mean...maybe just stop making such a mess for a second while we figure out why the bees are all dying?

That Kid Who Likes To Stay Up All Night Talking and I were talking one night about going green and so on. She asked me why, of all demographic groups, ours (middle-class Evangelical Christians in The South.... and all Republican, too, Herself excepted) is the most reluctant to do anything for the environment.

That is a good question. And while I can't speak for everyone, I can toss a guess out there.

I think it might be a fear of committing blasphemy.

Some people seem to think that if we admit "We've messed it up beyond repair!" and that we have altered our planet, it somehow diminishes God, makes us too powerful, makes it seem as though we don't believe in His omnipotence anymore.

I don't see it that way.

Just as God gave me this wonderful complex piece of machinery for my body, He has also given me enough freedom to wreak serious havoc with it. Isn't it the same with everything in our reach...our relationships, our lives, our home...our planet?

So do I think it's all certain disaster? Do I think there's nothing I can do to stop the inevitable? Do I think it's too late?

No, no, no, no. Of course not. Not for my planet, or for me. Or for you.

More on this tomorrow.

DAY 8

2009-07-27T00:06:00.003-05:00

Ugh.

Preliminary results are now in: I am sure I feel better without sugar.

Today, I ate a (biggish) piece of (Devil's Food) birthday cake, a scoop of ice cream, and about 7 (or ten) handfuls of DORITOS. Then I spent about 5 (OK, really, two) hours lying on the couch in a sugar coma.

Would someone please remind me of this next time I am tempted to say, "Ah, what the heck, live a little, girlfriend! Have the junk!"?

DAY 7

2009-07-25T13:43:00.004-05:00

Cucumber water:

Slice some cucumbers very thin. Stuff about 6-10 slices in a bottle of water. Chill until very, very cold. It has to be bite-y cold.

Unbelievable. And I don't even like cucumbers! Thanks to Pam for this one. It's definitely a do-er.

Day 6? Funny you should ask...

Part of my plan--and remember, this is just that...MY plan--is that I get one day off a week to not even think about it. I'm not saying I have license to just go crazy, just that I am not thinking about it. If it's there and I want it I eat it and no guilt, no explanations, no beating up. And yesterday was that day. So none of your beeswax what I ate. (But it was wonderful. Sigh.)

Now. My sweet potato is ready. Lunch.

DAY 5

2009-07-23T21:07:00.002-05:00

I just ate some raw cabbage for a bedtime snack.

Did you hear me? Did you HEAR what I SAID? I SAID:

"I just ate some raw cabbage for a bedtime snack."

Do not look out your window for the four horsemen. This is not a sign of The Apocalypse.

But it is pretty frightening, nonetheless.

DAY 4

2009-07-22T18:21:00.003-05:00

Sugar is one tough little monkey to shake off your back.

One tough little monkey.

DAY 3

2009-07-21T17:34:00.003-05:00

BOO-yah for KEEN-wah!

(Which is, as I should have told you already, how you pronounce quinoa. If you didn't already know. Which, you probably do, since I am usually way behind on trends. Even food ones.)

Anyway, tonight I again sauteed the leftover quinoa-veggie-pork mix in butter, almost, but not quite, browning it a little, and then I added raspberry wine vinegar. And that was GOOD! VERY!

A side note about that raspberry wine vinegar: First, to my mom and my kids--it's NOT WINE! It's VINEGAR. I don't know why they use the word "wine"! If you don't believe me, take a swig. To everyone else, don't be tempted by the whole line of flavored vinaigrette stuff available at the grocery store. Yes, there are raspberry vinaigrettes that look like just healthy oil and vinegar with a little more flavor, but the labels tell you that they have maybe more sugar, spoon for spoon, than ice cream. Look at the different flavored vinegars and olive oils instead.

Which reminds me--nobody out there is actually going to mistake this whole project for advice, are they? Good honk, I hope not! I have zero training, knowledge or expertise in nutrition, health, science or medicine. Heck, I can barely cook, even. In fact, I would welcome any knowledgeable, or marginally credible, or just-not-too-terribly-kooky input anyone else would like to share. (A good place to start would be the quinoa debate that is brewing on my comment section on day 2. Help! Carol? Anyone?)

I guess if I am going to throw this open for public comment like that, I should define the whole project a little more clearly.

Which would be a good thing to do if only I were a little clearer, myself, on where I am headed with this.

Maybe it would be easier to tell you what this is not about. It's not about going vegan or vegetarian or locovore or all-raw or all-live or all-green. It's not low-fat, good fat, high-carb, low-carb blah, blah, blah. It's not about rules. It's not about deprivation or sacrifice. It's not about weighing myself in or beating myself up.

What it is about is the fact that America is getting fatter and fatter, and so am I. It's about de-toxing me from my sugar addiction. (And you can debate all you want about the existance of a true "sugar addiction". All I know is me. I am an experiment with a sample group of 1. And I know I have intense emotional connections to sugar.) It's about the fact that my kids have no idea what food looks like before it's pounded and bleached and enriched and fortified and hydrogenated and salted and breaded and canned and bagged and creamed and injected with sugar and salted again before heating. It's about learning to enjoy real food, learning to choose it and prepare it and taste it and smell it and appreciate it and want it and be satisfied by it.

It's about living a life where I have enough.

There is my manifesto.

And that is why I have no trouble telling you that I DID have one (1) chocolate chip cookie today. (I tried to give it away TWICE! When not even Eli wanted it, I took it as a sign from God that it was my cookie. And it was...divine.) Yes, I ate that coookie. But the rest of the day, I ate real, whole, fairly fresh vegetables and grains and meat and dairy with no sugar and no artificial sweeteners. And it was enough.

DAY 2

2009-07-20T17:56:00.004-05:00

Quinoa is...interesting.

I suspect that, in the hands of a more competent cook, it would be quite tasty. Mine was, well, yeah. You know. Better than an $. 88 frozen dinner. And, of course, if you can believe what you read, it was way better for me. Which is the whole point here.

It does taste better tonight, though. Partly because some leftovers are just that way, and partly because I revved it up a little. I warmed it up by melting a little bit of butter (Yes! real butter. You got something to say about that? Huh? You got a problem with that?) and, I guess, sautee'ing the whole mess-- please feel free to correct my cooking terms--and adding more onion powder. Carol (best friend and food guru) said that I should try making the Quinoa in chicken or beef broth instead of water when I first cook it, and then add vegetables and whatnot. That sounds even more promising. Again, I'll keep you updated on the Quinoa. In the meantime, you should know that after only a modest cereal-bowl-size serving, I am stuffed.

The rest of the day was pretty much like yesterday, with the addition of some frozen purple seedless grapes to get me over the afternoon work blahs. And let me tell you, after 48 hours of no sweeteners, sugar or artificial, they tasted like heaven.

Heaven.

UPDATE:
It's about thirty minutes later, and I am still very full. But I want something--anything!--sweet so bad I am in a little bitty frenzy about it. I do have a perfect banana in there, perfectly yellow, ten minutes past green and not a hint of brown--and that would fix the sweet craving, I think, but: I am not hungry.

So.

I drank some Metromint water (which I hoarded all day long just in case of such an emergency as this.) It helps. Some. I guess I will go ride my bike. I have about 15 minutes.

Right now, all I can think is, this better all be worth it.

UPDATED UPDATE:

Ya. That works.

And for those of you playing along at home, if it's still 90+ degrees outside, you'll get the best results.

DAY 1

2009-07-19T16:36:00.009-05:00

Here goes.

This morning I ate two pieces of 100% whole wheat bread, spread lightly with almond butter, and a glass of skim milk. It was amazingly satisfying. No sugar cravings yet.

I drank one bottle of Metromint water. This is undoubtedly the world's greatest beverage. Love it, love it, love it. Nothing but water and mint. No sugar or chemicals of any kind. PERfect. (If you live here, please, please, go buy it because I Think I am the only person in town who drinks it and I am afraid the store owner will quit stocking it if it doesn't move a little faster.)

For lunch, (And I must say I was quite proud of this one...I was scared of facing a future without Ranch dressing. But do you know how much sugar is in that?) I put about two tablespoons of plain yogurt in a bowl, shook some onion powder and flavored garlic powder (not salt) in it, stirred it up and added grape tomatoes and chopped green peppers. I also shook some of this crunchy salad topping stuff over it for a little extra crunch. The label looked safe, but it really seemed too good to be true. I'd better ask Carol. Anyway, it was great! I also ate some string cheese. Drank water, too. Still full. Still no sugar cravings.

So far, this is too easy.

Tonight, I am going to stir-fry some pork chops, veggies, and Quinoa together. I'll let you know about that.

That's Quinoa. Look it up. And, no, you can't get it here in the home town, either. We found it yesterday in a big grocery store in Stillwater. (Hey! Do Not Make Fun Of Our Dates! It happened to be a very nice grocery store.)

So why did I pick this for my latest obsession?

Because I've known for a long, long time that I don't quite think right about food in general. Because I have squandered my great fortune of good health for far too long, and it's time to make restitution. Because people love me. Because I'm just a little bit of a rebel and it's a wacky and radical thing to do when you live smack-dab in the middle of the Plus-sized Bible Belt. Because nothing else seems to work. Because I gave up diet pop and didn't die. Because my best friend and food mentor is cheering for me. Because my other best friend can't eat much at all these days. Because That Man Who Gets Me Out Of The House On A Regular Basis believes in me. Because my kids need to see me put something real in my mouth, so that maybe they'll think what comes out of my mouth is real, too.

And why am I writing about it?

Simple. This keeps me from boring everyone in person about it.

I'll let you know later how the Quinoa thing works out.

AN OPEN LETTER TO ZONDERVAN

2009-06-24T20:16:00.002-05:00

I have spent thousands and thousands of dollars on Zondervan published items in my lifetime. But I did not buy "Multiple Blessings" or "Eight Little Faces." I will not buy "Love Is In The Mix".

I have always believed the Gosselins were exploiting their children. I have always questioned their legitimacy as "Christian" speakers. But in light of recent events, I am even more convinced that innocent children are being exploited; their privacy is being violated for entertainment purposes and monetary gain.

Therefore, I am no longer only boycotting Gosselin books, I am boycotting all Zondervan books until Ms. Gosselin is no longer promoted by this company.

I am also copying this letter to my blog, where I will urge all my readers to follow suit.

For demographic purposes, I am a 44-year-old mother and avid reader.

FREE THE GOSSELINS! (A Rant)

2009-03-22T13:20:00.007-06:00

For a short time, I liked to watch TLC's Jon & Kate + 8. It's about the Gosselin family--Jon, Kate, twins, and sextuplets. The kids were beyond adorable, and just the logistics of an activity like getting all those toddlers out the door to play in the yard made some interesting footage. It had a sort of documentary, really-unscripted feel to it.

But I soon got tired of Kate's grouchiness. True, she gets some slack; she has four times the average amount of children at her house. She has a mind-boggling amount of shoes to tie. However, I have never found snippy comments and touchy personalities to be entertaining, so I quit watching. It also seemed that the show was no longer about real-life, but more and more about staged activities. The poor kids' childhoods are starting to seem like one long photo shoot. (You know how your kids just LOVE to pose for family photos? Imagine getting them to do that for three days a week, every week. That's reportedly how much the Gosselins film.)

And that's not even counting all the book tours, speaking engagements, and church appearances that the Gosselins have racked up this last year. (PLEASE, PLEASE, churches...just because someone says "I'm A Christian! I'm on TV! I'll come talk to you!" it doesn't necessarily mean they have anything of value to add to your faith and message! PLEASE use a little discernment here!)

Now here it is a few years later. The kids are older. Not quite as cute. And probably getting really, really tired of the cameras. It's obviously time to either cancel the show, or bring in Cousin Oliver. (Remember? The Brady Bunches' last season?)

I have no idea whether they entertained the idea of actually getting more kids--heck, who knows? They do get an awful lot of money for this. But, I see by the teasers that they did the next best thing: Puppies!! Two of them!!

And now, I learn via internet and commercials, that the season finale is featuring (with an ominous voice-over...."It's all been building up to this" and clips of some especially horrendous marital blow-ups that were aired on the show. Ouch!) some vague big "change" that is "really, really a difficult time for us." In other words, they are wanting us to think that they will be addressing their obviously (maybe edited, but out there all the same) uncomfortable marriage. On camera. On TV. At 7 PM CST. Grab your popcorn, kids! Make it a date-night, Mom and Dad!

All I can say is that the money must be absolutely amazing. The amount of money it would take for me to air my worst marital moments on TV has not even been minted yet, I don't think. How about you?

As for Jon & Kate + 8, hey, it's a free country, watch what you want. But to me, this is starting to feel eerily like the Truman Show.

Cara, Mady, Joel, Alexis, Hannah, Leah, Collin and Aaden are not actors. They are real kids in their own home. Their HOME, for crying out loud. Their home that had professional video lighting/sound equipment hardwired into it. Is it a home, or a sound-stage they are growing up in? (I had to look up their names. Apparently there are Gosselin-iacs who know all the identical faces and their names, have them on t-shirts, and make "Fan-videos" in homage to their favorite kiddo on you-tube. CREEPY!)

Come on, TLC. Come on, Jon and Kate. Let the kids out of the bubble already.

Free the Gosselins!

The Short List of Questions I Intend to Ask God When When I Get To Heaven Some Day

2009-03-11T18:43:00.004-06:00

1. Where did that red purse of mine go?
2. Did all those vitamins and calcium supplements do us any good?
3. Did you have to make snakes so...snakey-looking? Couldn't they have had cute little ears or some fur or something?
4. Why is it that men just get better-looking as they age, but women's looks depreciate at an alarmingly accelerated rate?
5. C'mon. You can tell us now--who really won the Minnesota Senate Race?
6. Do you ever laugh at us? And I don't mean with us. I mean at us.
7. What is really in Diet Dr. Pepper, anyway?
8. Palin? Seriously?
9. Lee Harvey Oswald. What was the real scoop there?
10. Ok, so it's a little late now, but...should I have gotten an English degree instead?
11. Why is it that hypochondriacs never get cancer?
12. Overall, how did I do?
13. Did I ever remember to say "Thank You"? I meant to.

To Illustrate

2009-03-05T22:24:00.002-06:00

(Yeah, yeah, I know.. It's been a while. What can I say? Sorry! Thanks for sticking with me!)

Those of you who have been with me from the very beginning may remember this story.

I just found this picture. Enjoy.

The Bailout Solution

2008-09-30T17:05:00.004-05:00

As my faithful readers well know, I suspended my blogging operations last week in order to devote my attention to the national economic crisis. Such was my willingness to lay aside my personal agenda for the good of my country. And now I am happy to announce that my sacrifice has paid off. I got it figured out. Yes; that’s right. I know what we should do. I solved it.

Pelosi, Paulsen, Bernanke; you guys can all thank me later.

But for now, since time is money, or the square root of all evil, or it used to buy happiness, or something or other some-such like that and so on, I will keep you waiting no longer and I will right here and now reveal you to you my Bailout Plan B. (Prepare to be amazed.) It’s revolutionary. It’s simple. It’s elegant. It’s no worse than anybody else's.

POINT 1:
Monday, October 6th, 2008 at 7:45 AM EST, Everybody all over the world agrees to mentally move every single decimal place on every number two places to the left.

And that’s pretty much the only point. Point Two is something about having to talk the Chinese into this by agreeing to go ahead and let them keep saying that they still have a population of billions of people instead of millions. I think that should convince them to get on board.

Anyway. Here’s how it would play out:

A number that used to be 10,000,000 would, under my new plan, now be only 100,000. A number that was once a bloated 1000 would be a very trim and easy-to-count-on-your-fingers-or-remember-in-your-head 10. The implementation cost of this plan would be, pretty much, uh, 0. And the benefits, enormous.

For instance, all the numbers that are so mind-bogglingly obscene to us now, (120 BILLION dollars last year for the war in Iraq? TRILLIONS of dollars of national debt? ONE HUNDRED-SEVENTY DOLLARS a month for a family cell-phone plan? Oh. Wait. Did I just write that? Yeah. OK. Leave it in. You know what I mean.) those numbers would instantly become manageable, believable, palatable, even. A ten-million-a-month war doesn’t sound nearly so luxurious and extravagant, does it?

Think about it. Trillions. Trillions. What kind of a crazy, made-up sci-fi word is that, anyway? That’s not a real money word. Real money comes in twenties and hundreds and thousands. And, OK, maybe in fairy tales, millions. That’s the kind of budget talk we can understand. But billions and trillions? No wonder people are in a panic! We’re hearing all about billions and trillions and we don’t have any more understanding of what those actually are than we do of a Demyleniazating Super-Colliding Hydrolyzer. I repeat: We don’t understand those words. We don’t know what things like trillions are. We just know people keep going on and on about them, and we’re pretty sure they ain’t natural.

Which is why the time is ripe for my bailout plan.

Well, no, duh, of course my plan wouldn’t wipe out the staggering percentage of debt and loss. It would just make us all feel better about it. Think about it. Are you losing sleep over the loss of $200,000 worth of equity in your home? What a relief to find out you are, magically, only $2000 upside down! $700 billion outlay of tax-payer money kinda creep you out a little? Think of it as only $7 billion. Seven billion? Pfooey! That’s just latte money, in government-world.

Now you try it. Instead of $20,000 credit card debt, an average American family would have $200. Ah. Doesn’t that feel better? Can’t you just imagine the panic melting away as all over the country, people say, “Oh! Look, Honey! The heating bill was only $1.70 in December”?

And, yeah, I do realize that would also mean that our take-home pay would now be about $29 a month. But, hey, since when does our take-home pay actually have anything to do with what we spend?

See? I think it’s already working. I’m feeling better anyway, daydreaming about buying a new car for about $220. Aren’t you feeling better?

And THAT, right there, guys, is it. The power cell of my whole plan. The feeling-better-about-it thing. Never underestimate the magnitude of the feel-better-about-it-thing.

Which is, in all seriousness, the Big Bang of our economy, and the source of the security and future of our nation.

Because when I see that the slip of paper in my inbox at work that says some numbers appeared beside my name somewhere on some bank's computer and that means that I can swipe a piece of plastic in a machine at Wal-Mart and get some milk and bread and cheerios for the kids tonight on my way home, I want that clerk to feel good about handing me my groceries.

And when I see my friends go on a long vacation knowing that they can because some letter they get in the mail every month tells them that, yeah, all those years working extra jobs and mowing lawns is fairly represented by the numbers on that piece of paper, yeah, we all feel pretty good about it.

And when you look at a dollar bill and see the seal of the Federal Reserve System and know that it means that the full faith and credit of the government of the United States Of America still agrees that piece of paper is legal tender for all debts, charges, taxes and dues public or private, you dang well better feel good about it.

Energize The Base? Energize The Base? Oh, I'll Energize YOUR Base, Alright....

2008-09-21T23:48:00.001-05:00

A Short, Yet Concise List of Words I Am No Longer Allowing My Kids To Say Because I Am Already Sick Of Hearing Them:

Lipstick
Hockey Mom
Change Agent
Any compound word ending in "gate"
Bounce. Convention Bounce, Denver Bounce, Palin Bounce, Obama Bounce; any sort of "bounce"
First Dude
Second Dude
Third, Fourth, Fifth or Last Dude

PLEASE NOTE: The Following Topics Will Also Be Closely Monitored. Please Check To See If I Am Sick Of Hearing About These Before Attempting To Converse Along These Lines.

I will/will not discuss the following, yes/no:
Racism ( N ) A Real Race ( Y )
Sexism ( N ) Real Sex ( Y )
Drilling in the ANWR ( N ) Dabbling in the AMWAY (HECK, NO)
Bridge to Nowhere ( N ) Bridge to My 3rd Molar ( Y )
Fed Rates ( N ) Red States ( N ) Red Hats (Not Quite Yet, Thanks.) Fred Mertz (Sure. Why Not.)

Thank you for your help in this matter. As you can see, I have aleady spent two posts off-message. Now it's time to get back to putting Blog First and giving you a Blog You Can Believe In.

Ye Olde Blogge Politique

2008-09-03T18:22:00.000-05:00

I haven't written lately because, well, I just haven't been all that fired up about anything. Life's pretty doggoned good right now. But. You know me. I love a race.

And Here Is Where I Finally Tick Off All My Readers Once and For All, Liberals And Conservatives Alike:

In my 25 years of voting, I have been all over the map in my viewpoints on every issue. Call me wishy-washy. Fine. I prefer the term "evolving". Whatever.

But I think I have finally nailed down my own personal political agenda. This is now my touchstone. My litmus test. My yardstick by which I will be measuring all candidates. Here it is:

1. Americans are incredibly smart, optimistic and yes, still nominally God-fearing people. We can figure out the solutions to all our problems ourselves. 2. As long as nobody blows us up first. 3. The candidates I percieve as least likely to get me blown up and my sons shot at will get my vote.

That's it. That's the only issue I am voting on. I do not care about a candidates' views on the economy, same-sex marriage, global warming, creationism, or (gasp) abortion. I do not care to hear a personal testimony. I do not care whether he or she has a temper, likes brussel sprouts, or once inhaled. I do not even care whose campaign button he or she once wore. I don't care about any of that stuff, unless it disproves my contingency #1 or impacts contingency #2.

Do I care about those other issues? Yes. But here's the deal, guys...we're solving none of those issues before November. And we have our own representatives that we can harrass and harangue about those views til the cows come home. In the meantime, we have a world that is littered with potential national security time bombs that must be navigated with brilliance and finesse.

Don't I want our leaders to be sound Christians? Yeah, that would be great, sure.

But let me enlighten you, here. Anybody can be taught to speak Christianese by a competent handler. Anybody can say the right things and even, in public, do the right things to make us think they are fine, upstanding and devout. The truth is that we are so far removed from personally knowing any of these people and their daily walks, that most of what they say should be taken only as that...what they say.

The hard truth of it is, folks, that if America is to be a Christian nation, it's because her Christian leaders are not the people we hire to do the national work, her Christian leaders are You and Me.

Why Do We Even Bother To Pray? Doesn't God Already Know What We Want?

2008-08-05T19:29:00.002-05:00

Because God is in the miracle business, and it is all in His hands and in His time, but God never interferes in our lives. He asks us to work alongside Him. When He parted the Red Sea, He didn't need Moses to raise his arms, but Moses needed to show God and himself and the other Hebrews the strength of his own faith. When He healed the lame, He first asked, "Do you want to be well?" because the lame man needed to own and recognize his own desires.

And so it always is. God will do miracles. But we have to pony up and do our part. We need to put in some sweat equity. In corporate talk, we have to buy a piece of the boat. We need that, not for God's sake, but for ours; to remind us, to imprint on ourselves, the depth of our own needs.

Be encouraged. Be faithful. Be at peace.

Roxie

Re:runs

2008-07-24T18:43:00.005-05:00

In case you missed it, I ran a half marathon this spring.

What? You say...I should have mentioned it?

Well, yes, yes, I know, I probably should have, but I hated to bore you with all that.

Anyway.

The big question now on everyone's lips (Okay, okay, Mom's lips and my best friend's lips and one faithful running pal's lips. Their lips, okay? Whatever.) is...when is the next big race?

Yeah.

Well.

About that...

It's November 16th. And, yes, I'm going to be there. I am. But once again, I am running too close for comfort on my training. This week is Week 1 of the official training schedule, and I have to hit my miles every week from here on out, or I won't be ready.

"What? What happened?" you say. "You ran 13 miles in one morning, and now the idea of ten miles in one week is making you whimper?"

Uh.

Yes.

I could really bore you now, with details about recovery and injury and post-race let-down blah blah blah. ("No! Wait! Come back!" I say.)

Instead, I will tell you about my powerhouse training regimen so far for this race.

1. The first session of my new Pilates class

Commercial break: Pilates is awesome. You have got to try it. You just roll around on the carpet listening to flute/rushing water/wind music feeling all relaxed and mellow, then the next morning you wake up and, WHAMMO your abs and biceps are screaming for mercy. I have no idea how. Some kinda mystic-guru-hocus-pocus for sure, there. I would recommend it to anyone.

(However, in a recent staff meeting, the Bureau Chief in charge of our Manly-Man Guy Stuff Bureau here at the blog pointed out that Pilates might not be for everybody. He didn't exactly say "sissy" right out loud. But now that I think about it, when he coughed it sounded suspiciously like the word "girly.")

2. Re-newing my subscription to Runner's World

3. Oh, yeah. A little running.

I don't know how far my last three runs were or how long they lasted. I just put on my shoes and left for a while and came back. I didn't count or time or concentrate on form or anything. I just ran. One was a hot Saturday morning when I was feeling fat and lazy and weak and anxious. I laced up my shoes and headed out the door anyway. Presto-change-o. Running worked its magic. I returned a conquering hero, victorious and strong.

Another Sunday evening, I was missing my brother. I walked a while and ran awhile and walked a while and ran awhile. Brad Paisley's rendition of "When We All Get To Heaven" came up in my playlist. I hit repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Again, running was magic. When I ended up at my front porch, I was exhausted and serene.

Then one weekday morning, I woke up with gritted teeth. The thought of yet one more day in prison and its attendant boredom was almost too much. But I had time for a quick run, in the cool morning; no music, just early birds, the sun coming up, some dogs barking, a train. Running didn't let me down. By the time I finished, I was eager to start the day.

I love running. I can't believe I forgot for a while.

Trippin'

2008-06-25T16:37:00.013-05:00

I decided we all needed a vacation.

I mean, the high-powered, hard-charging, pressure-cooker world of frozen kool-aid treats can be very stressful. So I thought, naturally, that a fourteen-hour (round-trip) drive to the most traffic-congested tourist magnet in the entire southern region of the US would provide us with the perfect rejuvenating respite we needed. Yep. That's right. Me and the car-monkeys went to Branson.

It was not my idea, originally, but I quickly got on board. A good parenting rule is that if your teen-aged kids want to go to a family reunion, you drop everything and go. And I'm glad we did. We had a great time.

Should you ever find yourself in Branson, I highly recommend the Chinese Acrobats and Circus at the New Shanghai Theater. However, you may want to think carefully about who you take with you. We did not bring the littlest car-monkeys with us to that show. Because, while we were all thinking, "Can people really do handstands and back-flips off the top of six chairs crookedly stacked?" the little boys would all have been thinking, "Where can we get six chairs, and what if we crookedly stacked seven?"

Roller-skating on top of a table while twirling your partner over your head with a lasso held in your teeth is exactly the sort of behavior we discourage around here.

For me, though, I would have to say that the highlight of the whole trip was Silas' idea: He made me play laser tag.

Ohmigosh.

I had no idea how empowering it feels to charge around in the dark to the Star Wars Battle Theme soundtrack, blasting laser lights at every moving thing, maniacally giggling as your nemesis howls and his lights go out.

Yep.

Sweet.

Ten-year-olds fear me.

It was a great vacation.

Snow-Cones as a Viable Alternative Lifestyle

2008-06-14T23:32:00.007-05:00

This is why I've been too busy to write lately.

It's snow cones. Snow cones are making me too busy to write.

You see, my kids are running their own snow cone stand this summer. No; wait...I beg your pardon. Not a snow-cone stand, a Hawaiian Shaved Ice stand. There is a difference. About $.50 a cup difference, it looks to me like.

And I am very proud of them. They are exhibiting a true entrepreneurial flair. Their work ethic is heartening. They are learning all sorts of wonderful life skills.

I, however, am cracking up. Snow cones are invading every facet of my life. I am obsessed with ice supplies. I talk to my date about things like Tiger's Blood and SpongeBob Juice. I have numbers like "1-800-ICE-FUNN" and "1-888-BRRRRRR" on speed dial on my cell phone. My fingers are stained neon blue. I reek of sugar. And at nights, I have nightmares about massive armies of ants invading my home town.

Who knew an innocent little summer treat could cause me all this angst?

But, as Silas says, "Hey, we're not just selling a cold beverage. We're selling a Way of Life."

So there you have it.

The Snow Cone Life.

We're livin' it.

Oh, yeah.

White Houes Pets by Eli Martin

2008-06-03T21:13:00.005-05:00

Roxie's note: I've been busy lately.

No--really. Doing, like, you know, real stuff. Stuff that's made my head too busy to write. So today, I am turning the platform over to a Very Special Guest Author: Eli, my 7-year-old son. Take it away, Eli:

President wilson had sheep for pets. The sheep kept the grass trimmed. President Theodore Roosevelt had a pet squirrel. President Thomas Jefferson led the bears in the garden. President John Adams had an alligator. President Coolidge had a raccoon. The Raccoon was walked on a leash by the president. I like reading about the president's pets! I like Roosevelt and his pet the best because they are cool!

I think the President should be Obama. Because he will be the first African American president. I would like a girl president, but I would like a different one.

I wish I was president. Because you get to live in a big house which is the White house. That's all.

My Roses

2008-05-21T18:32:00.010-05:00

Disclaimer: If you know anything at all about gardening, you can skip this. It won't be any new information. If you know anything at all about the Bible, you can skip this. It won't be any new information.

Once, I asked for mulch for my birthday. That's pretty hard core.

Hey, you can't go to your therapist's every day, but you can almost always pull weeds.

That doesn't mean my yard is beautifully manicured and ready for a magazine shoot, though. I really believe in a more "organic" approach. "Organic" is a beautiful, loving, earth-nurturing way to garden. It's all very complicated, but basically, it works like this: I fall in love with something at the plant store, pay too much for it, bring it home and stuff it in the ground and walk away and forget about it for half the summer. If it lives, it belongs there. If it doesn't, oh well. It's kind of a Zen thing. Just let it be. Let it be.

Maybe I'm actually more of a Calvinist gardener. You know, some plants were destined to be doomed even before they were ever planted. It's not mine to question why.

When I moved into this house several years ago, there was already a giant old rose bush back behind the garage. Somebody told me I needed to prune it.

I had quite a bit of aggression to work out that day and a shiny new pair of hedge trimmers, so hey, why not? I hacked and whacked all afternoon. When I was done, I felt way, way better.

Of course, the rose bush looked like crap.

Until the next spring.

Next spring, it was breathtaking.

It exploded into giant blooms thick on branches that could barely hold them up. Blooms packed so tightly there was barely room for the leaves. Blooms that kept on blooming all summer long.

Now that I am more knowledgeable about roses, I know that roses need to be deadheaded and aggressively pruned now and then. If they aren't, they will waste a lot of energy supporting old, dead blossoms. New growth may sprout out of old, weak limbs and won't have the strength to fully develop. The branches won't get enough air circulation and they will be susceptible to disease. They'll be easy prey for deadly pests. Parts of the plant will be hidden from the sun. That means even less energy for health and growth. Oh, a rose bush will probably survive without the trimming and pruning, but it will never really thrive. It will never reach its full potential. It will just get by.

You see where I'm going with this.

Like all my analogies, this one isn't perfect. For one thing, unlike me, The One True Gardener isn't just blundering recklessly about with a sharp object. He knows exactly what He is doing. He knows where I'm wasting energy hanging on to blooms long past. He knows where I'm strong enough to support growth. He knows what parts of me need to be brought out into the light and He knows full well where I am vulnerable to The Predator.

I read that you have to be careful when you prune. You can't just relentlessly cut, cut, cut. You can't do it if the plant is already weak, or you are in the middle of a brutal winter. It seems that pruning is hard on the plants. They go into shock for a little bit after the trimming. They are traumatized. Wounded. Bruised.

That part is like human life.

I was thinking about that last night while I was trimming my rose bushes. I wasn't very sympathetic because I was getting jabbed and stabbed and scratched and cut up pretty badly myself. I thought, "Hey, plant, quit your whining. This is hurting me more than it is hurting you."

And then I thought about one more way roses are like us.

The blood that was splattered and smeared on the ground didn't belong to the rose. It belonged to The Gardener.

...while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.
John 15:2b

Another Victorious Finisher in the Family

2008-05-15T05:53:00.009-05:00

At the Kiwanis Little Olympics

Just a Slight Wardrobe Malfunction

Accepting a Not-Last-Place Ribbon

Ready for the Next Race
Notice the change in footwear?

One Last Look (I Promise!)

2008-05-02T23:15:00.005-05:00

There were some really hard stretches. There were moments I thought I wouldn't make it. Sometimes it seemed uphill all the way. Sometimes I thought, "What's the point of all this, anyhow?"

But then someone would run along side me, and we'd encourage each other or suddenly there would be a little breeze or a water stop.

And every bit of it; the laughing and the celebrating and the sweating and the aching, every bit of it was what I loved. I wouldn't short it a single step if I could.

And then, the finish line.

Thousands and thousands of people cheering, "You made it!" Thousands and thousands of people, just like me, crying, "I made it." Something to drink. A warm blanket. Food. Hugs from people I love.

I wrote once about heaven, here; what I thought it would be like.

But I've changed my mind. Now I think life is a lot like a marathon, and heaven will be a lot like this:

The Bestest, Most Awesomest Part of My Coolest, Most Incredible Day ever, Part III

2008-04-29T12:33:00.003-05:00

This one's for the kids who always get picked last in gym. Hang in there. You'll be a grown-up someday. Then you get to pick your own team.

The Bestest, Most Awesomest Part of My Coolest, Most Incredible Day ever, Part II

2008-04-29T06:18:00.003-05:00

Lisa, Roxie, Carol

They just look like mild-mannered moms. When their strengths are combined, they are secretly super-heroes who slay demons and raise kids in a single bound.

The Bestest, Most Awesomest Part of My Coolest, Most Incredible Day Ever, Part I

2008-04-28T17:09:00.007-05:00

Silas, MVP; Rebekah, Rookie Of The Year; Eli, Team Spirit

One big motivation for running is my kids. I hope my running will improve their lives. The most immediate benefit to them is that I am happier and easier to live with when I regularly run. I think they already have noticed that one. (Hence: "Uh, Mom, would you please go run or something? You're really a grouch today.")

A major long-term benefit is that I hope I will be healthier, longer. They can't possibly understand that now, but because I am so grateful to be blessed with healthy, active parents, I know how much easier that will make life for them some day. But there are other less measurable goals here, too. I want my kids to see how patiently slugging away, even when it's hard, even when it hurts, even when there might be an easier way to get there, can take you a long, long ways. I want them to see that you're never too old to try something different and new. And I want them to know that some of the greatest prizes in life can't be bought at any price.

But I had also secretly hoped that maybe, one of them at least, might kinda, just a little bit, get that running thing--you know--that "running thing" I keep trying to describe here.

Well, guess what?

They did.

All three of them.

All three of them love their medals. All three said that the kid's race was too short. All three said that they loved running with the crowd. All three are hounding me to sign them up for another race.

What It Costs:

2008-04-27T16:44:00.002-05:00

Subscription to Runner's World: 24.95

Entry Fee: 45.00

Running Shoes: 89.95 (On Ebay!)

Being able to say, "Oh, what's this old thing doing here? I need to clean junk like this out of my purse, I guess. Here, can you hold it for me a sec?" as your marathon medal "accidently" falls out on the checkout counter at Wal-Mart while you fumble through your purse for your billfold: Priceless

Stage Five: Acceptance

2008-04-27T04:50:00.000-05:00

It's 4:47 AM at the Holiday Inn. At 5:00 I catch the shuttle to take me to the starting line.

This feels a lot like being strapped into a roller coaster. It's out of my hands now. They may unbuckle a dead woman, but I'm not getting off until the ride's over.

It also feels a lot like childbirth. I can't exactly recall right now why this seemed like such a good idea nine months ago.

Stage Four: Depression

2008-04-25T23:40:00.000-05:00

Thirteen-point-one miles is a long, long ways.

Stage Three: Bargaining

2008-04-24T18:34:00.004-05:00

Oh dear God, please please please please please just get me through that race in one piece without me snapping my shins in two or grinding off my heels or losing my toes or torquing my knees or exploding my cardiovascular system or any other kind of permanent damage, physical and/or psychological, and I promise I will never, ever, ever enter another race unless I have followed the recommended training schedules precisely and exactly as written and eaten not one single morsel of non-runners food and I will be a better person and a better momma and will work for world peace and recycle everyday and give to the poor, too, if You will only please please please just get me across the finish line. Amen.

Stage Two: Anger

2008-04-23T06:42:00.004-05:00

What the heck?

You did do it, didn't you, Roxie? You did. You did it.

And not only did you do it, but you told every single person that you know and more than a few people that you don't know that you did do it.

You told people that you signed up for a half marathon. You told people that you trained for a half marathon. You told people that you made plans to go to a half marathon.

So now you have to run that half marathon.

Roxie, you drama-loving, noise-making, ruckus-causing, attention-seeking, obviously-a-baby-of-the-family diva wannabe; for the love of all that is pure and simple and quiet and meek in this world, when-when-when-when will you learn to keep your mouth shut?

This is bad.

This is big.

This is both bad and big.

This is exactly the kind of stunt that makes the Ricky Riccardos of the world slap their foreheads and shout, "Ai-yi-YI-yi-YI!"

Dang, girl.

Next time, why don't you just get a tattoo or pierce something? It'd probably be less painful.

First Stage: Denial

2008-04-22T12:57:00.002-05:00

What is this? This little post card I got in the mail seems to imply that somewhere along the way I signed up to run a 13.1 mile race this Sunday. That can't possibly be right. I gotta check this out.

What? It looks legit and all.

But...but...that's crazy! I would never have signed on for something like that! What kind of a sane person would throw down forty perfectly good dollars to get up at dark-thirty and race for THIRTEEN miles? THIRTEEN MILES? Horses don't even race thirteen miles. I mean, I don't know much about horse races, but I've seen pictures of that Remington Park on TV and I can tell by looking that that track is no thirteen miles long.

IT SAYS I SIGNED UP AND PAID? AHEAD OF TIME? On PURPOSE?

Oh, yeah, right, on that day I smoked CRACK, maybe!

Don't worry. Don't you panic. I'll get to the bottom of this. I'll get it straightened out.

Thirteen miles.

Sheesh.

My Whole Life In Six Words, cont.

2008-04-17T18:51:00.002-05:00

Last night I was trying to think of my own six words while I was out running with my daughter. (No, you don't need to double check. This is still my blog. There has been no change in management. And, no, I didn't get a new daughter. Stop it! Stop laughing! We were, too, running together! Sort of. She can run a whole lot faster, but I can run a whole lot farther. But, still. It was together. Sort of.)

Anyway, I was out running with my daughter and I was thinking about all three of my kids, how watching them grow into real, live people is such a crazy adventure, full of suspense and surprise. And I thought about my life in general--mostly about how it looks nothing at all like I once thought it should. And about how it is turning out so much better than I once thought it could. And the only six words I could think of to sum it all up were these:

I'm glad God's smarter than me.

Everybody Play Along! Roxie's Blog, Home Edition

2008-04-09T20:47:00.000-05:00

Here it is, guys! Your chance to feel like a real, live, published author! Play along with me, and you, too, can be a famous, successful blog-writer whose work is read and cherished by adoring masses around the world!

Well, Mom and some English students from Bangladesh, anyway.

But.

Never mind that now.

I have been reading excerpts from the book, Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure by Larry Smith and Rachel Fershleiser. It's exactly what it sounds like. Six words that tell a story about your life. For instance, if I were Paris Hilton, mine might be:

I'm famous, but I forget why.

If I were Helen Keller, I might write:

Deaf, blind; still smarter than you.

How about for Oprah Winfrey:

Listen to me. I'm pretty rich.

John Wayne:

I should a been a cowboy.

OK, those were just off the top of my head, so they were a little weak, but you get the idea. Here are some great ones from the book, and from the Smith Magazine website:

Ran away with the circus. Never returned.

I managed not to destroy anything.

Wedding bands can easily come off.

Doing wrong thing created right person.

Road less traveled. Now know why.

Aren't those great? I don't know whose life stories those are, but they pretty much tell all you need to know, don't they?

You get the idea, now. It's your turn. You can either write them here on the "comments" link (Yes! You can be anonymous!) or e-mail them to me. It has to be six words. It has to be about you and your life. No points off for spelling or punctuation errors. No extra points for big words. Now unleash the muses!

Oh. Yeah. I suppose you want to hear mine first, though, don't you?

Gimme a minute. Need to think.

Eleven Miles Is Not Really All That Far To Run

2008-04-05T13:31:00.003-06:00

But twelve is &$%!#^!%$@%&^# far.

More About My Treasures

2008-04-02T18:44:00.006-06:00

When I watch Antiques Roadshow, I always wonder, "So...did they sell it or not?"

Sometimes it is a family heirloom, carefully and lovingly handed down for generations--and the owner says, "Great! We can buy that new RV now!" And sometimes, of course, the owner says, "I don't care that it's worth a quarter of a million. I'll never, never sell it. I hope it stays in our family forever."

Isn't that interesting? What makes people hang on to what they hang on to? Why do we treasure what we treasure?

There is a great scene in the other-wise forgettable kids' movie Richie Rich. Richie's parents have been kidnapped by a thief who forces them to take him to their super-duper, high-security, top-secret underground vault where they say they store all their treasures.

Once inside, we see that the vault is filled with treasures, all right--treasures like a broken tricycle, a bowling trophy and Richie's nursery-school artwork. The thief is furious. "I thought you said this was where you keep your treasures! Where is your gold? Your silver? Your stacks of cash and your stock certificates?" he demands. They look at him blankly. Then Mr. Rich says, "Oh! THAT stuff! Why didn't you say so? That stuff is all in a bank somewhere. We thought you meant our treasures!"

Isn't that great? They treasured their things; but only because those things were connections to people.

So let's not be too quick to pass judgment on people who like to keep their things. Sometimes, things are important, too.

For instance, how much would you have to pay me for that Richard Scarry Bedtime Stories book that Mom used to read to me, and I read to my own kids? Or the only birthday card my brother ever sent me? Or that one plate of Grandma Ione's--the only one to survive the tornado?

I could tell you that there is no amount of money that would persuade me to part with any of those. I should tell you that. But the truth is, should the right buyer come at the right time and offer the right money, (And it could happen! I am sure the value of slightly used baby socks won't stay flat forever) I'd sell in a heartbeat.

Really?

Yes. If someone I loved needed the money--and I mean needed, Rebekah. Concert tickets are not considered a need, Dear--then, yeah, it's all fair game.

So I guess it's true, isn't it? I guess everybody really does have their price.

It's all about what--and who--you really treasure.

Treasures

2008-04-02T17:26:00.003-06:00

I like to watch Antiques Roadshow on PBS. (What? I DO watch PBS sometimes. Right before CMT's My Big Redneck Wedding and re-runs of Elimi-date.)

Anyway, as I was saying, I like to watch Antiques Roadshow. It's always great when some expert tells Average Joe Guy that the rag his bird dog used to sleep on is really a rare Navajo blanket worth a fortune, or the jeweled stick pin he picked up for $.75 at a garage sale is worth 15K. Isn't that every packrat's fantasy? To be vindicated on TV? As in, "I TOLD Junior that I couldn't throw out that old painting Grandma Jones passed down to us. I knew it might be worth something someday." Even if it turned out that the picture wasn't worth anything--it was the frame that would bring the price of a small farm.

Oh, yeah. That would be sweet. Very.

I mean, it would be sweet if I were a packrat. If I were one. Which I'm not. Not any more, at least. (Shush up, Dixie.)

Anyway.

It does make you think, though, doesn't it? You watch the appraisers tell all this fascinating history about items, then see the owners gasp, and, sometimes, even cry when they realize what the things they own are really worth.

Doesn't it make you want to play along at home? Yes? It does? OK, let's do it. I'll start. Let's take a look around Roxie's house and see what we could auction off to put the kids through college. OK...here we go..let's look...maybe here...no, here...in here? Maybe...here? Yes! Pay dirt!

Great News! True, some experts think that the macaroni-art and plaster handprint market is a little soft right now, but I am confident that trend will reverse eventually, and when it does, I tell you, I am set.

More tomorrow.

What God Wants

2008-04-01T17:38:00.004-06:00

There was a time when my spiritual life pretty much consisted of me clenching my fists and shouting up at the sky, "What? What do you want from me? Sheesh! What? What?"

I don't do that so much any more. (The Nice Doctor says we're all better now.) But, well, yeah, I do still spend a fair amount of spiritual energy just scratching my head and saying, "Gee...I wonder what it is that I should be doing?"

Do you ever do that?

Today I stumbled across this. It is from Isaiah 43:10, Contemporary English Version (emphasis mine):

I want you to know me,

to trust me,

and understand

that I alone am God.

Does that help you any? It does me. Well, no, it doesn't really tell me any specifics, but it does tell me that God wants me to know, wants me to trust, wants me to understand.

It tells me that God is rooting for me.

I like that.

Yeah.

I like that.

In Which I Explain to You Men About Girl Friends

2008-03-24T19:18:00.004-06:00

Not long ago I was talking to a man about girl friends--not GIRLfriends- girlfriends...you know...girl friends. I was, of course, thinking about my own girl friends. And I told him, "You men don't know what you are missing."

See, it works like this: When something good happens in life, women run home and call a best friend and talk it all over. That way, we get to live through the something good twice. First when it happened, and then again the second time when we re-live it with our friend. Then, if we are lucky, she will come back with a story about a time something good like that happened to her, too, and so we get to be happy for her, too, and there's yet one more good thing in life for that day. THEN, if we are really lucky, we have time to call another best friend and and she has time to talk about it and so then we get to re-live it again, so there's another good thing, and then we tell her about the other girl friend's good thing, so there's one more, and then, of course, that reminds her to tell us her story about her own good thing.

If you did the math there, you caught that just having two good girl friends multiplies your one good life six times.

I can't believe you men haven't figured that out yet.

My Conscience is Bothering Me

2008-03-20T12:39:00.006-06:00

...so I need to explain about my last ten miles.

At about mile 7, I got a phone call. Yes. I always run with my phone. Partly for safety reasons, (need I remind you of the "Dog Incident" in the Fall of '07?) and partly because, well, I'm a mom. I suppose I could be heading up Heartbreak Hill at mile 20 in the Boston Marathon, and if one of my kids called, yeah, I suppose I would answer it.

So. I get a call. From one of my kids. Who is having a crisis. And in a super-human show of strength, I restrained myself from saying, "I think I told you last night at 9 pm that I would be happy to help you then if you would only get home." and instead, I said, "I'm running back to town from Grandma and Grandpa's. Come get me."

In the interest of family privacy, I will not say which child it was that was in crisis. But it was a child who can drive. Driving child picked me up at mile 8.

About three hours later, the crisis was happily resolved--we're going to state! Yay! I mean, she's going to state! Yay!--and I still hadn't eaten and I was stiff from sitting and my feet were on fire.

But. I was still in my running shoes. And my running clothes. And, dadgummit. I mean, dadgummit. I had wanted to run ten miles. Today. Besides, I had told all of my classes that I was planning on running ten miles last weekend, and, let me tell you, you do NOT want to disappoint a room full of inmates. (Which, by the way, is a highly effective motivational tool. If you tend to procrastinate, just tell 50 convicts that you're going to do something. That'll hold you to it.)

So I drove back out to the country, hid a water bottle in the fence row, marked one mile, parked my car and got my stiff, sore, hot, hungry self back on the road. I ran one mile to my water, chugged it, then turned around and ran one more mile back to my car. Ten total miles in one day. Just not all in a row.

But I counted it anyway because I have never in my life done anything as physically difficult as peeling myself out of that car for those last two miles. I guarantee you it would have been much, much easier to just finish that ten the first time.

That's my confession. Thanks. I feel better now.

Finally! A Little Culture Around Here!

2008-03-18T19:33:00.006-06:00

Here is my book review on The Way of the Wind:

If you have to read a poem, read one of these.

No; wait. That's not quite what I mean.

I mean, if you hate poetry, you oughta read this.

Uh, that isn't what I was going for, either. Let me try one more time.

What I mean is if you think that poetry is all about rhythm and rhyme and meter and what was the author's reason for choosing this symbolism, (No, that's not right! C- for you!) then you would be pleasantly surprised by Ken's poetry. It's not about iambic pentameters at all. It's about some hard ground, and the hard-headed people who broke it. It's not just about my family, either. It's about anybody's family, everybody's family, your family, and the place they called home and the love for it that you inherited on your genetic string right alongside your brown eyes or freaky birthmark or your good ear for harmony.

Yeah. It is. It's about that.

It Wasn't Pretty And It Wasn't Fast...

2008-03-15T17:27:00.003-06:00

...but it counts.

Ten miles.

I need a bubble bath.

Life For Dummies

2008-03-11T19:31:00.008-06:00

No, I guess I can't really use that title. Those (Fill in the Blank) For Dummies reference books; you know, the ones like Cooking For Dummies or Computers for Dummies or even--oddly titled, I think--Catholicism For Dummies, are all written by experts in their field.

I am not an expert on Life.

Obviously.

But if they ever ask me to write a how-to on life, I'm ready. I've got it already written. Wanna see it?

It's kinda short.

But here it is:

Let Go.

Yeah.

I think that pretty much covers it. Just unclench your fists and let go.

Kenny Wins!

2008-03-10T16:45:00.011-06:00

He published a book before I did.

Which, geeze, I suppose, is fair. He has only devoted his entire professional life to writing and pursuing a Ph.D in Literature. Okay, okay, fine.

For the seven or eight readers of mine who are not related to me, Ken Hada is my first cousin. He grew up in Arkansas, but like all good Hadas, his heart is really a Hungarian cabbage roll stuffed with red Oklahoma dirt. That's why his best poetry is about The Home Place. The cover art? That's The Crick Bank. (We've covered the correct pronunciation of "creek", here, on our blog before. This is different. This is The Crick Bank. That's its name, and it's always Crick, never creek.)

The artist is another first cousin and Ken's brother, Duane Hada. And that is exactly how The Crick Bank looks. The Crick Bank, up behind the barn and past the junk pile, was a wonderfully terrifying place for a little kid to obsess about being told not to go to. I think all of us grandkids have had a nightmare or two about it. Duane got it just right.

I got a little teary-eyed just reading his e-mail about the book: I can't imagine what actually reading it will do to me.

Uncle Jumbo

2008-03-04T18:39:00.009-06:00

My great uncle Fred was the fattest person I have ever known. His clothes were custom made, his cars, specially ordered; his recliner, reinforced. A pair of his massive overalls have become a coveted heirloom in our family. Two average-sized people wearing them make a never-fail, prize-winning Siamese Twin Halloween costume. It's also great fun to put them on, stuff them with pillows and transform yourself into a sort of human trampoline for the other kids to bounce off. These are really big overalls.

Everybody called him Jumbo. But not to his face. At least not twice. Because even though I didn't realize it as a kid, Uncle Jumbo was also maybe one of the richest persons I will ever know. And one of the greediest. And one of the meanest.

I remember overhearing once how he'd fired some migrant workers from his California ranch. He called them thieves. They'd taken some of the rotten meat from his garbage. I don't know whether that was the truth or not. It was long ago, and everyone involved, long gone. But, still now, years and years later, you can mention his name in certain parts and get an earful of tales about his legendary meanness.

Even so, my parents would take us to visit Uncle Jumbo fairly regularly because his wife, my grandma's sister, Pansy, had been an important person in my dad's childhood. I didn't get it at the time. Grim and worried Aunt Pansy was always scurrying around and frightfully busy, so she was the one who scared me a little. Uncle Fred was barely mobile by the time I knew him. He just laid in his chair and vaguely waved us kids off. He always bought all the rest of my Girl Scout cookies. I think I remember Dad remarking with surprise one time that I even got Uncle Jumbo to speak to me. Uncle Jumbo never worried me.

While Mom and Dad would try to visit with Aunt Pansy, we kids were pretty much free to roam and explore the big dusty old Spanish-style three-story house that was the closest thing to a mansion we'd ever been in. It was crammed to the rafters with fascinating stuff--cuff links made out of coins, old Playboy magazines, dice from Las Vegas, a huge pink bathtub, a desk the size of a Kansas township. There was even a real, working elevator. And a grocery store in the basement.

No, it wasn't actually a grocery store. It just looked like one. Uncle Jumbo had food delivered to his house by the wholesale truck. He ordered institutional-sized everything, and made tiny little Aunt Pansy stock and face the shelves like she was an IGA hand. There was enough food down there to feed all of Kiowa, but no one would ever eat it. It would expire and rot in the can, but Uncle Jumbo didn't care. He'd just make Aunt Pansy throw it out, then he'd order more. Like everything else in his life--banks, stores, ranches, orange groves in California--he didn't care about a thing's true purpose. He only cared about getting it, owning it, controlling it, keeping it. I gather that's how he felt about people, too.

On our way home from Uncle Jumbo's, Mom and Dad were always a little somber. One or the other of them would always sigh and say, "Poor Aunt Pansy". I never understood why, because I couldn't comprehend that some people can be trapped in joyless, loveless lives, desperately needing love from something that can't possibly ever give it. But I understand that now. And now I understand why either Mom or Dad would always sigh in response and say, "Yes...and poor Uncle Jumbo."

Champagne and Confetti All Around

2008-03-04T18:22:00.008-06:00

And fireworks and brass bands! It's our ONE HUNDREDTH POST here at your favorite blog!

Many thanks to our wonderful readers. And for those of you who have faithfully followed from the beginning, congratulate yourselves on your patience, persistence, and endurance.

Yeah, I know.

I'm kind of surprised, too.

I half thought I might wander away, leaving my blog to crawl off into the corner where the cross-stitching, Tupperware-selling and Conversational Spanish are all huddled. Discipline and persistence have never been my long suit.

But I have learned something here.

And I learned it from you. You know what it is?

I have learned that you will do all kinds of stuff if someone will come along with you.

Thanks, guys.

Meet Margaret Davis of Azusa, California

2008-02-26T18:33:00.007-06:00

Margaret is an outstanding athlete. She was named one of the 2007 Athletes of the Year by the USATF. She is considered unbeatable in her group. She began her running career only six years ago, hoping it would be a good way to rehab from a serious leg injury. Since then, she has completed eight marathons, finishing in the top of her group every single time. She won her division for the 2007 ING NYC Marathon.

That would be the Females, 85-90 division.

No, not born in '85 - '90.

That's eighty-five to ninety years old. (Margaret just turned 85 in '07. She should be pretty excited about being on the young side of her age bracket. That should give her an edge.)

Right now, Margaret is training for her ninth marathon. An article in Runner'sWorld magazine quotes her as saying, "The great thing about my running is that it gets others to thinking that maybe they can, too."

Margaret is my new hero.

Godspeed, Margaret.

Eight. Count 'em, Eight.

2008-02-23T14:11:00.003-06:00

Eight miles.

Outside.

Thirty-seven degrees. Light drizzle. Two pairs of running pants.

About a hundred puzzled cows. Two trains.

A very optimistic buzzard eyeing me hopefully from a fence post.

Oh, I suppose it was a crow.

I thought it would take forever. It seemed like it did. I wished it would last forever. It seemed like it did.

I could have gone ten, I think.

For Crying Out Loud

2008-02-21T18:38:00.004-06:00

I AM NOT BLAMING ANYBODY.

(Keep that in mind as you read this.)

I used to think that it was a sin to be unhappy.

I wouldn’t have admitted it. I knew how ridiculous and illogical that sounded. I knew better. But somehow, I came away from my childhood with the belief that if you were unhappy—any kind of unhappy; sad, grieving, scared, worried, mad, hurt, anything less than downright chipper—then you were wrong. No, really, really wrong. After all, what kind of an ingrate is unhappy when there’s food on the table, democracy in the land, and your name in the Lamb’s Book of Life?

I don’t mean that nobody ever, ever cried. It was generally understood that in the event of loss of life or limb, for instance, you would be sad. For a week or so, anyway.

No parents are perfect, but mine were about as good as you could hope for. No church is perfect, but ours was full of good-hearted people. No childhood is perfect, but mine was better than I knew. (I am not factoring in the awful haircuts, delayed orthodontics and embarrassing clothes here. I made my peace with that long ago.) So this whole thing was no one’s fault. It was what it was.

You also have to keep in mind that I was a little bit weird as a kid. (I mean, besides the way I looked.) I overheard more than made sense to me, read more than I understood and wondered about things I couldn’t explain. So it’s possible that a lot of things I picked up in my childhood were not accurate representations of the beliefs of either my parents or their church. But somehow, what I heard was “if you’re not grinnin’, you’re sinnin’”.

Come to think of it, maybe I do remember some visiting preacher saying that right out loud.

Anywho.

There is some bit of wisdom in that. Sometimes, you do need to quit your bellyachin’. Nobody wants to work next to a whiner or live with a grouch or, please, God, no--marry one. A generally good attitude is a habit that can be cultivated. Sometimes, just smiling at someone does make you feel better. This is not what I am talking about.

What I am talking about is refusing to acknowledge some of the nastier stuff inside, thinking that “Good Christians” are never angry or disgusted or disappointed or envious or depressed or anything like that. Thinking that if I don’t admit it, not even to myself, it will go away. I just have to smile and make nice and nobody will have to know about it. Maybe I can muck it out all by myself before God even notices it.

But do you know what David wrote in Psalms? In one place, he said, "Lord, I know you desire Truth in my inner being."

I like that. God desires truth, way down deep, inside, where nobody else could possibly know about it. Not only does He want me to get over myself, cut it out and admit I'm not fooling anybody, if you keep reading in that same Psalm (Psalm 51, for those of you eager for extra credit) you'll see that after the truth, comes cleaning, then gladness.

That's some pretty high-dollar therapy at work there, guys. I hope you got your money's worth.

For Shame

2008-02-19T18:53:00.007-06:00

Lisa and I were talking about guilt. I won't tell you who said what, because it could easily have been either one of us on any given day. Maybe it could have been you, too. Especially if you're a little overly-prone to introspection, like we are. Especially if you've had some good old hellfire 'n brimstone in your past, like we have. And especially if, like us, you're a mom. Yes, guilt is a popular past-time for Southern Baptists and soccer moms alike. So maybe, you can relate. The conversation went something like this:

"...and I feel kinda guilty about it."

"Why? You didn't do anything wrong."

"You think? I guess not--but it doesn't really look good, does it?"

"Does that matter?"

"Well, yes, doesn't it matter? I mean, we're not supposed to be a stumbling block to others, are we? So it does matter, some, how it looks, right?"

"Look, your heart was in the right place, and you are not responsible for somebody else's problem with this."

So we hung up, fairly satisfied that we had either come to a mature and logical conclusion on the matter, or smugly justified doing what it was we did in the first place. Either way, we took care of it.

But later that day while I was housecleaning (jeez--why does everybody look at me like that when I say that? It DOES happen.) I was thinking it all over.

And this is what I came up with:

If you feel guilty, do something about it. Confess it, apologize for it, re-pay it, make amends for it, do penance for it; whatever. Something. Just do it, and get it over with. Then, if you feel better, hey, great! It was just your old friend, your conscience, trying to get your attention.

But if you don't feel better, then it's not guilt at all. It's some sort of deep-seated psychological condition of neurosis or psychosis or some other strain of craziness that you undoubtedly need years of therapy and quite possibly medication or hopitalization to keep at a manageable level, and I won't even exclude the possibility of demon possesion that may necessitate a referral to a competent exorcist.

Well...okay, maybe that last part is a bit much.

But I do believe this: Guilt's purpose is to make you stop and fix your mistakes. That's a good thing, and it comes from God. And when you fix your mistakes, the guilt goes away. If it doesn't go away, then it's not guilt. It's shame. And that's not a good thing, and you'll never get me to believe that's from God.

My Dysfunctional Love Affair With Running

2008-02-12T11:49:00.002-06:00

SATURDAY

Dear Running;

You suck.

That's right. You heard me.

Sincerely,
Roxie

SUNDAY

Ok, Fine. One mile. I'll give you one more mile. One more and that's it. I mean it. One mile. On the treadmill. And then, I'm hitting the hot tub. So help me, I swear I am, I am quitting running and going to the hot tub.

MONDAY

(SIGH) Oh, you know I'll be back. Dang it.

TUESDAY

Can I run again? Can I? Huh? Huh? Is it time yet? Can I? Can I? Can I?

Here Is Where We Add The Drama

2008-02-08T07:32:00.000-06:00

Game shows have always known this little trick. Take something really mundane and boring; something like asking someone to name the capital of Argentina. Ho-hum. Boring. But! If you start a TIMER and force the poor sucker to scream "Beunos Aires" before the BUZZER buzzes, then, WOO-HOO! You got yourself a must-see tv show right there.

Now all the shows are doing it. Baking cakes, redecorating houses, losing weight--it's all way more exciting if you have to beat the clock. Tight deadlines make high drama.

People love that sort of thing. Well, people who aren't me. I get very nervous when I feel like I am being rushed. ("Why are you training for a race, then, Roxie?" You may well be asking. That's different. Shush.) I am not a person who thrives under pressure or who does her best work when under the gun.

By the middle of December, I was feeling very confident about my training for the OKC Marathon half. My long run was a do-able 7 miles. I'd had a good solid year of consistent running. I had plenty of time to double my mileage. Acording to all the training schedules, I was a good month ahead of the game.

Christmas Eve I lay on the floor and watched my new Quantum Leap Season 5 dvd's with my kids. (Hey! A tradition is a tradition, no matter how geeky.) We were all snuggled up together under Mom's big Christmas quilt. Somehow, I had my arms around all three of them. Does it get any better than this? I drifted contentedly off to sleep, happy and whole.

I woke up Christmas morning--still on the floor, my arms still around my kids, still snuggled under Mom's Christmas quilt--but with fire shooting out of my spine, my shoulder blade fused to my eardrum, jolts of electricity exploding down my arm and out my index finger and pain leaking out of my eyeballs. I didn't run again for a month.

No sympathy here, please: I am generally disgustingly healthy and everybody has to have a turn now and then. Thanks to a chiropractor, a hefty dose of Medrol and a prescription to work on my upper body conditioning, I am 99.9% good again. And as for my training, I am back at it. I am going to try another long run tomorrow.

But now, instead of the confidence that comes with knowing you are solidly prepared, training-wise, I'll be barely just in time. I should have a hundred miles on my 2008 counter by now. Instead, I have about 40. It's not a lost cause, but now there is no cushion. I can still do it, but it will be chancier. I now have a deadline. Yikes.

Actually, it's not a question of whether or not I can finish my half. It's a question of how ugly will it be. In my mind, I did see myself at a strong and triumphant finish, breathing strong, striding smoothly; the very image of the Winged Goddess of Victory, Nike herself. But now I am afraid it will be a little more like me dragging my bruised and bloodied limbs, belly scraping the pavement, biting the paramedics and snarling at the race officials, "No! Leave me alone! I can finish! I can finish!"

So here, you see, is where we add the drama. The race against time. The element of the unknown. Will I glide in with grace and strength, or will I flop in with the kind of finish that makes people go, "Ohmigosh did you see that one poor girl?" Will it be the thrill of victory, or the agony of defeat? Oh, the suspense of it all.

I hate suspense.

I don't want to be a "most-viewed" on youtube. I just want my medal.

I'll keep you posted.

It's All Good: Or So Miss Cleo Says

2008-02-05T18:37:00.000-06:00

The positive vibes have been replaced by a negative one from Uranus, the rebellious planet. It will definitely slow the pace right down but not in a way that you’ll enjoy. It is likely to be a day where it’s two steps forward and one step back. All you can do is keep plodding away.

That's my horoscope for today. I'm not crazy about it. I like yesterday's much better: The fabulous planetary vibes indicate a smoldering day, full of anticipation and expectation. Intrigue and mystique are the key words; don’t rush; the slow pace will be half the fun!

Funny; I don't remember anything fabulously smoldering yesterday. I guess there was the usual intrigue surrounding my day; the kind of intrigue involving inmates stealing my ink pens and chapstick from right under my nose. Or it could refer to the aura of mystique rising from my laundry basket. Will there be enough clean socks for everyone? Will they match? Will the holes be so big you can put them on from either end? That's probably about as much mystique as I need right now. And as for the smoldering part--well, there was still one hot dog left in the roaster at the middle school concession stand last night when we were closing it up. Maybe that was it.

And here's tomorrow's helpful advice from the stars: Once you’ve figured out what you want you’ll be able to go for it; the only problem will be figuring it out! Don’t place too much faith in signs or omens or luck: they’ll be more of a hindrance than a reliable guidance. Possible areas for the confusion include romance or an emotional relationship. No, duh! Who among us doesn't have confusion over romance? And--wait--this horoscope is telling me not to believe in signs or omens? Okay, I'll follow that advice--but, no, wait--I can't, because the horoscope is a sign and it says I'm not supposed to put faith in it. So that means I should believe in signs? No, I shouldn't? I'm confused.

Wouldn't it be great if horoscopes really worked? If you could just browse through the paper or check your e-mail every morning and know exactly what to do, what to expect, what to say, what to avoid? I do.

I know, I know. You want me to say something here about the great, grand adventure that is life; the unknowable journey, the joyous surprise of it all. And I suppose that is true. Very rarely are life's precious moments anticipated, scheduled and planned.

But I can't help sometimes wishing I could just peek around the corner. It's not exactly that I am a worrier, and am scared of the future. It's just that I wish I could be a little more prepared for it. What if I'm not ready? I'd like to know how to dress for it, at the very least. What if it's more of a semi-formal affair?

It doesn't really matter, though, does it? If you believe, like I do, that He really does have the whole world in His hands, then it doesn't matter what tomorrow's horoscope says, does it? It's all good.

Just wear comfortable shoes, and it will be alright.

Today I Take You Inside The Finely-Honed Psyche of A Runner

2008-01-28T17:16:00.000-06:00

Ohmigosh I have missed this. Seventy degrees. Perfect. First time outside in over a month. First long run since I hurt my shoulder. Perfect day. Perfect day. Look at watch. Stretchstretchstretchstretch. REACH. Big breath. Ipod. Playlist “running tunes”. Both ears? Crap. Go back in; get better earphones. Car! In the car. Eli had good ones in the car. Ah. Yes. Much much better. Check watch. Let’s roll.

Nice easy walk. Perfect, perfect day. Ok, trot. Footstrike-footstrike-footstrike-footstrike. Inventory: Shoulder? Check. Good. How many chiropractors does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but he’ll need 4-6 visits. Knees? Great. Feet? Never better. Breathing? Fine? Everything else? Dang, I love this new running bra. Love-it-love-it-love-it-love-it-shoulda-bought-all-five-on-the-rack-shoulda-bought-all-five-on-the-rack-shoulda-bought-all-five-on-the-rack. RUN.

YES! I’m RUNNING! I’m flying! I’m free! I’m an Olympian! I’m a Kenyan! I’m a wild, wild mustang, I’m a fierce Amazon warrior, I am a machine.

I’m sucking air.

WHAT THE HECK? What’s going on here? System breakdown! Defcon 5! ABORT! ABORT! ABORT! What is going on here? I can’t run? I forgot how? Three lousy weeks off and THREE WHOLE FREAKING YEARS of effort is GONE? What? Can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe-can’t-breathe. Walk. NOW.

I hate running. Forget this, it sucks. Who am I kidding? What am I doing out here? Kick a rock. I’ll never be able to run for real, I’ll never lose my belly, I'm an apple, I'll always be an apple, I'll die an apple and they'll bury me in an apple-shaped coffin. I’ll never make 13 miles by April. I am just looking ridiculous…SHUT UP. KEEP WALKING. KEEP MOVING. I MEAN IT. DO NOT TURN AROUND. DO NOT STOP. I MEAN IT I AM TALKING TO YOU ROXIE.

Calm down. It’s all right. You just lost your head and went out too fast at the start. Go back to the beginning, stick to what you know works. Run one, walk one. Run one, walk one. It’ll come back to you. Sheesh. Bummer. Hey, great song.

Dog! Dog! Dog! Oh. On a chain. Ha-ha-ha dog. I’m running, you’re not. Yeah, yeah, barkbarkbark right back atcha.

“Sometimes the climb can be so steep. I may falter in my steps, but never beyond Your reach.” Great, great song. Soundtrack-for-my-whole-life kinda song. God, thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you. Kids are healthy and happy and Lisa’s well and getting stronger and we can eat and I have a good job and a warm house and my folks are healthy and well and all the rest of the family is too and I have friends and it’s all good it’s all good it’s all good thank you thank you thank you thank you. Thirsty.

Didn’t hide water so can’t go to the country. Cemetery. Lots of water hydrants. Cut over. Hill! No! Not that hill! Yes! Yes! Yes! I can do the hill! I can I can I can. OK, so walk a little. No! Pick-up coming! Be running! HA! HELLO! Waving back at you, bet you are thinking, “I can’t believe that is Roxie out there running. Gee, I should get out there and run again, too. I mean, come ON, it’s ROXIE!” Ha-ha-ha I KNOW that’s exactly what you’re thinking. Hee-hee.

Nobody sees me in the cemetery. I’m walking a while. Hey, there, Great-Grandma Anderson, Great-Grandpa. I bet you are wondering what the heck I am doing, running when no one is chasing me. World’s gone nuts, huh? Nice roads here. “I’m a survivor, I’m getting stronger, I'm not gon' give up, I'm a survivor” Gotta run to that song. Not a walk song. Good thinking, putting that one on there for me, Bek. Dirt ahead! Yay! Thank you Jesus! Dirt Road! Take it! Feet say thanks! Thud THUD, thud THUD, thud THUD; foot STRIKE, foot STRIKE, foot STRIKE; pavement. Water stop. Susan’s right—her backyard is cool. Wow, I bet you can see Kansas from up here. Can almost see the home place. Walk. Family plot coming up. Go? Why? It’s not like they’re there. Might as well, you’re here. Hey, Grandma Irene, Grandpa Arnold. Hey, Rex. Stop.

Do the math. Carry the one. November, December, January, February. One-third of a year. June, July, August, September, October, November, December, January. Eight fingers, three-fourths of a year. “I’ll always be older than you.” No, you won’t. I passed you. I just passed you. That made you laugh, didn’t it? It did, it did, I know it did. RUN.

Foot STRIKE foot STRIKE fast FEET fast FEET I know you’re laughing Rex and I know you laugh when I run and I know you cheer when I race and I know you throw back your head and really let it go when I talk about a marathon and I know that you know that we both know that I can. Cut across the grass. Hey, Grandpa Elmer. It’s been a long time. Look at those two college guys without shirts playing Frisbee with a dog right here in the old family section why aren’t they down in the park? Ha. Grandma Irene would have been appalled. But she’s not now. No, I mean, she’s really not because I bet now she can get it that sometimes doing something like playing Frisbee with your dog without a shirt on might be the very most respectful way to celebrate somebody’s life or anybody’s life or just life and you just never know hey how about I really get crazy and go down the hill through the brush and the trees oooh look at me maybe someday I want to try trail-running or hiking, yes! Yes! Yes! I definitely do this is so much fun. Look it’s that old fitness trail the Kiwanis tried to make a go of I bet nobody’s been back here for years. Was it Kent or Scott that I used to go on this with Kent or Scott or Kent or Scott and why on earth can’t I remember, whoops, sorry guys. I remember when they used to have monkeys here I wonder when they got rid of them, OK, now WALK.

Do NOT look at your watch, do NOT look at your watch, DO NOT—OK. Well, do look. I guess it doesn’t make any difference today because you are just guessing how far you went. It’s been a good work out. WHAT were you thinking with THAT song, Bek? Did you actually think I’d like THAT? Skip. “Start Wearing Purple, Wearing Purple, Start Wearing Purple For Me No-ooow” HA! LOVE that one, Bek! Who knew? A POLKA! Maybe the world needs more Polka. Time to be home. Not the road. Up through the trees again. Like when you were a kid in Brownie scouts. Do NOT buy cookies this year. Do NOT. You know you will. OK, but only the boxes the kids like and you don’t. OK, ONE box of thin mints but you can’t open it until you get to work and then you have to give most of them away.

Getting dark already? Almost home? Finish strong, finish strong, always run it in, always finish strong. Text message maybe kids been gone a long time better check it. SILAS: Do you need me to come home and watch Eli so you can go run? Is he really fourteen? I am humbled. I am blessed. Finish strong, porch light on, “Mom! What’s for supper? Mom! I need help on this! Mom! I can’t download this! Mom!” Finish strong.

Home.

Part Two

2008-01-24T18:40:00.000-06:00

If you are just joining us, you might want to read part I, here. Or not. I trust your judgment.

I just re-read The Prayer of Jabez again a few days ago. Why did I go back to it? Because I'd been thinking two really big thoughts lately. (Yes! I know! Two whole thoughts at one time! That is pretty unusual for me. Those of you who know me personally know that I work very hard arranging my life so that I will not to have to think about two things at once.) But those two big thoughts reminded me of Jabez.

The first big thought is this: My undying awe and admiration for people who rise above their raisin'. I know people who've had a pretty rough start in life, but you would never guess it. (And, of course, like you, I also know people who won't let you forget for a second just how bad off they had it.) But people who shake it off and refuse to let it define their lives--those people? I wish I could bottle and sell that gutsiness.

Jabez is a great example. I know people who have toxic mothers. But I don't know any whose mother actually named them, "Pain-in-the-butt", like Jabez' mother did. I don't care how you re-frame that--you know that had to hurt. And we don't know what exactly his brothers were doing that was so not-honorable, but whatever it was, Jabez apparently didn't go in for it. Sometimes it's just as hard to be the only white sheep in a family of black ones as it is to be in the reverse situation. There is a lot of unspoken family business in those few little sentences about Jabez.

And my other big thought is even bigger. To me, anyway. Because it's about me. But I will share it with you on the off-chance that it might be useful to some of you, too.

The big thought is this: We Christians are always asking God to bless us, but the truth is, if He really were to do it, it would probably scare us silly. It doesn't matter what kind of blessing we are talking about--physical, material, spiritual, emotional--any kind of blessing at all.

Alright, alright--I'll stop saying "we". I'll say it...me. I am talking about me here. I know that in my own life, I may ask God for a blessing, but, unlike Jabez, I don't have the good sense to also ask Him to make me big enough to hold it. (No, no, no! I am most certainly not saying, "If you ask God for a Cadillac, you better also ask him for a big enough garage to park it in!" I am not talking about that at all. That's a whole other blog entirely.)

I am talking about things like love, peace, wisdom, joy, friendship, hope, strength, courage, perserverance, and gratitude--things that you don't think of as taking up much space. But they do take up space. They definitely do. In fact, I don't think that all that stuff can fit in one regular-sized person. I think that if I am going to ask God for those kinds of blessings, I will also have to ask him to yank on my boundaries a little and stretch me enough so that they will fit.

Ouch.

Stay With Me, Here...

2008-01-22T21:11:00.000-06:00

Do you remember all the Prayer of Jabez hooplah a few years ago?

The Prayer of Jabez is a little book by Dr. Bruce Wilkinson that came out in 2000. And, even though it is a very Christian book, it somehow went mainstream and became a widely commercialized “next big thing”. You could buy t-shirts, posters, commemorative coins, and—I think I remember this—dinnerware (plates only—no serving pieces). I remember seeing a spot on the news, even, of people saying “I prayed The Prayer of Jabez for one week, and finally sold my house that had been on the market for a year.” “The doctors told us we couldn’t have children, but we prayed The Prayer of Jabez for three months, and now we’re expecting!” “I won $1500 at bingo, the very first day I prayed Jabez.” “I lost thirty pounds in 6 weeks on Jabez.” No, wait; that may have been Jenny Craig. Easy mix-up. But anyway, for a few months, this obscure goat farmer who lived three thousand years ago was worldwide. He was huge.

That sort of buzz quickly divides people into three groups. First comes the group that starts and sustains the buzz; the people who get all on it because it’s the next big thing. Then you have the people who sniff at it and refuse to touch it precisely because it’s the next big thing. And finally, you have the people like me, who decide that they might as well check it out and see why it is the next big thing. Maybe there’s something to it, maybe there’s not. We may be slow to get around to it and come in well behind the wave, but we’ll decide for ourselves, thank you very much.

SIDE NOTE: I’m not really seven years behind. I did read it when it came out. I was just thinking about it the other day and picked it up again. But I guess that’s neither here nor there; I’ve been that far behind before. I haven’t even gotten around to watching American Idol yet.

In case you never read it, I’ll give you my Cliff notes on Jabez:

The very dry and generally unread book of I Chronicles begins with nine whole chapters of begats. It’s a genealogy of the tribes of Israel. So-and-so’s children were these people. Their children were these people. Their children were these. Just lists and lists of names. No facts, no stories, no mention of how they marked their time here. Just names. But in the middle of all this, the chronicler stops. He comes to a name, one man, whom the writer thinks we might be interested in hearing a little more about:

Now Jabez was more honorable than his brothers, and his mother called his name Jabez, saying “Because I bore him in pain.” And Jabez called on the God of Israel saying, “Oh that you would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain!” So God granted him what he requested.
I Chronicles 4:9-10

And then the writer of Chronicles goes right back to listing the family tree. Jabez is never mentioned again.

Wilkinson's book tells how his life and ministry have been affected by the fact that years ago he prayed the prayer of Jabez himself and adopted Jabez' attitude for his life. It just so happens that Dr. Wilkinson's life and ministry have been incredibly blessed by God. And Dr. Wilkinson wanted to, if possible, share that with others. That's all he wanted. He never intended to start a fad. He certainly didn't want to push a "name it and claim it" prosperity theology. He just wanted to share what he had learned.

Of course, people couldn't leave it at that--it's just the way we are. We want a formula, a recipe. We want promises and guarantees. Most of all, we want what we want. And a lot of it. And now, thank you.

I have absolutely no doubt that God blessed Dr. Wilkinson. Long before he was the author of a New York Times bestseller, he was a respected Bible scholar (He was a chief editor for the New King James translation, author of the study notes for The Open Bible, and the founder of Walk Through the Bible.) and an impressively forward-thinking humanitarian. (He founded a project to fight hunger in Africa by planting over half a million backyard vegetable gardens and spear-headed a program that sent a thousand trained volunteers to reach Africans with practical AIDS education information. That's not your usual harvest field for most Bible-thumpers. Most evangelicals run the other way from a mission call like that, I'm afraid.)

And I have no doubt that God would have blessed Dr. Wilkinson even if he hadn't stumbled across Jabez. It's just that Jabez so neatly wrapped up Dr. Wilkinson's entire outlook on life: It's OK to ask God to bless me; the more He expands my sphere of influence, the more I can share those blessings with others; I'll need his hand on me always, because alone I'll mess it up; He'll have to keep me from evil, because I can't do it myself; and I don't want to cause anybody any grief.

That's pretty huge, isn't it? I kinda would rather The Prayer of Jabez be what the public wanted it to be--a sure-fire get-rich-quick mantra for Christians. "Repeat twice daily. Your mileage may vary." That would be a whole lot easier, I think.

More tomorrow.

A News Bulletin From The Department Of Things I Probably Shouldn't Post Here

2008-01-15T17:49:00.000-06:00

True Story:

(No; really--a true story. Not a third-hand, happened-to-my-friend's-nephew's-neighbor story. I'm just being generic because, after all, this IS the internet. And Mom, I really am sorry. You probably should skip this one. And first time readers, I promise--this is an aberration. I have a Bible commentary planned for my next post. Really.)

A fifth grade boy was caught passing out pills to the other boys in his class. This is, of course, a huge cause for alarm in these zero-tolerance days. The principal brings the boys in. They confess. They squeal. They sing like canaries. The principal brings in the "pusher". He demands to know what the pills are. The precocious young lad hands over an empty Enzyte package.

In case you never watch TV, Enzyte is an herbal supplement, advertised by the one and only Smilin' Bob, that claims to be a "natural male enhancement".

The principal has to call parents. He first makes the call to Mrs. Smilin' Bob and explains the situation. He explains that, uh, Bob,Jr is in a lot of trouble.

She replies, "Well, he shouldn't be in too much trouble. They don't even work."

Why Did I Not Think Of This?

2008-01-10T18:55:00.000-06:00

Imagine with me, for a moment, that some unforeseen incident has left you purse-less. You've lost your purse, you've left your purse in the path of a rogue elephant, you're a man and you can't bring your purse in public anymore--whatever. Let's also imagine, for a moment, that you can't get yourself down to JC Penney's to get a new one. And, that, uh, it's Christmas day and Wal-Mart is closed, so you can't go there to get a new one, either.

Oh, no. You can't buy a purse.

What ever will you do? What ever will you do?

Well, Friends, I have good news for you! No worries! You don't have to actually BUY a purse, anymore, you can simply RENT one!

Wow! What a life-saver! For only about $150 a month, Bags to Riches will rent you a designer handbag--with free shipping, no less! You log on, join up, pay out, and just like magic, a fabulous handbag is delivered to your door. Of course, it's not YOUR bag...but you can play like it is. And you have $150 less per month to put in it, but who cares? It looks fabulous.

Alright, alright, alright. I'll stop. This is sounding a bit unintentionally mean-spirited. If someone would truly get $150 worth of enjoyment out of a purse, hey, great. It really isn't any of my business, as long as they're not hitting me with one or zipping their kids up inside 'em.

But it seems that these purse people are making such a killing off this site that they actually can afford to own those bags. This makes me wonder what other rental business opportunities I am overlooking.

Of course, clothing rental is nothing new. The purse thing threw me, though, because a purse is...personal! But, when I think about it, when Bek was a baby, I had a diaper service for a short while. That was renting something pretty personal, too. At least, it was personal to Bek.

This rent-a-purse thing also embarrasses me, just a little. Embarrasses as in, it makes me think, "Well, yeah, sometimes men do have a point about us." I mean, do you think there'd be much business in wallet-rental? Not too dang likely, I'm thinking.

Nekkid on the Crick: A Dixie, Rex, 'n Roxie Tale

2008-01-03T18:40:00.000-06:00

In retrospect, it was probably for the best that we were raised on a farm. Mom and Dad had a bit of an organic streak that caused them to believe in raising free-range children. We were certifiably cage-free, alright. It's a good thing that all that took place far from the city limits.

About a quarter mile from the house was a mud-bottomed creek. A side note here: We three have always been bi-lingual. Fluent in both English and Okie, we could switch from one to the other with ease. We understood that Mom said it like it rhymed with stick, but you spelled it with two e's, like week. We knew to tell Grandma that we were going to the crick, but when we wrote stories about it at school, we said creek. Kids are just like that somehow. But, I digress.

There was an old wooden bridge built by the county that crossed the creek. We thought it was for us alone. You know, like cities will build a playground and dedicate it to the children of the community. We were the only kids for ten or fifteen miles around, so by rights the bridge was ours. The pickups and combines and road-graders that crossed it were the intruders.

One day when Dixie, Rex, and I were about eight, six, and four we were playing under our bridge. And we decided to take off all our clothes and roll in the mud. I don't know why--we just thought it would be a good idea.

And guess what? It was a great idea. Gentle Reader, if the opportunity to waller your bare-skinned hide around in the mud under the sun in June ever presents itself to you, I heartily recommend you avail yourself of it.

And, as I pointed out, since this was in the privacy of our own county water-way, who would be disturbed?

I have introduced our neighbors, Clyde and Alvina to you before, here. I may have explained that the hardworking old German couple were childless, and a little alarmed by the very idea of children--even the kind who knew how to sit quietly in the back of the pickup and wait for Dad to finish yet another re-telling of how the new drive shaft for the tractor came in just in time.

However, I never told you about the Chinaberry Tree Situation, and I spared you the details of the Rose Petal Massacre. But let's just put it this way: more than once, Clyde or Alvina had CALLED MOM. About US. And we didn't like it. Let's just say there was a little history there, OK?

And I am shamed to tell you, friends, that here is where the tale turns dark.

Yes, on that deceptively innocent, sparkling-pure summer day, the three of us hatched a plot. A plot of terror that we were sure would silence Clyde and Alvina once and for all. The plan was this: First, we would cleverly disguise our naked selves with the dried mud on our faces and other diverse body parts. We would stick cat-tails in our hair and smush leaves on ourselves wherever we could get the slimy mud to stick. Then--Oh! The sheer brilliance of our sinister scheme!--we would hide under the bridge until Clyde and Alvina drove over it. At just the right time, we would leap out into the creek, waving sticks and hollering war whoops and various and sundry other yelps.

Then, unharmed, but fearful and disheartened, Clyde and Alvina would surely return to their home and leave us to wreak our havoc and expand our reign of terror all up and down Rural Route 9.

There was just one problem.

Clyde and Alvina were not terrified.

Nor were they amused.

And, oddly enough--neither was Mom.

Mercifully, the details all go hazy right about here. I have a vague memory of Mom flying down the road barefoot--but in a dress, of course, because that's about all she ever wore back then. I also remember her waving a yardstick about in a shockingly un-pacifist-ish sort of way.

I suppose this little childhood story follows a common theme. The free spirits of the world are always being stamped into the mold of the conformists, aren't they?

Which, again, in retrospect, was probably a good thing in this instance.

Of Black-eyed Peas and Such

2008-01-01T11:30:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year, Readers!

I may need to explain that title. I forget that not all of my readers were born and reared in Rural Woods County, and I am not sure how widely known this tradition is.

My Grandma Irene used to insist that we eat black-eyed peas for lunch on New Year's Day, because that was said to bring good luck for the following year. Probably like most Grandmas, Grandma Irene was not overly superstitious; but she sure didn't see any harm in the just-in-case theology, either. Mostly, though, I think she was subscribing to the older, more primal superstition that if you can cram everybody you love around your kitchen table often enough and keep them there, fattening them up under your anxious and fretting care, you can somehow sheild them from all dangers and harm. Oh, that it were only so.

Another New Year's Superstition says that whatever you are doing on midnight at the end of the old year, you'll be doing a lot of in the coming year. I thought about that last night. That has proved loosely true for me. Definitely in '05, but that was to be expected. It sure as heck did in '06, which was a good thing, and in '07, which was a lousy thing, and well, I'll just have to get back to you about '08. We'll keep you posted.

And of course, there are the New Year's Resolutions. The stuff Fitness and Weight-loss Empires are made of. I know I'll have to get to the gym very early for the next couple of weeks, or the only thing left will be the rowing machine in the corner. The treadmills will be packed, and you can just forget about the ellipticals until February.

But, in the spirit of the season, here are some of my resolutions:

1. Keep up with old friends better. Don't panic, guys, I'm not going to be a pest! I don't have that much vacation time! But sometimes, after you talk to an old friend you haven't talked to in years, don't you think, "Why on earth have I let you get away like this? It's been too long since we've talked!"

2. Pick up pennies. And take charge of all my loose change. Suze Orman says that clients who come in with loose change rattling around in the bottom their purses are the clients with the worst money issues. She says that if you don't respect your money, it won't respect you. And the penny thing? I read an article on MSN Money (I tried to find it to link to it, but I can't right now. I'll keep looking. I swear I didn't make this up.) that said the higher your net worth, the more likely you are to pick up a penny.

Whether it's cause/effect or correlational is debatable, of course. Heck, it may just be superstition again. Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck. Find a penny, leave it lay, your luck will go the other way. One guy in the MSN article even claimed to have run the time/money study on it, and extrapolated the results to find that a whopping $36 an hour is what you are earning when you pick up a penny. Not bad.

3. Take care of myself. Seriously, guys, do I have to go over this again? OK, I will. Listen very carefully: If you love someone, if anyone loves you, if anyone depends on you, if anyone even kind of vaguely cares about you or likes you, the most unselfish thing you can do for them is to make sure you are in good health. Think about it. Every other thing you do in life, and I do mean EVERYTHING, could be done by someone else. Only you can take care of yourself. Nobody else can do that.

And in keeping with that one, we unveil the biggie, The Finale, The Big One.

4. I am going to run 1000 miles in 2008. In Runner's Miles, that's not much. A very, very modest and reasonable goal. In non-runner's, it's astronomical. To me, it's not the mileage it represents, but the discipline. The every-day-ish-ness. Consistency is not one of my talents.

What about you all? What are your hopes and dreams and resolutions and goals for 2008? Whatever they may be, I am praying that you will reach them and that they will be all that you had wished for.

If I Have To Explain, You Wouldn't Understand

2007-12-18T18:46:00.000-06:00

...but I'm going to try, anyway.

Some of you, like Kayaking Jim And Hiking Scott, will understand what I mean--even though I'm talking about something you both detest. Some of you, mostly my readers who found me from Runner's World, do understand it and could probably describe it better than I can. And a lot of you think I am from Mars and want to know where I hid Roxie's body.

Here's a little secret about me: sometimes I sleep in my running clothes. Sometimes, the night before a long run, I am so excited about it I have trouble getting to sleep. When ice storms and power outages were predicted last week...I confess that my first thoughts weren't "Where are my extra blankets? Do I have batteries? Will my elderly neighbors be alright?" My first thoughts were "Oh no! If it's too icy to run on the streets, and there's no electricity for the treadmill, how will I run 7 miles on Saturday?"

So now you know. I have a running problem.

Not everybody who runs is like this. Everybody approaches it a little differently. Tina sees it as her mission--it's her ministry, her outreach, her calling. Jennifer sees it as her salvation. I think Bruce sees it as a competition that he is going to win, win, win--even if it's only against himself. I think Bob sees it as a business transaction. He puts in this and expects to get back that. With me, though, running is more like a wild and crazy love affair that I hope someday settles down to be my faithful companion for life.

Why?

Did you ever have those dreams where you are flying? I used to. I used to have them all the time. And I happen to think Freud was wrong about their intrepretation. I think what they really are about is a desire to run.

At least that's what it feels like when I am running. It feels like those flying dreams. Yeah. Like that.

Watch this cool new Nike commercial here. Maybe that will help explain.

Bravery

2007-12-12T18:32:00.000-06:00

I am a shameful scaredy-cat.

Some people would argue that I am not. They reason that because I work in a prison, because I love rappelling, and because I look forward to things like public speaking excuses, parties with strangers, first dates, two-hour runs, singing solo and spilling my guts right here for the world to see, that I must be brave.

Well, they are wrong.

I'm not.

I'm a big chicken.

None of those things count as courage because none of those things scare me.

What scares me are the things that other people seem to be doing without hesitation. Every day I see people do brave stuff. They make decisions and speak their minds. They plan trips. They throw things away. They let go of their children. They cry at movies. They care about people. They let people care about them. They tell people what they really think. Those things are what I find scary. When I make myself do them, I feel very, very brave.

And then there are the people I know who have the kind of bravery I don't want. I don't want that kind of bravery because I don't ever want to need it. The kind of bravery that you need to kill cancer, live with multiple sclerosis, give up drugs, give yourself shots, and keep on going after you hear, "We're sorry, there's nothing more we can do." Where, where, where does that kind of bravery come from?

God is the only place I know. The conventional wisdom is that God only gives you what you need, when you need it, and not before. Which seems frustrating at times, but was actually one of His more brilliant ideas. If I were God, I would have just given everyone all the courage they'd ever need right upfront. Sounds good, yeah, but if we never had fear, life would get pretty crazy, pretty quick. I doubt my kids would have survived toddlerhood if they'd had much more bravery. Think about it--thanks to fear, we have vaccines, seatbelts, motorcyle helmets and birth control. A little fear is not such a bad thing to have.

I looked up Bible verses on bravery. Here is one I especially liked:

4 say to those with fearful hearts,
"Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
he will come to save you."
~Isaiah 35:4

When I read that, though, I wonder "Who is God talking to here..everyone, everywhere, or just the ancient Jews in exile? When is he talking about saving us, here, in our present situation, or eternally in the afterlife? Or both? How do I know?" and other spectacularly un-helpful thoughts like that. But eventually I always come up with this: The God in the Bible, and the God I have come to know over my lifetime, is the kind of God who does rescue people. So even if I may be mis-appropriating a verse here, I don't think it makes much difference. I think I will choose to believe that God does come with a vengeance when we are threatened. I will believe He does save us. I will believe we are safe. And when you feel safe, it's a little easier to feel brave. A little.

Thank You!

2007-12-11T11:02:00.000-06:00

I was in the grocery store, charging around the aisles all willy-nilly, trying to remember what I came for, talking on the phone, paying no attention to who else may have been in the store.

One of the clerks tapped me on the arm and said, "Excuse me, Ma'am, but someone who just left paid for a poinsettia, pointed you out, and said it was for you. And, no, I can't tell you who it was."

And she meant it, too. I couldn't get her to tell me anything more about it. And I am stumped. Completely.

Whoever you are out there, if you happen to be one of my readers, thank you! You made my day, gave me a beautiful centerpiece (which inspired me to clean off my dining room table!) and, even better still, challenged me to start thinking of possibilities for wreaking some annonymous Christmas Cheer of my own.

So watch out. It's on.

We Stand Behind Jennifer Love Hewitt's Behind

2007-12-05T21:56:00.000-06:00

It was big enough that it made both the MSN and Yahoo welcome pages yesterday. No, not her backside; her defense of her backside. In case you missed the vital news event, you can catch up on it here. But if you'd rather, I'll give you the condensed version myself.

Here it is: A star on vacation gets a horribly unflattering shot of her rump published with some extremely rude comments. This is not news. This is not interesting. However, her response was.

This is from her website

"I've sat by in silence for a long time now about the way women's bodies are constantly scrutinized. To set the record straight, I'm not upset for me, but for all of the girls out there that are struggling with their body image...A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn't make you beautiful. … To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist, put on a bikini – put it on and stay strong."

Can you hear the screaming and stomping and cheering from women everywhere? Yeah. That's us normal people out here. The ones who don't have the luxury of focusing on our cellulite 24/7. Girls like me who are giving it all they've got, but are still just praying to zip up size 12 pants sometime in the next fiscal quarter. Real people.

To be fair, though, the tabloids are just playing to a very primal instinct: that drive to choose--or if you can't choose, at least admire--the best possible specimens for propagating the species. Muscular, sleek, young bodies appeal to that part of our DNA. It's biology.

But you know what else is hard-wired into our cells? The drive to hang onto every available calorie in our environment to prepare for times of famine. Yeah. That's in our biology, too.

Interesting, isn't it? Both sides of this ongoing drama are actually struggling--and usually losing--with the same problem. We have inherited something that once ensured our survival, but is now just a useless, bored trouble-maker.

I wonder what those starvation-mongers who work for tabloids would think if they realized that they have more in common with this chocolate-loving soccer momma in Wal-Mart jeans than those Beautiful People they worship?

Binge, Interrupted

2007-11-28T17:30:00.000-06:00

Thanks to the miracle of modern technology and a staggering amount of slick ‘n trendy self-help books, we here at the Science and Research arm of this very blog have isolated the binge-eating mechanism in an average, middle-aged, American female. We have managed to capture that nanosecond of time that is available in which a person is actually capable of backing away from the chocolate, and, by studying it in slow-motion, have been able to learn more about the defenses that are successful in those rare individuals (we currently believe there are 67 of them at large in the United States today) who have managed to change their overeating habits.

We were lucky to catch this particular subject to study. Subject is approximately 48%accomplished towards goal. This means that the subject’s rudimentary stopstuffingyourface device is somewhat effective, but not yet automatized. From an observation standpoint, this is ideal. Each step is painfully, yet clearly, articulated. Remember, there is only a tiny threshold of opportunity, time-wise, in which this device can be implemented, and while we are watching it unfold in a delayed frame-by-frame advance, in reality it happens so fast it is nearly undetectable to the naked eye.

ME: (ransacking kitchen) What do I want? What do I want? What do I want?

OTHER ME INSIDE MY HEAD: Yeah, What do you want? What do you want?

ME: (triumphantly) This! This! I want this!

OTHER ME: That? That’s really what you want?

ME: (clutching box protectively to chest) Yes. Yes it is.

OTHER ME: Is that all you want? Gee, you’re pretty easily satisfied, aren’t you? You must be a real cheap date in life.

ME: Well…no…no…of course not. I want…you know…other stuff, too. You know. Stuff.

OTHER ME: What other stuff?

ME: Just stuff

OTHER ME: So tell me what other stuff.

ME: No, no, never mind…this box of cereal is enough for right now. Just for right now, I mean, I still want other stuff, too, yeah, yeah, sure, sure…but in the meantime, this will do. I’m good.

OTHER ME: So what other stuff do you want?

ME: Milk?

OTHER ME: You know what I mean. Why won’t you tell me what you want?

ME: Because you might laugh. Because it sounds too outrageous. Because if I admit it, then I might have to do something about it. Because if I don’t think about it, then I won’t want it. Because I want to ignore it and just eat my handfuls of cereal until I am stuffed. Cereal IS a low-fat food, by the way.

OTHER ME: Would you just tell me what you want? I won’t laugh. Ok, I take that back, I probably will laugh, but it’s just yourself you’re talking to, anyway, and since when have you started taking yourself so seriously that you can’t be laughed at?

ME: Ok, Ok, Ok… I want…lots of stuff. I want my kids to always be as happy and healthy and whole as they are right this minute. I want them to be kind and good and generous and strong, too. I want to run one more mile, one minute faster. And then one more mile and one more minute. I want to fall wildly, madly, passionately in love with a man who thinks I’m just the bee’s knees. I want God to speak v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y and clearly to me. I want to write a bestseller. Or a so-so-seller. Or, heck, an anyseller. I want my laundry done. I want those spots to come out of my carpet. I want to wear That Dress. Yes, THAT dress, and I want people to be speechless when they see me in it. I want more marathon medals and I want to do something tomorrow besides show up at work one more time one more time one more time. I want cash in my pocket on the 29th and 30th of the month, not just on the 1st. I want some of those expensive, mail-order daffodil bulbs, and some time to plant them. I want to know if I even have abs. I want an end to world hunger. And one of those iPod Touches wouldn’t hurt my feelings, either. There. That’s what I want. I said it. Happy now?

OTHER ME: So Count Chocula is going to help you get those things?

ME: Uh, no. Sheesh. I told you you wouldn’t get it.

OTHER ME: Oh! Wait! I do get it! A half a box of Count Chocula is going to help you FORGET you want those things.

ME: That’s the plan, yes.

OTHER ME: Does it work?

ME: Yes.

OTHER ME: For how long?

ME: Shut up.

OTHER ME: You know, none of those things you want are all that outrageous.

ME: Shut up.

OTHER ME: There are actually a lot of things you could do in order to get those things.

ME: Shut up.

OTHER ME: What do you want, Roxie?

ME: (pause)

ME: (pause)

ME: (pause)

ME: Not this.

ME ROLLS CELLOPHANE BAG CLOSED, FOLDS IN BOXTOP FLAPS, SIGHS, PUTS BOX BACK IN PANTRY, CLOSES PANTRY DOOR

OTHER ME: There. Doesn’t that feel better?

ME: No. Not really.

OTHER ME: It will. Do it enough times in a row, and it will feel amazing. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?

ME: WHAT??? HAVE YOU EVER STEERED ME WRONG??? HAVE YOU EVER STEERED ME WRONG? OH, YOU JUST PULL UP A CHAIR WHILE I GO GET MY LIST! Have I ever steered you wrong? Jeeminy Christmas. For starters, let’s talk about that one guy…

OTHER ME: Shut up.

ME: (smiles smugly)

OTHER ME: OK, ok, skip that. But this time, I am right. I am. This time you’ve got to trust me. You just have to.

ME: (pause) Can I have a Diet Pepsi, then? Caffeine-free? Can I at least have that? Huh? Can I?

OTHER ME: (sighs) I guess so.

ME: And a stick of Trident? One teeny stick?

OTHER ME: Now you’re pushing it. Go do some laundry.

ME SWIFTLY MAKES A MOTION THAT COULD BE AN OBSCENE HAND GESTURE TOWARDS OTHER ME, THEN LEAVES KITCHEN, EMPTY-HANDED, FOR LAUNDRY ROOM.

A Metaphor For My Life

2007-11-21T17:55:00.000-06:00

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with endurance the race set before us.
--Hebrews 12:1

That Was

2007-11-20T07:33:00.001-06:00

...the most fun I have ever had in public.

Pictures coming soon.

Runners to Your Mark, Get Set;

2007-11-16T12:04:00.000-06:00

And Sunday, it's go.

For those of you following along at home, you can go to KJRH.com Sunday morning and watch the live streaming video coverage! Don't look for me until at least 10:30ish, CST. (Scott and Doug and all you others, I have no idea what time that is where you are. Next Wednesday? Jim, I trust this won't interfere with your church schedule?) My race# is 10343. I don't know what color I'll be wearing yet, because that depends on the weather.

This is my first big race, so I have no idea what to expect. The distance itself doesn't scare me, but there are a lot of other variables. Anything could happen.

While it's "just" a quarter this time, I'm still pretty excited. It's partly because I have already started training for my next one, the half. And it's partly because it just sounds like a whole lot of fun. But it's also because I know this is just my first step. It's only a start, but I am in this running thing too deep to turn back now.

I wish I had said this first, but I didn't. John Bingham did, in "Marathoning For Mortals". But I'm claiming it here:

The miracle isn't that I finished. It's that I had the courage to start.

I Can Do Magic

2007-11-13T17:19:00.000-06:00

Somebody who had lost a lot of weight once told me that people were always asking him, “What’s your secret? What’s your secret?” It seems everyone wanted to know where he got his magic pill, magic bullet, magic something, magic anything. Sometimes he, Mr. Logical, would reply, “There is no magic. It’s just math.”

And he’s right, of course. It’s just math, and the equation looks something like this:

t( +C - -c < +C ) = - (w)
_________________________
> pants

Where t = time; +C = calories you stuff in your mouth; -c = calories you run off; w = weight; > pants = decline in pants volume.

See? “If I eat six donuts for breakfast and run 73 miles before work, what size jeans will I need to change into before lunch? Does that include sprinkles?” isn’t all that mysterious after all; it’s only a story problem.

Oh.

Goody.

That is a comfort, because if there’s anything I love more than a strict and intensive weight-loss regimen, it’s a good old-fashioned story problem.

Oh.

Joy.

But wait a minute here—don’t get your quadratics in a wad. Let’s look at this equation a little more carefully. Oh, look! What’s this? I see a little something that slipped into the formula that is not purely mathematical; it’s that little t in there. That t, as in, time.

You know what that little t is? That’s magic, that’s what it is. It is as magic as fairy dust and wishing stars and bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, it is. Because you can take any story problem they can throw at you, and if you get to multiply it by enough t, you can solve it—and brilliantly.

Weight loss? Easy. If the calories in are less than the calories out multiplied by enough t, you’ll melt away like magic. Need more money? The formula for that is just i = prt. You can start with almost nothing for principle, and have the measliest interest rate, but if you have enough time, you’ll eventually be loaded. See? Magic.

What else do you need to do? Remodel your bathroom? Fix a broken heart? Learn to clog? Raise better kids? The magic is t. Enough t, and you can do anything. Magic.

Of course, sometimes I have to remind myself that fairy dust by itself never got anything done. The fairy dust has to be sprinkled on something. Time by itself, contrary to the old saying, really rarely heals much, either. It has to be sprinkled on something--sweat, money, vitamin C, friends, mice, pumpkins, whatever you've got handy to work with. You would be surprised. It doesn't take much to get started. You just can't take away the t.

Perspective

2007-11-11T14:53:00.000-06:00

But what is man, that You are mindful of him?

Every November

2007-11-08T17:12:00.000-06:00

It was over seventy degrees outside today. In Oklahoma you take seventy-degree days for granted in May, but not in November. In November they are more precious and rare. You are more grateful for them. They seem more beautiful. This is fitting--November is the month of Thanksgiving. And gratitude is such a sacred, holy thing that everything it touches is sweeter, more beautiful, more filling. Everything. Even sadness.

It's odd. It seems that your very cells have a logic all their own. Somehow, they reason, "Hey, the last time I was sad, I was this temperature. I saw this same amount of sunlight. I felt this same kind of breeze, heard these same sounds, smelled these same smells. I must be in the middle of something sad, only I haven't heard about it yet. I'd better go ahead and activate all the usual sad responses, just in case." That's how I understand it, anyway. I am sure there are more scholarly explanations but I don't want to hear about them right now.

Here's another odd thing: of the ten saddest moments in my life, eight of them happened in November. Crazy, huh? And stranger still, I think I know several other people who might tell you something similar. Coincidences, probably. It doesn't really matter, except to the degree that it is another connection; and when you are sad, connectedness is an antidote.

But sometimes it's OK to be sad. No, sometimes, it's even good to be sad. And necessary. If we were never sad, we would never get around to doing a lot of things. Would you bother to get a cat, clean out that drawer, read the book of Isaiah, or reconnect with your old friend if you were never sad? Would you take the time to go get a physical, hug extra people, buy yet another pair of flannel pajamas if you were happy all the time? I think not.

Sadness or not, I still love November. It's when we do our thanks giving. And thanks giving makes everything precious.

Ha-Ha! You Said "Fartlek"!

2007-10-30T17:22:00.000-06:00

Perhaps this doesn't come across clearly in such a coarse medium as the internet, but I am actually a very genteel person. I was raised carefully and gently by a lovely and lady-like mother. I can set a gracious and attractive table. If I felt the need to join the local D.A.R., P.E.O. or Garden Club (including Rose, Tulip, Iris and Petunia units), I have the connections; my home-girls could hook me up. I say "Bless her heart" and you can tell I mean it. I own both full and half-slips, in both beige and white. Miss Manners is a personal hero of mine. I once had an actual hope chest wherein I once stored actual hand-embroidered linens which my mother taught me to satin stitch. And, well, oh, geeze, how do I say this? Uhm, OK: There are certain aspects of the human condition which I steadfastly refuse to acknowledge.

Those of you who know me know how much it cost me to write even that much. You could see me wincing as I typed it and flinching when I re-read it. But, there you have it. Sometimes, sacrifices must be made.

Yes, I have taught grade school. That's why in my worst nightmares, I awaken to find that I died in the night, am surprised to find that I had made a serious miscalculation in my theology and learn that Purgatory is indeed real and populated by only me and an infinite number of fourth grade boys laughing and pointing at each other.

And then, I wake up and realize that I teach in prison, which is not that far from my nightmare. However, unlike my nightmare, I have it entirely within my power to make it stop. No, I do not think a day in solitary confinement is a little harsh. You would be amazed by the refinement in manners one acquires after a restful, rejuvenating day locked up with nothing but your underwear to keep you company.

So imagine my horror when these wonderful, positive, educated and articulate people I have made acquaintance with through running sites keep saying "Fartlek". I mean, it's "I did Fartleks today." "Do you do Fartleks?" and "How do you like to Fartlek?" every day!

It was such a relief to look it up and find out that Fartlek is really a legitimate Swedish word that translates as speedplay. It seems that some Swedish running coach in the 30's designed a training system that involves running flat-out-I'm-gonna-die-fast-as-you-ever-can fast for a short distance, then slowing to a recovery jog for a short distance, then speeding up again. It is excellent conditioning, and leaves you feeling really, really good. It's proven to improve overall speed, strength, and endurance. It's pushing yourself for a short time knowing that you can do it, because you have a rest coming up. It's empowering.

So why did I feel the need to share that with you today? I don't know for sure. But I suspect it has something to do with the fact that Thursday I went to an upper administration meeting, Friday I told someone exactly what I thought, Saturday I ran five miles with a new running club, and, well, here it is almost ten o'clock Sunday night and I don't think I have done anything at all today that was terribly uncomfortable.

So I guess you could say that this is my mental Fartlek.

About the Time I Had a Throw-down Right There In My Sunday School Class

2007-10-25T18:56:00.000-05:00

It was last Sunday. We were talking about the attitudes and intentions of the heart. We were kicking around questions. Which is more important to God, attitudes or actions? What do you do with bad attitudes? What about negative emotions? How does God judge what he sees hidden in our hearts? After all, man looketh on the outward appearance, but God looketh on the heart. And didn't Jesus say that if you lust in your heart, it's the same as adultery, and hatred in your heart, the same as murder?

I'm not arguing with Jesus. I get that. I know, I think, what he might have meant. But still, somehow, I ended up blurting this out: I don't think your feelings themselves are wrong. I don't think any of them are wrong. Any feelings. Ever.

That was met with 100% instant disagreement. "What about greed?" "Isn't it wrong for me to feel lust for a woman other than my wife?" "What about anger, and holding grudges?" And other such things that any sensible person would say. And because I am a painfully slow thinker, and because I am a pathological people-pleaser, of course I backtracked my way out of that statement. But if I had thought it through, I would have defended it more vigorously.

Of course anger, greed, lust and envy are nasty little creepers that you don't want sucking on your soul. And no, such things are not found in a heart that is clean and free before God. I believe that.

But there is a difference between experiencing a feeling and sinning in it. Emotions, all of them, even the ugly ones--are a part of the human condition. They are a reflex. Unless you suffer some sort of irreparable trauma, you will always have automatic, uncontrollable emotional responses to life. And, sorry, but they ain't always purty. God knows that about us. He knows how we're wired. He knows the basic blueprint we are all based on, and he knows what individual variances come on each custom-made model. He knows who is going to tend towards self-pity, who favors arrogance and when and why.

Let's look at some of that hardwiring. You have a nervous system that is responsible for keeping you out of danger. It uses pain to tell you that something is wrong and needs to be fixed. Something injures your body, your body registers pain, your brain decides how best to stop the pain. Best case scenario, it's a quick reflexive fix. Get your tongue off the electric fence. Okay. Job done. You didn't have to spend much brain power there. But sometimes it's trickier. Is this just shinsplints, or do I have a stress fracture? Do I need to change shoes? Stop running? See a doctor? Should I sit out a day then re-evaluate? Get some advice?

Let's make a leap here. You psychology-minded people can correct me (and I know you will!) but aren't these feelings--greed, lust, envy, anger, arrogance, self-pity, bitterness and whatever else I'm leaving out--all a response to an injury? Aren't they all a signal that something is wrong and needs to be fixed? The difference between emotional pain and physical pain, though, is that we can't reach our own insides to fix it ourselves. Only God can do that.

But we have to make the decision to ask him. That's called confession.

Here is a state-of-the-art graphic to illustrate my point.

Well, ah, OK, maybe that didn't explain it, either. Let me try once more.

I think we Christians like to spend an awful lot of energy wringing our hands and moaning, "Oh, why, why, why am I always struggling with anger? Why am I plagued with lust? Greed? Why? Oh, why am I so evil?" and assuming that God looks at it the same way.

Maybe sometimes He does, but, well, mostly, I don't think so. I think that usually He is just watching me, saying, "Ah, would you like some help with that, Roxie? I can get that out for you. Whenever you have had enough. No hurry. When you are ready. Really. It's no problem. Jesus took care of it already. No charge. I'm right here. Yep. Right here. Ah, whenever you get tired of that. I'd be happy to. An-y-time. Anytime. Uh-huh. Anytime,Roxie. Roxie?"

One Other Book I Love

2007-10-24T21:29:00.000-05:00

I love this book so much that I am afraid that I will subconsciously start writing like the author. And then, because she is obviously a good writer, somebody would discover me and publish me, and I would end up meeting the author in court as a defendant where she is suing me for plagiarism instead of at a book signing where she tells me, "Oh! Roxie! I just love your books! They sound like something I would write!" That would be a blow, alright.

I mean, come on. Look at the title...She Got Up Off the Couch, and Other Heroic Acts From Mooreland, Indiana. Isn't that enough to sell you the book? It is a memoir of Haven Kimmel's childhood, and mostly her mother, who blew the pork rind crumbs off her blouse, went to college and reclaimed her life. For some pretty transparent reasons, I loved this book. Even though it was a bit sad, and Kimmel's impression of God a little bleak.

Sunday

2007-10-22T20:40:00.000-05:00

Some of my readers will get a smile out of this picture:

And as for the rest of you, this will explain:

It takes a long time to grow an old friend.

~John Leonard

Books That Changed My Life

2007-10-10T23:00:00.000-05:00

I wish I could track each one of you down and personally hand you a copy of these books. Since my readership has now swelled to at least seven or eight, that is still feasible. Except for a kindhearted soul in New Zealand that I don’t think I could get to before the end of the year, and I would so hate to leave her out.

Therefore, I have decided to do the next best thing and give you a book list. (My love affair with self-help books is explained here.) But these aren’t just any old how-tos. These books are ones that have changed my life. And changed me. Which is the same thing, isn’t it?

Even if you aren’t a Dobson fan, this book is THE book to read if you are in a marriage emergency. It’s a classic for a reason. No matter how your situation turns out, you’ll be better off for having read it. I know some of you will say, “Duh!” to this, but this was the first time I ever heard anyone say that even Christians can say, “Oh, no, you won’t!” to an out-of-control mate. A similar book is “Boundaries” by John Townsend and Henry Cloud.

Sanity for people who have to deal with Borderline Personalities. If the title made your tummy hurt, you probably ought to read this.

Explains everything you’ll ever need to know about everybody you’ll ever meet. Well, OK, it explains a lot. And it does it well enough that you really only need to read the first few chapters to slap your forehead and go, “OH! So THAT’S WHY he….”

Don’t laugh! It’s actually a very smart book! For women wondering, “Is this guy a loser, or a keeper?” Includes the incredibly reliable Jerk Test.

Read just one more book about weight loss. Please? Just this one.

I can not fully explain why, but somehow reading about how the brilliant spiritual giant C.S. Lewis threw himself on the floor and had a temper tantrum that lasted a couple of years when he found himself widowed and alone can be very helpful. His mourning journal is gut-wrenching, almost savage, but surprisingly comforting. This isn’t for everybody. In fact, it’s probably not for most of you. But at just the right time, it was definitely for me.

I didn’t just read this book; I inhaled it, absorbed it, assimilated it into every fiber of my being. Have you ever had anything, anything, bad or sad or ugly or mean happen to you, ever, even once in your life? This book is about that. Yeah. And it helps you feel better about that. Yeah. To date, I have given away four copies of this book. And people actually call me back and tell me that they really did read it. It’s that kind of book.

This seems like a follow-up to the above. It is not just about grief, though; it is also about fear or confusion or just plain not knowing what to do next. I would loan you my copy, but I haven’t quite committed it to memory yet. I am re-reading it for, maybe, the sixth time? Seriously.

If I hadn’t already read this book first, I think Dixie would have paid me to do it. While it has yet to accomplish my sister’s objectives, it has totally renovated the way I think about dating. And the best news? It makes dating fun again. Almost. Well, bearable, anyway.

Right now, somewhere, somebody in worse shape than you is training for a marathon.
Think about that for a while.

Boo.

2007-10-07T20:32:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: Some of you won't like this. I don't expect you to. If you just understand it, that will be good enough for me. Oh, yeah, and please remember that I love you anyway!

This is a rant about Fall Festivals, Hallelujah Parties, and any other activity that might be billed as a "Halloween Alternative".

Oh, yeah, I went there. Boldly. There, where few Christians dare tread. That sacred October cow of conservative American Christians.

Please, do not take this as a bid to be divisive and stir up trouble. What it is, as always, is my pathetic little attempt to explain myself to anybody who will stand still long enough. That's all.

So (deep breath) here goes:

I have a real problem with the concept of Halloween Alternatives for kids. I don't like my kids to participate in them.

This has nothing at all to do with whether or not you observe Halloween. I understand both sides of that question. I can respect where each is coming from. I will not try to argue anybody over to one side or the other on that.

What I do have a problem with, however, is the "not-Halloween-because-Halloween-is-wrong, but-we'll-still-dress-up-in-costumes-and-eat-candy-anyway." kind of parties.

If Halloween is wrong, it's wrong. Leave it alone. If it's not, it's not; don't drag the devil into it and give him more than his due.

I'll explain with this example: I teach my kids that cigarettes are bad for you. I don't want them to smoke them. Ever. So we leave them alone. Entirely. I don't buy them candy cigarettes (yes, they actually are still available. They're called "candy sticks" now, but every kid knows what they are.) When they were very small, I didn't let them "play smoke" lollipop sticks or straws. I certainly didn't tell them "Look, smoking is bad for you and I don't want you to do it, so instead we are going to get just as close to smoking as we can without actually smoking. Here; chew this nicorette gum. Hold this unlit cigarette. It's not the same as smoking, but you'll still have all the fun of smoking and it will almost look like you are smoking--we'll call it 'croaking'."

Kids are not little adults. They do not process information in the same way we do. They are concrete thinkers who do not understand the fine shadings of nuances between dressing up as a Bible Character, going to a party and getting candy and dressing up as Spiderman, going to a party and getting candy. They can't really reason out "pumpkin and scarecrow decorations are fine, but put a face on the pumpkin or a cape on the scarecrow and it's of the devil and bad."

Sure, you can tell them. You can have deep conversations with them about it. They can even parrot back to you a sweet and heartwarming version of what you said that may make you feel like you are really doing your duty as a God-fearing parent. But they are kids. They don't run on words. I don't care how bright they are--they just don't. They run on experiences.

What lesson do you think they are processing when they are told, "Halloween belongs to the devil--we don't do it"? They look around and see that their friends are dressing up in costumes and getting candy. And they are calling it "Halloween". Then they hear, "Guess what? We are going to dress up in costumes, go to the church, and get candy. But--no, no, no!-- we don't call it a Happy Halloween party! It's a Happy Harvest party!"

The only logical leap that a little concrete thinker can make is "If something is wrong, we can just call it a different name and do it with our church friends, then it will be right. OK. Got it."

Now that is something to be scared about.

Somewhere In The World Today, A Very Surprised Hog Farmer Is Watching His Pigs Soar Off Into The Sky

2007-10-05T20:44:00.000-05:00

Never say never.

Never, never, say never.

I Really Hate To Do This

2007-10-01T22:20:00.000-05:00

I want to write about something, but it's the sort of the thing that someone did just to get attention, so writing about it only encourages it. I hate the thought that I might be helping some immature sorta-celebrity reap a reward for her childish "Oooh! I'm so big I can say bad stuff--Now people will notice me!" stunt.

However, in even my most delusional moments I don't pretend that my blog is such a major media outlet that it will spark a flash of anything other than maybe a call from Mom. So I think I am pretty safe in talking about it here. (But I won't say her name! My luck, somebody really, really, really bored would follow every single Google link until they finally get here, and then WHAM! all of a sudden I'm being quoted by her publicist. Dang.)

Here's what happened: A comedienne won one of those semi-emmies--you know, one of those emmy awards for best animal handling in a mini-drama or whatever some such. This was not on the Big Oscar Night, but in the earlier ceremony. In her acceptance speech, she noted how people often thank Jesus for their success. She said that she was not going to do that, because Jesus had nothing whatsoever to do with her winning. She said that her trophy was her god now. And then she made the most breathtakingly offensive remark I have ever heard in my life.

And, remember--I work in prison.

I won't repeat it or anything like it here.

And that's pretty significant coming from me. I mean, I can usually overlook people's method and hear their message. I'll admit it--I've laughed at South Park. I am probably the most liberal member of my Sunday School class. (Of course, I realize that is like being the fattest model on the Fashion Week runway, or the hippest president the Math Club ever elected.)

But the remark itself is not the interesting part of the story. The interesting part is what happened next.

First came the audience's reaction: hoots of appreciative laughter. That is sad, and that plays right into the old saw about Hollywood being so out of touch with the rest of America. And that may be; I don't know. If you want to read on that topic, I'm sure you can find it. Plenty has already been written about that.

The next day came all the uproar, which made me feel better. It was a little comforting to hear the different groups blast the remark, and Fox's decision to edit it. It was nice to know that some people were still shocked by it.

And of course all that speaking out got lots and lots of attention, including an interview with an adoring Larry King. An interview with not a whiff of concern that someone might have been offended. An interview that proved the point that, in Hollywood, there is no such thing as bad publicity.

I don't know what the best reaction would have been. I think polite people should be horrified. No matter what your personal beliefs are, the remark was just plain rude. I think Americans should be outraged. That's the sort of intolerance that shows us at our ugliest. And as for Christians, do you know what I think Christians should be?

Listening.

To her. The one who said it. We should be listening to her because I think that behind her cold-blooded bid for attention, and the appreciative laughter that greeted it, is the firm belief that Jesus is irrelevant.

I need to listen to that.

I need to ask myself...if she were my neighbor, my co-worker, my sister-in-law...if she knew me...would she still believe Jesus is irrelevant?

My Last Lecture

2007-09-28T22:44:00.000-05:00

Note: Sorry, kids--I don't mean THOSE kinds of lectures. You're not getting off that easy. This is in reference to yesterday's post. Professor Randy Pausch's final lecture has been an overnight internet hit. You can read about it here, or view the entire 90 minute video here. Because Pausch's farewell is so artlessly un-sad and because he is so obviously a teacher's teacher, it doesn't to me seem disrespectful to piggyback on his theme. In fact, I would think that as a teacher, he would be honored to know that teachers all over the world are seizing the teachable moment and thinking about what they hope the main objective of their lesson of a lifetime will be.

For my last lecture, I will need to use the Powerpoint. I need it to show you slides of my farm where I was raised, where my parents and grandparents grew up, too. I need to include some clips (with audio) of my large extended family singing around a bonfire; gospel hymns in four-part harmony that everybody knows by heart. Of course, my parents get a good several minutes' montage devoted just to them. The background music with that is Johnny Cash singing I Walk the Line. Next I show some still pictures of three-legged races at church picnics, The Alva Public Library, Dixie and Rex and I making mud pies, every teacher I ever had, and scraggly ugly cedar trees dragged in from the pasture and decorated for Christmas.

At this point, I show some charts and graphs plotting the frequency, distribution, and duration of friendships in my life. I will be sure to point out the correlations of friendship to Bad Times, and maybe assign a similar project to my class. Prove the following hypothesis: Friends reduce the intensity of the near-unbearable. Please be sure to highlight in yellow only.

We don't cover the part about my kids until after the break. There is certainly some poetic justice in that. But it's only because they take up such a large chunk of the time, and require such focus that I want the class to be ready and alert. There is a lot of material to cover. Baby pictures. Shot records. Report cards. Mother's Day presents. Here would also be a good place for a hands-on tutorial on how to text message with absolute authority.

Because this is education and not propaganda, because I want to preserve my credibility with a fair and balanced presentation, I will have to provide some information that I don't paticularly like. I think handouts will be the best way to go here. Some stapled photocopies for everyone which include bank statements, death notices, a divorce decree, a few job performance reviews. Here is a good place to put photos and short bios of people I have loved who, for one reason or another, are no longer a part of my life. If we have time, we will even discuss possible ways in which I have dropped the ball on those people. Then I go back to the Powerpoint for a few soundbytes of my children being interviewed by some hard-hitting journalist who asks questions like, "Tell me about a time your mother let you down."

Every teacher has to learn how to find that line between sharing enough of yourself to connect with students and keeping a professional distance. It is also different for every class. For instance, when I am teaching a night class at the college, I may share a lot more than I would with my classes of inmates at the prison--such as talking about my kids, or mentioning somewhere I went on a date. When I am teaching at the prison, though, I am totally in touch with my inner nun. I never mention those subjects.

But sometimes, you have to teach with your gut. The textbooks can only take you so far. And for My Last Lecture I will have to use all this personal information. It's the supporting material that I need to emphasize the three main points of my outline:

1.) We are supposed to take care of each other. I'm pretty sure that's how it works.
2.) God really does seem to know what He's doing.
3.) It'll be O.K.

And yes, this will be on the final.

Discuss Amongst Yourselves:

2007-09-24T20:14:00.000-05:00

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB119024238402033039.html

I'm busy. So instead of reading some of my usual drivel, click on this article (forwarded to us by our West Coast Representative, Scott) and tell me what you think. I know I have a lot of teachers in my readership, and you preacher-type people can just insert the word "sermon" for lecture.

What about you? What would you say?

An Evening at the Improv

2007-09-14T20:48:00.000-05:00

I have always been fascinated by improv actors. How do they take the stage with absolutely no prep, no plan, no script and then somehow improvise a story line with no tools other than their collective wit? It's a terrifying feat. It's flying without a net. I have seen a troupe of actors take three words from the audience--words like, say, rutabaga, nosebleed, and wistful--and from those words conjure up a scene with convincing characters and interesting plots that keep an audience riveted. Good improv troupes make it seem almost eerie; you would swear there was ESP or magic involved.

But today I read how it works, and at the risk of seeming like a spoiler who points out the fake bottom in the magician's hat, I will share it with you. And if you stick with me, you might get something to think about here--even if you don't plan to quit your day job to pursue that promising acting career.

The secret is that even though the troupe has no preparation, it does have some well-defined parameters. Because all the actors accept the rules, the scene is free to develop within those boundaries, and the actors are ready for it.

For instance, the first rule is that whatever another actor says, it has to be accepted as fact. You can't challenge or deny it. Here's how that works:

ACTOR A: Your hair is on fire.
ACTOR B: No it's not. My hair colorist sneezed.

Actor B just broke the rule. He rejected the premise--and didn't even get a good laugh from it. Worse still, he left Actor A with nowhere to go. What can he say back? Maybe an insult about the hair color, but then that's it. The scene is over. Now look what happens when Actor B follows the rules:

A: Your hair is on fire.
B: Yeah, I know.

Now, A has a zillion directions he can go with this. He can yell. He can ask, "Do you plan on putting it out?" He can teach him to stop, drop and roll, he can warm his hands over it, he can light a cigarette off it... whatever flits through his mind as a response. Then B will have something to respond to, and a lot of choices about how to respond to it. See how it works? Doesn't even this lame attempt at a scene make you a little curious as to what will happen next?

I read about that rule today in a book called "Blink", a very interesting little book about something entirely different than what I am getting around to. But when I was thinking about improvisational acting, I couldn't help but think about how its rules apply to real life.

When you reject what is, you don't leave yourself, or those around you, much to work with. Here's an oversimplification:

PERSON A: You're short.
PERSON B: No, I'm not. I'm just slouching.
PERSON A: OK, whatever.

And that's the end of that. A is not going to offer to reach that top shelf for you now. You're not going to ask if there is a step-stool around. You won't ask if the pants can be altered or if you could possibly stand in front. Because you've rejected the premise, nothing much is going to happen now. You're stuck.

I don't know about you, but that is the way it works in my life. When I won't admit that I need to eat more fruit or sometimes I get depressed or I am out of shape or I need more money or this relationship isn't working or my house needs painting or I need to get out more or any other reality in my life, I'm pretty well stuck. When I reject it, I don't leave myself or my friends or even God himself any room for response. That scene is over and I realize nothing interesting happened.

But when I accept it, when I come back with, Yeah, I know--that's when the scene works.

That's when it gets interesting, and that's when I get a little curious as to what will happen next.

<-------The Turtle Thingies Over There

2007-09-10T22:00:00.000-05:00

Readers have been flooding our offices (Ok, Ok....one reader. One reader have been flooding our offices. Whatever.) with questions about the little turtle count-down dealies over on the sidebar.

EDITOR'S NOTE: For those of you following along at home on your e-mail, you'll have to join us at the blog site to see them. They are pretty darn cute.

If you have noticed the turtle count-down dealies, you may have also noticed that they refer to some sort of future event that appears to have something to do with some sort of race. Obviously, that can't be what they are really for...counting down to a race race. "Of course," readers are assuring themselves, "it is some sort of other event, like, maybe, The First Annual Ranger Name-That-Gospel-Hymn-Tune Race, or the Route 66 Sonic Butterfinger Blast Eating All Day Marathon. Of course that is what Roxie is referring to. A race! Hoo-boy. How silly of us to think that it was a race race. My, aren't we embarrassed! Won't Roxie think that is funny?"

Welllllll....not so fast there, sports fans.

Maybe, just maybe, Roxie really does mean a race race. Maybe. Hey--it could happen.

Seriously.

Don't panic, it's not a sign of the Apocalypse. I am not going to run a marathon; just...part of one. Did you know you can do that? You can. And you still get a medal, so it's all good. And the Route 66 is a great one to run. For one thing, it's big enough that my odds of finishing dead last are about 1/3000. I can live with that risk. And besides, there is just something cool about the idea of being in a crowd that big where everyone is headed in the same direction. How often does that happen?

The Ranger Run, though--that is something else altogether. It is not a big deal, per se', because I can run that far, just a little over 3 miles, before breakfast. (Now keep in mind that when I say "run", I am using a fairly generous definition of the word. But that's not the point.) However, it is a big deal in that, because it is a small local race, it is quite possible that I could be the VERY LAST ONE across the finish line. Yeah. That could happen, too. Ouch.

Even worse, it would be right here, in my own hometown, for everybody to see. Everybody. Like my teen-aged children. Like my ex-husband. Like people who have known me my whole life who would be saying "Oh! They must be giving away free Snickers down there. Why else would Roxie be moving so fast?" Like the Real Runners, who might turn me in for impersonating a runner. I have to think hard about that one for a little while. I'm not wanting to be the human-interest angle, here. I just want to be in the pack somewhere.

So why would I even think about running the Ranger Run? I have lots of reasons, but one reason is my kids. You see, I could tell my kids that you have no idea what you are capable of, that you are never too old to learn something new about yourself, that you should never let someone else tell you who you are, that you don't have to just lie down and let life roll over you; that while whatever it is in your life that is chasing you down just may get you in the end, you can make it pant, sweat, swear, suck air and ache for mercy before it finally does catch you. I could tell them all of that. But if I show them, maybe they'll believe it.

I won't win any prizes in the overall awards. I won't win any prizes in the Female, 41-49 age group. But in the Forty-Two Year-Old, Severely-Under-Pronating Gaited Women Who Used To Weigh 250 Pounds, Were Hopeless and Helpless and Fearful About Life in General and Who Five Years Ago Wouldn't Have Run Even If You'd Pointed The Starting Gun Straight At Her, group---in that group? Oh, I dominate. I take names. I own it.

This Is Not a Big Deal

2007-09-05T18:11:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: If you are my friend named Lisa, do not read this. It will only embarrass you. Everybody else, here goes:

Last October Lisa got some very bad, very scary news. It was the from-out-of-nowhere, blind-sided, side-swiping, I-don't-even-feel-sick, you-can-not-be-talking-about-me, cancer-kind of news. And so Lisa's life was suddenly rearranged. Lisa's, and Gary's, and their kids' and all of us who love them.

But when things change up like that, you do what has to be done, and on you go. I talked to Lisa two days ago. She is now in her--third? fourth?--I've lost count, I'm ashamed to say--round of chemo. She's had two major surgeries, four or five trips to Houston. It's been a little crazy.

So it didn't really surprise me when she told me that Gary had decided he just had to do something different. Yep. He had to. He had to remodel something.

Before all the girls here start howling for Gary's head, I have to tell you that Gary is a good husband and terrific carpenter--he finishes all his remodeling projects fast, does beautiful work, and cleans up his own messes.

Even so, Lisa was telling me things that would alarm a lesser woman--things like, "busted up the patio" and "whole new master bathroom" and "tear out the living room wall". But not Lisa. That's never been Lisa's style.

"You know, " she said, "when you've just spent the last year fighting for your life, you learn what really is, and what isn't, a big deal. A little dust? Some dirt? Some noise? This is not a big deal."

You're right, Lisa. This is not a big deal. Not a big deal.

Most things aren't, are they?

You Never Forget Your First, Do You?

2007-08-30T17:24:00.000-05:00

Car. Your first car. You never forget it.

Especially if you're a guy. A man can be fuzzy on the details of his children's births, have to double-check whether Christmas is on the 24th or the 25th, forget who his best man was and give the wrong answer to the question, "What's your wife's middle name?", but he can tell you that his first car was a '69 Ford Fairlane 260 V-8 with dual exhausts, 14-inch wheels, three hubcaps and a home-made Skoal-can keychain that he bought from his cousin Skeez for $943 on a sunny Saturday afternoon after OU beat Nebraska. Skeez was wearing his "Nothing Runs Like a Deere" t-shirt, Stevie Nicks was on the radio, Mom was making goulash and fried potaoes, and the crisp Autumn air hinted at the glory of all creation at its zenith singing the heart-melting song of the young and the free.

No, really. I'm not kidding. I've heard men do almost that. Almost.

Before I sound too much like the man-basher that I most definitely am not, I will remind my female readers that we do something very similarly weird when we start in on labor stories. But I'll save that to write about on another day.

When I have trouble getting my students (mostly men, mostly incarcerated, mostly involuntarily schooled) to write essays for me, I have one never-miss trick. I tell them to write about their first cars. Talk about a writing prompt. Suddenly the boyz from da hood are poets and Bubba from over yonder is an author.

My all-time favorite first car story was one of those assignments. I wish I had saved it. It seems that this nice young inmate had had a girlfriend. And this girlfriend's father gave the young man a car--in return for breaking up with his daughter.

I am sure Dad thought he'd made the deal of the century with that one.

The last words of that essay were something like:

And I remember seeing her dad in my rear-view mirror, smiling and waving as I drove away.

About That Cat...

2007-08-27T17:47:00.000-05:00

(That Cat's first blog mention can be found by clicking here.)

The Cats have now become That Cat. I have no idea what happened to Cat #3 and Cat #2, but we still have Cat #1. Please do not alert any authorities--That Cat is well cared for, fed, petted, tolerated, and even, sheesh--ick--loved.

By some of us.

Rebekah, however, has a few words to say about That Cat:

You know how you meet someone that you don't really like, but they just LOVE you? And then after that, you're their best friend, and you just can't get rid of them? No matter how much you push them away, they just won't take a hint? That's what our cat is like.

Please do not alert any authorities. That Kid is well-cared-for, fed, tolerated, and even loved. And the doctor has assured us that, while it may be a little late kicking in, her compassion gland does seem to be healthy.

Conversations with My Sons

2007-08-21T20:11:00.000-05:00

ME: I'm tired.

ELI: Did you teach hard today? Did you teach Geonometry?

ME: Not today. I taught English today.

ELI: Oh. English is a hard suspect.

ME: Yes--yes, it is.

*****

ME: When I was a kid, we made popcorn in a pan on the stove. We put some oil in a big pan, and poured a little popcorn seeds in, and you had to put the lid on and stand there and shake it and listen to it pop.

ELI: And you had to put the wood on the stove and keep the fire lit, right?

*****

SILAS:(at the Mexican restaraunt, stuffing a flour tortilla with a steak-and-potatoes concoction) This is better than a fajita, Mom. This is a "Manjita."

Indulge Me

2007-08-18T17:12:00.000-05:00

This morning I was running out past the railroad tracks north of town. It was an overcast, occasionally sprinkly morning.

It was such a great morning for running that I almost forgot the #1 rule: remember, you still gotta get back home.

When I run, I play games with my pace. "I'll sprint on the choruses and walk on the verses" "I'll run until I see a pickup, then I'll walk until I see a car" "I'll run till I think I'm gonna die, then I'll walk until I get bored with that" and so on. I could tell you I do that because a lot of running experts now advise something like that for amateurs of (ahem) a certain age, which is true, but it's really because that's the only way I can cover any ground at all. Seriously.

This morning I was heading back to town thinking I was about finished with the running part for today when I got to the train tracks. And the lights came on. And I saw the train waaaaay down there. And (close your eyes, Mom!) I thought "I don't wanna stand here forever!" and I took off on one more sprint. (NO, I WAS NOT BEING STUPID AND CARELESS MOM! I PROMISE! I would have had time to stop and tie both shoes and look around a little for smashed pennies while I was down there. It was a LONG ways off. OK, Mom? I have a very healthy respect for trains, I promise. It wasn't at all dangerous. That's not the point of the story!)

What IS the point of the story is that I had, yes, even one more second wind left in me this morning. Who knew? I passed the tracks and kept on running around the curve.

And it felt glorious.

Glorious.

Fun With Polygamy, Part II

2007-08-16T18:53:00.000-05:00

DISCLAIMER: If this is your first visit to my blog, your only hope is to start with Part I, HERE. Even then, as my regular readers will warn you, things can get pretty messy. This might be a good place to turn back. I'm sure you can find something good on youtube.

I once heard a man talk about his three wives. You could call him a sort of "accidental polygamist." He wasn't legally married to any of them. He hadn't really set out to make any sort of political or religious statement. They were just three women that he had fallen in love with at about the same time, and I guess he thought it would be a shame to break up the set. As best as I can remember, he summed up his story something like this:

"You know, I love every one of my wives to death. It would kill me if any of them left, or if anything happened to one of them, and I could never, ever pick between 'em. But it's a lot harder than I thought it would be. They all kinda gang up on me, they're all wanting babies, and they all cycle together, anyway, so the PMS around here is enough to 'pert near kill a stronger man than me. It probably woulda' been easier if I'd just picked one of 'em, but I guess it's too late for that now."

I'm hazarding a guess here that all of you men who are, or have been, or even have merely had a close call with being, married are nodding right now, saying, "Yeah, I bet that's right!" and are not struggling much with envy for that lucky guy. Just a guess. (Note: be sure not to miss Doug's comment here. Doug, a free-lance commenter stationed in Florida is a valuable member of our blog team.)

And you can't just say that's a modern outcome caused by more enlightened women with higher expectations. Go look through the Old Testament and you will see troubles with polygamy that sent men to war. Maybe to them, a gruesome death in battle seemed easier to face than a domestic squabble between two angry women defending their young. (Again, I see you married men nodding.) And all of that domestic unrest occurred right under the noses of some of God's most venerated heroes of the faith! Right in their own tents! And God never seemed to say a word about it all! Nowhere does he say, "Jacob! Be fair to Leah! David! Abigail is enough wife for any one man! And Solomon, for crying out loud, you're just showing off! You guys are all just asking for trouble!"

I've always wondered why God seemed unconcerned with all this marital mayhem. In fact, (and you seminary grads feel free to jump in and correct me here if I am wrong) I don't know that God says a word about multi-wives until way later when He tells Paul to tell the early church that deacons should have only one wife. That's thousands of years later, and that's an awful lot of wives duking it out over who's going to her tent alone tonight! What's up with that? Did God not notice what was going on? Did He not even care if the Israelite wives were happy? Did He think that women didn't deserve any better? Admit it girlfriends--you've thought that, too.

But that was before I thought about what marriage meant back in those ancient times. Then, leaving home meant really leaving home, possibly never to see your family again. The young bride was--maybe--thirteen years old. Because young women did not get out to socialize, the groom and his family were strangers. And because she was the new-comer, because she was a woman, because she had yet to prove her usefulness in childbirth or domestic prowess, she was at the very bottom of the family organizational chart. Only the small girl-children in the household had less clout. And if one of them was looking like she might turn out to be a valuable bargaining bride, well, even the littlest sister-in-law might rank higher than the new wife. I would be understating to say that this whole situation was not a good opportunity for a young wife to achieve personal fulfillment and self-actualization.

So what might possibly help equalize the power imbalance for the out-gunned and out-numbered young wife? What might provide her some comfort from home-sickness? Who could she turn to for sympathy? Where could she go for advice about how to understand this grown man who had complete power and authority over her?

Do you know? (I know! My girlfriends know! Carol, Lisa, Dayna, Dixie--you know the answer!) Who better than another woman who had been in her shoes before? His other wife! A girlfriend, right there in the very same boat! You see, something amazing happens when women become friends and stick together. Something amazing that men don't entirely understand and even maybe fear just a little. So when that sister-wife thing did happen to take, the power of having a girlfriend at your side might have made all the difference.

Let me say it this way: As a mom, if I knew I was going to have to pack a barely-teen-aged daughter up and send her off forever with grown men who discussed her in terms of how many babies she looked like she could carry and how many goats she would be worth, I would feel better--a little; just a little--if I was sending her sister along with her, or if I knew there might possibly be a sympathetic woman already in her new husband's home to help her learn her way.

It's easy for me, here in my comfy present-day life, to look back at such an unthinkable arrangement and turn up my nose. But I live in a time when the phone book is filled with marriage counselors, when daddies are proud to strap on Snugli's, when women have more choices than at any time in history. It's easy for me to say, "God! Why didn't you fix that! It was a guaranteed heart-breaker! Even I could have predicted that the whole Sarah and Hagar thing was a live grenade from the git-go, and you're telling me YOU didn't see it coming? Why didn't you put a stop to that? Why didn't you just say, 'Hey! Men! Only One Per Customer!"

But I have noticed something about God. God's a realist. He knows who he's dealing with here. He knows what we're capable of, how far we can stretch, how much we can change. He also knows how selfish and weak we are; how we cling to our pride. ("How would it look to those Edomites if we can only handle one woman apiece? What would those Moabites think? We'd be the laughing stock of the Kidron Valley!")

No, I don't think this is about God being indifferent. I think God very much cared about all that heartache and sadness. (By the way, it is quite likely that those horrible stories in the Old Testament made print because they were fairly rare. Anthropologists say that the polygyny worked, on the whole, fairly well.) I think that God also, seeing the big picture that we don't see, knew that the time wasn't right for such a drastic change. Like any good parent, I think he was patiently waiting for us to grow up a little before he expected better behavior from us.

(However, I think I speak for most of my women readers when I say we are really, really glad most of you men have outgrown that phase.)

And Now For Something Completely Different: Polygamy, Part I

2007-08-16T08:45:00.001-05:00

So that we can deliver fresh and relevant content to you, our readers, we here at the home office rely heavily on reports from the field. We are grateful to Jim, our man on the ground in Salt Lake City, for today's little news byte. I'll turn it over to you, Jim:

Well, let's see. My first night in SLC (Sunday) we had to look quite a while to find a restaurant open on Sunday night. We did, finally, find a local micro brewery. So, not only were we able to find a restaurant that was open, we were able to have a beer. One of their specialties is the polygamy beer. Its tag line is "when one isn't enough".

Thanks, Jim! Back to the studio now.

Of course, responsible journalism dictated that I pass that information on to you. I knew that so many of you were wondering, "Are polygamy-based adult beverages available to the general public yet?" Well, thanks to Jim's tireless efforts, you now know the answer.

But it also gave me the excuse I was waiting for to write about polygamy. For reasons that make perfect sense only to me--Oh, I suppose I could explain it to you so that you would see I am not all that weird, and it would make sense to you, too, but I am not about to here--I have thought a lot about polygamy. Not in the same way I have thought about, say, highlighting my hair or re-grouting my shower. I mean I have thought about it like, "What the heck is THAT all about?"

I have even done some reading about it. (For a very sad look at the darker side, you can look here. For general curiosity's sake, try here.) In my studies, I quickly came to two important conclusions. 1.) I am not destined for an exciting career in the anthropological sciences because saying phrases like, "breeding adaptation" and "bonding practice" and the really silly-sounding, "polyamorous peoples" makes me giggle, and I am fairly sure that giggling is considered bad form amongst even the most tolerant of academics. 2.) I'm not interested in having a sister-wife, thank you.

I also consulted our in-house marriage and families expert, Professional Bachelor Scott. In case you haven't met yet, Scott heads up our West Coast Blogging Division from our LA offices. Because he is so efficient in his blogging duties, Scott has time to moonlight as Professor in the Department of Families or some what-not or other like that at Cal State, Northridge. So he sometimes knows oddball stuff. Scott pointed out that polygamy is actually a broader term and that polygyny means one man, more than one wife, and polyandry (a rarer form of polygamy) is one woman, more than one husband.

(My apologies, but The Code of Responsible Journalistic Ethics demands that I remind you here of that old joke about how it's every woman's fantasy to have three men at one time: one in the kitchen, one at work...)

But a real, live, important tidbit that Scott pointed out was this: women who commanded the least respect and are considered to be the most repressed are women in traditionally polyandrous societies. That surprised me. But if you think about it, if sharing a wife is seen as a matter of convention and convenience, it could take on all the romance of, say, arranging a carpool, or two neighbors deciding to purchase and share one snow-blower, and it's easy to see how a woman could be seen as not much more important than that.

How sad.

I'm no expert here, but I am thinking that the purpose of any home and family from any type of "evolving bonded small group" should be that it would be a place where everybody who belongs to it is considered important and deserving of respect. Don't you think so, too?

Stay tuned, folks! Tomorrow I will actually get to my point. It's something about God and polygamy and the Old Testament. And, in spite of what you are thinking, it might even have something to do with you!

Helpful Time Management Hints

2007-08-11T13:56:00.000-05:00

I often hear "How do you find the time to write?" and "But when do you do all this running?" and "How do you get so much done with a full-time job, a part-time job, and three kids at home?"

The answer is that I have developed a very effective time-management system. And because we here at the home office are concerned with improving the quality of your life, we hope the following tips will be helpful to you.

1. TASK LISTS:
The task list is an essential tool for the modern busy family. However, many people use the inefficient method of listing the day's important chores and crossing them off as they are completed. We find this to be frustrating and stressful, as rarely do people accomplish the entire list. Instead, I use a different approach. I like to write down what I actually did do yesterday, cross it off, and leave it lying around in a conspicuous place. This makes everybody feel much better about me and my productivity.

2. MASTER SCHEDULES:
Many harried working parents swear by the Master Schedule system, showing every family member's activities and schedules coordinated in a central location. Our family is no different. Here we see a typical day on our master schedule:

3. PRIORITIZE:
I can not stress enough the importance of adopting a family mission statement. It should reflect the family's unique values, goals, and dreams. It should be well-thought out and concisely written so that it can easily guide the family's decisions and actions. I will now share with you our family's goals and mission statement.

FAMILY GOALS:

1. Our house and the people who live in it should not usually smell funny.

2. We will try not to misplace kids under 10.

3. No single family member should weigh more than the family car.

4. Never, ever run out of ketchup.

5. We do not post bail.

FAMILY MISSION STATEMENT:

Let's all try to meet back here in 10 years for Christmas, OK?

I hope this will encourage you to develop a system for your family, too! Good luck on your new, organized lifestyle!

Love Story

2007-08-06T23:34:00.000-05:00

Yes, you all love love stories. You do. Everybody does. And, yes, you all have a love story. Yes, you do. Everybody does.

Once I read about some writer who took a typewriter to a busy street corner and spent a year sitting there, stopping strangers and asking them for their love stories. I don't know what kind of a book he got out of it, but I remember him saying that he could have spent the rest of his life collecting love stories from ordinary people who, when first asked, said, "Oh, no, I'm not that interesting. I don't really have what you'd call a story."

The only love story that I can recall writing is this one (click here). I will get around to writing more, I'm sure, and I am especially drawn to the non-fiction ones. And so, today, I am going to share a little from a great big non-fiction love story.

I can't claim this. It comes from author Rob Bell's book, SexGod. Rob Bell was brought to our attention by our newest staff member here, Kristy. Kristy has been recently named to the position of Liaison to People Who are Way Younger And Cooler And Groovier And Blonder Than We Are. (You can find Kristy's blog by clicking here.)

I have heard the gist of what Bell wrote before, but I like the way he puts it:

Exodus begins with the God of compassion, the God of justice, hearing the cry of slaves in Egypt and setting out to do something about it. God sends a man named Moses to rescue them, and it's through Moses that God makes four promises to these slaves.

"I will take you out."

"I will rescue you."

"I will redeem you."

"I will take you to me."

There's a reason why these four promises are so significant--they're the promises a Jewish groom makes to his Jewish bride. This is wedding language. Somebody hearing this in the story in its original context would realize that some sort of marriage is going to take place.... God tells them, "Now if you obey me fully and keep my covenant, then out of all nations you will be my treasured possession."
"Treasured possession" is the phrase a groom would call his bride. More wedding language.

The response of the Hebrews is, "We will do everything the Lord has said."

The people essentially say, "We do."

So that's the Big Love Story--that God picked us, all of us, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish. See? Even if you aren't feeling particularly romantic today, you need to know that you've already been picked. You're already loved. You're the co-star in a very big love story.

Movie Review: Ratatouille or However You Spell It

2007-07-23T22:24:00.000-05:00

A good reason to have kids is that they give you an excuse to go to Pixar movies. (Pixar, as you probably know, is the studio that gave us one of the finest movies ever made, Toy Story.) Bek and Silas did a good job of letting me take them to movies for years, but when I realized they were getting old enough that they might blow my cover I quickly sprang into action and made another kid. And that's why God gave you to Mummy, Eli dearest.

Eli and I went to see Ratatouille last night. It was cute, even though it was about the two things I loathe most in the world: cooking and rats. If you could get around the idea of rats taking over the kitchen duties in a restaurant, (Aaack. Pfffft. Ptooooey. Ick.) you could even spend a little time mulling over the big grown-up themes explored. The movie was all about chasing your dreams, overcoming obstacles, believing in yourself, and balancing your love and responsibilities to your family with your drive to fulfill yourself.

I suppose I did leave the theater with a little more hopefulness than usual. I mean, if a nasty old sewer rat can figure it out, surely we can, too?

My Final Word on Harry Potter

2007-07-21T14:10:00.000-05:00

Greater love hath no man than this: That he lay down his life for his friends.
John 15:13

I need a nap.

Tonight's the Night

2007-07-20T07:01:00.000-05:00

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is out tonight at midnight!

In case you follow Harry, here's my prediction:

1. We will find out that Snape's betrayal (very Judas-inspired) was not at all a surprise to Dumbledore, and that he knew all about it and somehow used it as part of a bigger plan, or possibly even engineered it himself.

2. Ron will die to save Harry, and that love will defeat Voldemort once and for all. It will happen publicly so everyone knows it. And Ron will, posthumously, finally get what he, a lovable very average middle-child in a family full of over-achievers, has always wanted...some recognition. He'll end up being more famous than Harry. Of course, he'll be dead. (Which will break my heart, because he is so much like MY teen-aged red-headed middle son!)

OK....only 16 more hours.....

Because I Can. That's Why.

2007-07-18T18:37:00.000-05:00

Let's get one thing straight: I am not an athlete.

(Those of you who know me can take a pause here to recover from that aching, snorting, howling belly laugh that statement caused. The rest of you need to keep reading.)

I am not now, nor have I ever have been, athletic, coordinated, or sporty. How can I help you understand the severity of my sports deficiency? TRUE STORY: When I was in college, our small church decided to field a team for the church softball league. After my grandmother told them that she would have to miss some of the games during the county fair, they scratched their heads for quite a while before someone doubtfully suggested, "Well, I guess we could ask Roxie."

I used to think that avoiding sweat was a life goal. I would rather read about running than run. As a kid, I participated in exactly three grade school track meets--in the "Let's Just Go Ahead and Call Them Dorks" race, the 440-yard walk. And that was only because somebody made me. I am pretty confident that even today, my mom could take me in a short sprint on a good track. In her Dr. Scholl's.

About two years ago, though, when my weight was upgraded from annoying to emergency status, I bought a pair of running shoes. (Anyone who tells my dad how much running shoes really cost will be de-blogged.) And I started running.

At first, I hated it. Then, after about six months, I hated it. Finally, a year later--I hated it. But I was learning to love the benefits. Most noticeably, running feels sooooooo good when you stop. Everything people tell you about it really is true. I feel healthier and happier. I have more energy. My cholestrol is now a very sexy 128. My liver enzymes went from an unsightly 76 to a drop-dead, gorgeous-hot 19. Because I run, I can even justify a little bit of chocolate now and then.

A few months ago, I noticed something surprising about running. The running itself is, well, not that bad. I don't know. Maybe, even, kinda fun. So that was another reason to run.

Lately though, there has been yet another reason motivating me. In fact, right now, it's about all I think about while I run: I run because I can.

There are alot of people in my life that I care about who can't run. Some may run again, but some never will. I think about that while I pound along. They can't run, but I can. And what a tragic waste it would be, what a sin, what an insult to my Maker, to be able to put my feet down just as strong as I can and push myself forward just as fast as I can and fling myself at the world just as hard as I can--but to say, "Nah. Sounds hard. I'll just limp along. Thanks."

That's why I run. Because they can't, but I can. So I'll run for them.

And I'll keep running until I can't run anymore.

And when that day comes, I hope someone I love will run for me.