My Mommy Told Me So

We hear a lot about skin cancer these days, and that most of the damage actually occurs when we're young.  Melanoma runs in my family.  Although my daughters are old enough to know how important sunscreen is and the ramifications of not using it, my 14 year old is, well, 14.  She’s my social butterfly and if she’s having a good time, which is pretty much always, she tends to forget things.  This weekend was one such occasion.

Knowing she was going to be swimming at a friend’s Saturday, I texted her Friday night, little sunshine emoticons and all, and reminded her to wear sunscreen.  She sent back, in all caps, “OKAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY.” 

She came home yesterday with burns on her shoulders and face.  Mama was not happy, and I told her so.

“I texted you! You said ‘OKAAAAAAY’!”

“I know, I just didn’t think we were gonna be out there that long!”

This is not our first rodeo with the sun. It happens every year at camp. And did I mention melanoma runs in my family? I repeat, mama ain’t happy.

Later that night I told her I was very concerned about her going to camp in less than 10 days and not taking care of herself. 

“Mom, I know.  I just prayed and asked God for wisdom so I will remember never to let this happen again.”

Did my teenager just say she prayed for wisdom?  Not just rescue from the pain and discomfort of her circumstances. But wisdom.  I’m a proud parent every day.  But every once in a while, God gives me a little bonus oomph. And my fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants free spirit girl telling me she didn’t just pray, “Oh God please don’t let me get skin cancer!” but that she asked Him for wisdom to learn from this and make better choices in the future was quite an oomph.

 Why would she do that?

Because I told her to. 

Statistics will tell us that our years of influence with our children are short.  They may live in our houses for 17 or 18 years, but they only hang on our every word for a little over half of that time.  That means when my kids were 5, I could tell them the sky was purple and they would’ve believed me, even if everyone else around them was saying it was blue.  But when they hit 11 or 12, they decide that mom and dad might not know everything.  And not only that, but won’t it be fun to tell them so.

I've been teaching my babies to talk to God since before they could talk to me. Yesterday I saw the years of my spiritual influence at work.  Apparently they believed me when I said God loves you, He listens to you, and He has every solution you're ever going to need. 

I realized in that moment that this child has been living with an amazing confidence in prayer for quite a while, and I’m embarrassed to say I just missed it.  I remembered all the mornings that she has come to me and told me she went to bed with a bad headache or stomach ache. When I asked, “Honey why didn’t you come get me?” Her response was, “I prayed and it went away.”

And all I was gonna do was give her a Tums or some Advil. I guess she told me.  

There's No Crying in Softball!

The year is 1994. It's summer, and I'm a newlywed. I'm also a size 4. That last part has no bearing on the story whatsoever. I just want it duly noted.

This was back in the day of good ole' Sunday night services, followed by something social. In this case, softball.  This was usually a guys-only thing. Until one night, a friend of mine had this great idea. "Let's get up a girls' game next week!"

The next week we stood on the field and waited to be chosen. It was 6th grade kick-ball all over again.

On the car ride over, my new hubby thought it prudent to share his thoughts on the matter. "This is not a good idea. You don't need to do this. Somebody is gonna get hurt." I was perplexed. What am I, 5? It's softball. Granted I'd never played and was not athletically inclined, but the youthfulness of my 26 year old brain was wondering what in the world could possibly go wrong in a silly game. So not a big deal.

I'm not sure in what order I was chosen, but I know it had to be close to last, if not dead last. The captain, or whatever her title was, said it was because I didn't have a glove. "Sorry, guys, if you don't have a glove, I'm not gonna pick you!" Awesome. Off to a good start.

My time at bat had come, and lo and behold, I actually hit the ball. I was ecstatic. I took off for first base with glee and confidence. I could see my best friend Cristi in that space out ahead of me - right field? Anyway, I knew I hadn't hit it that far and somebody was bound to be throwing the ball at any second. So I sped up. The breeze in my hair is feeling great. This is actually fun! I am an athlete! It was somewhere around this onset of euphoria that I realized I had a problem. Something in my lower extremities is not right. I think.....am I?....yep...Houston, we have a problem. My legs were moving too fast. Much faster than I knew was possible, and seemingly faster than the rest of me. And I can't catch up to them. I just knew I looked like one of those cartoon characters with a head, a body, and nothing but a swirling cloud of air below. It had to be Mach 2. And while this felt great at first, things had started to get out of hand.  This would need to come to an end, and for the life of me I could not figure out how to make that happen. Maybe I should tell somebody. Can they not see I'm in trouble here? I'm so fast it can't be normal. Maybe I should just scream out that I can't stop. I mean, they're girls. We talk about stuff. Maybe they can help. It was around 3 nanoseconds later that God must've thought it would be funny to solve this problem of excessive speed with a little swiftness of His own. I'm still not sure exactly what happened. I just know it was over in a flash. Bam. Everything hit the deck at once. I was on the ground, spread eagle, face firmly planted in red dust. I looked up as people started to rush over. I spotted Cristi, doubled over in her spot. The laughing pose. (More like the I'm actually crying and about to pee my pants pose). Amid the murmers I hear the voice of my hair stylist. "Wh...??...was she....was she diving? To first base?" For half a second I think I might have a brilliant cover story, and once I spit this dirt out of my mouth, I'll tell them that's exactly what I was doing. But the brutal reality was revealed to me as I looked dead ahead. I'm like 30 feet away from the base. I have no idea how this is possible because I was booking.  We're talking warp speed. My legs were on fire. There has to be smoke. And yet, here I am, barely half way. Maybe not even half way. I start wondering how in the world I'm going to explain this.

Trying to ignore the sting of pain, I stand up with some assistance (although not from the captain, who apparently saw this coming, me being without the proper equipment and all). I start to dust myself off, which seems pointless since I don't carry a ShopVac, but what're you gonna do. As I reach to brush off my legs - and this is difficult because there's dirt in my eyelashes and in case you ever have this problem incessant speed blinking will not help - I notice a whole 'nother kinda red. Not really gushing blood, but still a lot. Everywhere. On every limb. Big, huge strawberries on every joint. My pristine white shirt is toast. And still, Cristi is unable to stand from her hysteria.

Once I'm upright, somebody thinks it'll be a good idea to get me to my husband. I guess so they don't have to deal with me and can get back to their game. Somehow it had completely escaped my attention that my friends were seriously competitive and I might need a glove if I want to keep hanging out with them.

I'm escorted to the field he's playing on. He turns around just as we approach.

"I told you somebody was gonna get hurt."

That was helpful.

I kind of mill around, dazed, for a few minutes and our pastor actually helps me get cleaned up. He was a man who'd been married for more than 3 minutes and had the good sense to leave what he was doing and come to my aid. That's all I'm sayin'.

As I'm stiffly making my way back to the bleachers to watch the girls' smack down, I run into my sister, who, up to this point, has been chasing her 18 month old daughter around the park. I'm still thinking to myself, "How am I going to explain this?  How do you say you were operating at such an impressive rate of motion that you couldn't stop and God just smote you down?"

She looks at me, and with all the grace and wisdom only a sister can possess, says....wait for it....
"Were your feet just moving way too fast?"

A-ha! So it's a family trait, this speed of light thing?! Can you imagine if both of us had been playing?

My husband did eventually come to my aid that night. When we got home he ran a warm bath for me and applied giant band-aids to my elbows and knees, all the while still saying, "I told you so." OK I'm still not five, and I don't get what me being so fast has to do with your weird predictions, but, whatever. There was most definitely crying in softball that summer. (And for about 3 days after, but only every time I had to move.) And Cristi still cries at the mention of the words "feet" and "fast."

Things I Think Should Be Allowed Part 1

It's a crazy world. With all  kinds a crazy folk. Sometimes I think I might lose my ever loving mind. Sometimes it seems like everybody else all ready has and I've missed the bus. But I'm thinking if I could just do certain things, you know, have some sort of outlet, then dealing with the crazy would be easier. So here's my list of things I think we ought to be able to do. I'll share one a day. Maybe one a week. Or maybe nobody will read this and I won't share any more at all. I'll just do them. I wonder if they give out laptops in city jails...

Thing Number One:

Yell.  I think we should be able to yell in public places. Because people are doin' it, in case you haven't noticed, and nobody's telling them they can't. Including their mother. So why can't we sane, self aware ones have a crack at it? Why can't I walk up to the woman in Target whose voice is clanging out over everyone else's in the store, tap her on the shoulder and say, "Hi! You know what?? There's boat loads of people in here trying to have a pleasant shopping experience. Some even have cranky toddlers and screaming babies. And yet, miraculously, YOU are the only one I can hear! And guess what else? THAT'S NOT OK! And if this is your inside voice, then you need to live outside and never, ever, ever enter an establishment with four walls again, K?" And then, on our way to clobber the guy monitoring the security cameras and steal the tape, do the Ross thing with our hands to show them how to bring it down. 

How is this not OK?

Miss Personality

My friends and I have been taking these personality tests lately. I love these things. In fact I’m kind of a test junkie when it comes to the human psyche. I love to know what makes people tick.  If I was held at gunpoint and forced to go back to school (which is the ONLY way I’d go back to school), I’d study psychology.  But only because back-up singer for anybody cool isn’t a real degree.  Unfortunately, my tick-makers aren’t very fun as far as descriptive words go. For example, Introvert. Yea. Not really at the top of the party invite list, that one. And then there’s Beaver.  Um, dear Mr. Smalley: WHY??  You also have Phlegmatic, which sounds like it might require some sort of medication, and lastly there’s Melancholy. I actually kind of like this one. Miss Melancholy. Melancholy Baby. Yep. I’m cool like that. But again, as far as words go, it doesn’t get people fired up like that Sanguine thing. If you look it up in a thesaurus, you’ll see sad, depressed, downhearted, miserable and gloomy, just to name a few. Who in the world gets pumped about hangin’ with the downhearteds?

PERSONALITY TEST! WHO ARE YOU? 

So all these recent tests have got me thinking. We Beavers tend to do that. Quite analytically, in fact, just in case you were curious.  And it seems the Introverts & Beavers have gotten a bad rap. One of the tests I took even used the word “introvert” in its list of weaknesses.  I don’t know about you, but to have my very nature called weak is all together not cool. I may not throw caution to the wind by default. I might like to write things down in my planner with a different colored Sharpie for each family member. I might even need everything on my coffee table to be placed at 90 degree angles. But still.  Weaknesses? I gotta go with no.

If you buy into the whole created in God’s image thing like I do, then it’s easy to see where the Lions and Extroverts fit in. God, definitely Lion. And you’d have to be an Extrovert to split an ocean in half so people could walk through it. But where does that leave the quiet in new social situations gals like me? Where do we who recharge best by being alone come from? And what is our fascination with lists?? 

I say the answer lies in the same place from which our fun-loving, loudest in the room counterparts get their identity. And, in my humble opinion, the fact that our character traits need to be a little further investigated to be understood makes them all the more intriguing. Especially if you’re a girl. And I am. Which brings me to point number one.

To be understood, you have to be known. And to be known, you have to be pursued. Boom.

God is a jealous God. He says so right there in Exodus. You know, that book where He shares that special Top Ten List? He doesn’t want you chasing after other gods. He knows we’re all pursuing something, and what He wants you to pursue is Him. If you don’t pursue Him, you won’t know Him. Get it? You can’t be known and loved for who you are unless people are willing to chase after you. And neither can God. Insert happy dance here. Because like I said, I’m all girl. And the only thing girls want more than to be pursued is to be known. Just like God. It’s an image thing, ladies. Score one for the Introverts.

Point number two. God is a God of order. It’s just the way the universe works. Seasons. The food chain. The Sun goes down and stars come out at just the right time stuff. 

So if you like the paper clips and rubber bands in different little cubbies in your desk tray, you come by it honestly. Keep rolling those socks and hanging those clothes according to sleeve length, material and color, my fellow Beavers. You’re in excellent company.

So what does that leave us with? Ah, yes, the alone thing. Being an Introvert isn’t really about how shy or quiet you are. It’s about how you derive energy. Are you energized by being with people or by downtime alone? We can look to the one and only God incarnate Person of Jesus Christ on this one. No doubt Jesus loved hanging with His boys. But what did He do to recharge? He sent the crowd away. 

Matthew 14:23

After he had sent them away, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone. 

Matthew 15:29

Jesus left there. He walked along the Sea of Galilee. Then he went up on a mountainside and sat down. Large crowds came to him. 

I especially like that second one. The introverted move was that, after being with people all day, He was trying to be alone, but popular guy that He was, the crowd followed Him. But once they were there, it was on. He saw that they were hungry and fed all 5,000+ of them. Now if that’s not a life of the party move, I don’t know what is. Not to mention all girl hostess with the mostest stuff.  Which goes to show that we Introverts are a must at parties. We can even be loud. My friends will attest to this! But when it’s over, we’re gonna need a little down time on our personal mountainside. That’s where we’ll refuel, because as much as we love you Sanguines, you, quite frankly, make us a little tired! But truly in a good way. Like the mother of 5 toddlers who is wiped out at the end of her day but wouldn’t change a moment for anything. It’s a good tired. And we’ll most definitely want to do it again. We’ll just need some time to get ready. Maybe make a list or two, organize a drawer.

So Extroverts and Otters of the world, take note. You might even want put us Introverts and Beavers on speed dial. Because you can’t feed all those people without skills like ours. And when we say we've got to go, don’t be offended. It just means we’ve spent all our energy on you because we love you. And if we’re going to do it again, we’ve got to get to our mountainside to regroup. That way, when you call in the middle of our well-planned, scheduled-to-the-minute day for some spontaneous shopping & Starbucks, we’ll be ready.

Why?

Author and speaker Beth Moore says her husband gives her more material than anyone else. I can relate. My man holds more entertainment value than I can document. Although I guess “entertainment” might be misleading.  Have you ever wanted to cause bodily harm to someone who was entertaining?

This past weekend I threw him a surprise birthday party. He’s quite a guy and I wanted to bless his socks off. I think I succeeded. There is no one who holds my heart like this man. I love him with the intensity of a thousand suns. And it’s with that same intensity that I sometimes want to take him out and tell God I have no idea how it happened. I just came home and there was this mound of dirt in the back yard. Marked by a tombstone.

This emotion came over me most recently when he asked, “Why?”

At a most inconceivable moment.

I am prone to severe motion sickness. Cars, planes, trains, buses. A strong wind.  My husband knows this. And still, he’ll back out of the driveway at warp speed just to see what happens. And then laugh when I look at him with that 'wife' look that every husband recognizes to mean, “If the Bible said a woman can leave her husband for insensitivity and finding it funny, I’d be outta here.”

Not long ago we were on our way to get groceries and that awful, unmistakable feeling came over me. Sometimes it happens if I haven’t eaten. Sometimes it happens if I have. But it always happens in stop & go traffic, and while the driver is trying to do 34 things at once, as my beloved husband often does. So I assume the position (right elbow on the car door, hand over my forehead) and inform him that this particular trip to Target is not going well for me.  

“Ick. Carsick.”

He continues in his tasks, driving being maybe 3^rd on the list. He finally notices my posture and responds.

“Why?”

Um..surely I misunderstood. He must be on the phone and I didn’t know it. I peek out from under my hand with one eye. “What?”

I can see he isn’t on the phone. And yet, he says it again. To me. “Why?”

I have so many thoughts racing through my head, it starts to spin. And in my current state, a spinning head is not good. See, I have these amazing friends, and at some point during these flashes of thought, I remember how good they are to me. So precious and sympathetic. Whenever we’re all piling in someone’s SUV, they all holler, “Tamara’s in front!” because they know the front seat is much easier on me. And even if I’ve anticipated this SUV outing, taken my Dramamine and declare that I’m fine, fully medicated and ready for the back seat, they still check on me throughout our drive. And if I’m not doing well, they slow down and see what they can do. Someone reaches over and pats my leg with a wonderful motherly touch. Good friends. Sweet people. Understanding. They know me so well.

And then there’s this man who has promised to honor me until the end of time, in sickness and health. He knows me, too. But rather than sympathize, he thinks it’ll be fun to use this knowledge in such a way as to drive me mad. 

Now stay with me here. It wasn’t just what he said. It was the way he said it. Alabama/Texas drawl and all, mixed in with a tone which only he can create. One that implies I have just spoken the most ridiculous words in the English language and should never be allowed to declare anything, ever again.  As my mind is reeling, I literally see giant question marks swirling in front of me. What did he just say?! Wh….it….it doesn’t even make sense! I cannot fathom what has just happened.  Are you new here? It’s me, your wife of 18 years. We've done this a thousand times. Did I mention the friends who take such sweet care of me? Did I mention my children who love me so much that my youngest daughter starts to cry when I even intimate that I might possibly throw up in the near future for any reason? Who are you?

Then my thoughts begin to clear.

Well all right. Let’s illuminate.

Why WHAT?! Why am I telling you? You mean other than the fact that, at this present moment, you and you alone are in full control of whether or not I can keep my lunch down?! Or other than the fact that, I don’t know, you’re HERE?!? Or are you asking why I’m sick? You want a diagram explaining the digestive system? A note from my doctor? A Google search? What? What exactly do you need?! A reason? Cause here’s my reason. I DON’T HAVE A REASON!! What I have is the knowledge that I’m about to hurl, and since you are the sole individual who is likely to keep this from happening, it seems to me that it would not just be beneficial to you, but to everybody else within a 4 foot radius if you would simply stop what you’re doing and focus on the road, and I’ll even try to ignore the overwhelming sense that your question, while infuriating and absurd, is also, say it with me, completely CLUELESS!!

He must have seen the writing on the wall. Or, in this case, in the smoke coming from my nostrils.  We made it to Target without incident. But still, the question looms. Why, oh why, would you ask a woman why at a time like that?

I can only glean that he felt the need to pose this query because of his complete lack of ability to deal with nausea and all its ramifications. (This is much easier to accept than the idea that he honestly didn't know the answer). The first time our son threw up, he fled. I’m not kidding. We were giving him that pink medicine, he started to puke, and the father of my children ran away. So maybe this was some sort of deflection. An “I have no idea how to help you right now so I’m just gonna ask a really stupid question and buy myself some time” type thing. Maybe he’s thinking he can speed to Target before this goes down. “If I can just get to the parking lot, I can escape.” He is many, many wonderful things. But knight in shining armor when someone’s stomach contents are coming forth, he’s not. Here’s how he handles sickness that requires hanging over any sort of receptacle.

“You okay?”

These words must travel all the way from the farthest corner of the house, where he is holed up until it’s over, to me. If I hear him and can muster the strength to answer, great. If not, all the better for him.  Then he can say he checked on me and I never answered, so his obligation to do anything is gone. And now that we have children old enough to walk, even better. He can send them in and not inconvenience himself or hinder his intestinal fortitude in the slightest. “Go check on Mommy.”

“Mommy, are you OK? Daddy wants to know.”

Really?? “No. No I’m not.”

As footsteps fade, I hear them reporting back. “She says she’s not OK, Daddy.” They might even throw in some additional information, like “She’s shaking, and her face is really white.”  My blessed offspring. So concerned. And here it comes.

“Well…what does she want me to do?”

This is the moment. The moment when I remove my head from the place it has been buried, turn toward his voice, and leer. And then a plan begins to form.

I will need the girls to dial 911 at precisely the right moment for this to work. If they’re too early I won’t be able to act. If they’re too late, I’ll be hanging over a tin can in a jail cell. It has to be timed perfectly, so that when the police arrive, the paramedics will only be able to say, “We don’t know what happened. His body was implanted in the sheet rock when we got here.”

I mean, we use the phrase “violently throwing up” all the time, right? Well there ya go. “Maybe he was holding her hair back and as she was thrashing about…” (See, he’ll even end up looking like a hero) “It was some sort of horrible stomach virus homicide. It happens.”

 Or, maybe he just asked her “why?”

Sisters

Today is my sister’s birthday. I’m not going to tell you how old she is, and not just because I can’t remember. I’d have to start counting forward from me, which is not helpful because I can’t remember how old I am either.  And not that she should care at all if I disclose her age because she's beautiful. But there’s girl code, and above that, sister code. So you won’t hear it from me.  Unless I can figure it out by the time I’m finished writing this.

My sister is awesome, and not just as sisters go. She’s the best friend you’ll ever have. Devoted, honest, wise, funny and ever-reliable, she makes you feel special on your worst day and smart on your dumbest. She can talk you (or maybe it’s just me) into anything with three little words: “It’ll be fun!” I fall for it every time. And even if “it” wasn’t any fun at all, it was worth it just to watch her try to get me on board, arms flailing in big dramatic motions in an attempt to glamorize this monstrous activity I want nothing to do with.  In addition to being a great talker-into-er, she’s an amazing teacher and spent years of her adult life doing just that, teaching young girls, including her children, how to grow up into amazing women of God. And by the looks of my nieces, she nailed it. Now she has a heart to teach parents, and let me just say if you have half a brain, you’ll sign up for her class - whether she has one or not.  Just be her friend, watch her life, and you will learn amazing things. She has also spent her life singing. And by life I mean, since birth. (Our daddy is a music minister, so this was not an option. Good thing we love it anyway.) She has a beautiful soprano voice but always willingly sings alto when we sing together just because I ask her to. (Although I don’t get away with that much anymore. She’s on to me.)  I just can’t think of anyone who deserves honor and esteem on her birthday, and every day, more than my big sister.

Our relationship can best be summed up by a story my Aunt Karen once told us. We were somewhere around the ages of 4 and 6 and all of my Dad’s family was gathered at my aunt & uncle’s house in Houston. As was typical of my parents, their siblings and in-laws, they were gathered around the kitchen table playing a board game, probably “Careers”, which was way better than Monopoly but for some reason we were the only ones who knew that.  All the kids were upstairs taking baths, when, as Aunt Karen tells it, there came a blood-curdling scream from on high. My mom and aunts shoved chairs away from the table and headed for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. When they reached the bathroom door they found Lauri and I in the tub, me standing, screaming at the top of my lungs, and her just staring at me. “What in the world is wrong?” asked about 7 breathless adults, to which Lauri replied, “Nothing. She always does that when the water goes down the drain.”

And there you have it. That’s pretty much how it’s been all our lives. I’m in full panic mode and she’s sitting down next to me, explaining to the rest of the world why I’m freakin’ out.  And that’s just the way I like it.

That’s not to say that she never has moments of mania and I’m never calm. For instance, I remember when she found out that Mary Hart was issued a new pair of pantyhose every day to host Entertainment Tonight because her legs showed on camera underneath the desk. Being the smart shopper and always mindful of her money, she was somewhat incensed. "Why can't she recycle her pantyhose? Does she really need a brand new pair every day? Surely they don't have runs! All she did was sit there! She should have to wear the same pair for at least 3 days!"  It was just too much for her practical, no-nonsense mind to grasp, and I had to talk her off the ledge for once.  Actually I don’t think I talked. I think I laughed her off the ledge on that one.

But besides her occasional indignant semi-tantrums at celebrity over spending - and shouldn’t we all be appalled at that?! - she’s darn near perfect in my book. A fiery redhead with a hearty laugh that makes you want to tell another story. And her taste in clothes is impeccable. After all, I won best dressed in my 8^th grade class because of her. True, it was without her permission because I snuck into her closet after she left for cheerleading practice at the crack of dawn every morning and wore her clothes, but a win is a win. And speaking of mornings, she has greeted them with nothing less than a kick in the face and a smile into adulthood as well.  A machine when it comes to discipline, she would get up at 5:30 AM when her babies were still babies and work out.  I know because I was there. Usually. OK, just sometimes when I didn’t call at 5:15 and whisper “I’m going back to bed.” So I was rarely there, but still. And now that her girls are older, she gets to sleep a little later, but you can bet she’s gonna be throwing some weights around the living room at some point in the day, every day. And there is no greater model, save our parents, for a true, authentic, sold out follower of Jesus Christ.  While the rest of us say we struggle to have a solid, consistent relationship with God every day, she just does it, and makes it look simple. She listens to God, spends time in His Word and applies it to her life. Period.  All of it. Not just the parts she likes. Not just the parts that are warm & fuzzy. She does the hard stuff. The unpopular-even-in-church-cuz-it-makes-the-less-dedicated-uncomfortable stuff.  And she does it with an incredible combination of boldness and grace. And if you’re lucky, as I have been, she’ll rub off on you. She has always been a great source of wisdom and insight for me. As a young married woman I remember calling her about the crazy and infuriating things my husband did, like leave his underwear in the floor. "Who does that?" I asked. "Am I a maid? Is he 5?" And then she would explain to me that this is something pretty much all men do and this is when you have to employ that whole “choose your battles” thing. And dirty underwear wasn’t worth the fit I’d thrown.

But sometimes she would surprise me on the spiritual front. These are my favorite talks! Because it’s really annoying to have a best friend who’s always right. Like, not just kinda right, but it’s-in-the-Bible right. How do you counter that? You don’t. You hang up the phone and have no choice but to go on with your life having full knowledge that throwing dishes is not allowed. So the days when I get to find out she’s human after all are downright delightful.  Like when I left the house in bare feet, no money and no place to go and just got in my car and started driving, all because my husband had been operating in his own time zone. Again. So I decided to not be available or on time and see how he liked it. She happened to call as I was driving around and asked what I was doing. “Running away from home,” I said. “I’m gonna make him worry for a change. I’ll call and say I’m on my way and then not show up for another two hours.” I thought I knew what was coming. Something like, “Do you want to be right or do you want to be right with God?” I braced myself for the onslaught of correctness.  But to my surprise, all I heard was, “OK. Call me later and lemme know you’re all right.”  I had never been prouder. I think I might’ve wept with glee.

So happiest of birthdays to you, my beautiful, brave and bold to the core big sister. Thank you for all the times you gave me sound advice, and for the all the times you just let me get away with being mad.  For the closet full of awesome clothes you never knew I wore. (And there were shoes, too). For all the “it’ll be funs!” and always being the first one I call after I’ve eaten pavement in public because I know nobody will laugh with me as hard as you.  Thank you for being my wingman when people say clueless things. Thank you for calling me when I was 20 and saying you were sorry you didn’t let me sleep with you when we were little and I was scared. And thank you for always, always, always being there when I’m scared now. I love you more today than I did in that bathtub. And that, my redheaded hero, is quite immeasurable.

Rules Girl

My mom made the best pumpkin bread in the history of pumpkin bread. Ever. Now when I was 12, I'll admit I didn't see the value. It was just something she did every holiday season.  Sure it smelled good, but it wasn't nearly as delectable as her cherry o'cream pie, which I asked for on more than one birthday instead of cake. But as I got older, got married and she passed away, I started to realize how much I missed that smell. It was the definitive "it's Christmas" odor. And I wanted it to fill my house. So, I called my big sister who inherited our mom's knack for cooking, hosting, and all things holiday and asked her for the recipe. I started to just listen (who does that when it comes to a recipe?!) But I soon realized I was going to need a list. So I wrote down the ingredients as she told them to me. Nutmeg and all. I felt like such a grown-up. Surely they're the only ones who use nutmeg. 


I went to the store and bought all my ingredients and began the process of infusing my house with the smell I'd come to miss so much. I was pumped. I was even going to make loaves for the neighbors. This was big. But my completed product seemed to be lacking something, and my husband - the same one who cut me out of the duct tape - had not become quite so sensitive at this point in our marriage and was not afraid to point out said lacking. "What is that?" His tone was accusatory. As if I'd offended the whole culinary world. 


"It's pumpkin bread!"


"No it's not."


"Excuse me? Then what is it? What do you mean?"


"I'm not sure. Maybe that's spice bread. That's all I'm sayin'."


I was livid. What did he know? Did he grow up in my house? Never mind the fact that my concoction tasted nothing like it was supposed to and that the smell was no where near right. He was crazy. It doesn't matter if he's right. When I say he's wrong, he's wrong.


Those loaves ended up in the trash that year, but I hadn't given up. The next year I tried again. Only to get the same result. Again, my husband, who was still not sensitive and clearly was not afraid to have any kitchen utensil hurled at him at warp speed, insisted that I had not made pumpkin bread. "Stop saying that!" I demanded. "It's....it.....it is so."  This time he was so wrong there weren't even words to tell him how wrong he was.  


Year three rolled around and I thought I'd better do some investigating before mister rain-on-my-pumpkin-bread-parade reared his ugly head again. I called Lauri. 


"This pumpkin bread thing has been a disaster and you've got to tell me what I'm doing wrong! What are the ingredients again?"


"OK, let's see, flour, sugar, baking soda, 1 can of pumpkin..."


"WHAT?"


"Baking soda, 1 can of pum--"


--"YOU NEVER TOLD ME I HAD TO USE A CAN OF PUMPKIN!!"


"I -- in the pumpkin bre--?"  (she senses I'm losing it. The water is swirling the drain and we are all. going. down.)


Trying to calm me, she uses her most soothing, big sisterly voice. "OK, I'm pretty sure I did. But, honey, even if I didn't -- did I really need to tell you that you need pumpkin for the pumpkin bread?"


"Yes! Clearly! Apparently! Absolutely!"


As I hung up the phone I realized the unthinkable was true. I HAD been making spice bread. He'd been right all along. Oh the humanity.

My man loves to recount this story. And I don't mind telling it either. It's a good one. Yes, it seems unthinkable that I wouldn't realize you need pumpkin for pumpkin bread. It's taken me this many years to realize why in the world it never occurred to me that something was missing.


I'm a rules girl. I asked for specific instructions. I made a list. I followed the list. Maybe she said one can of pumpkin and I missed it, maybe she didn't. (This is still a point of contention in an otherwise perfect sibling relationship). The fact is, it wasn't on my list. It wasn't in the rules. And I was just following the rules.


I like instructions. And I LOVE lists. Maybe that makes me a visual learner. I don't know. I just know I need you to keep it simple and let me write it down. One step at a time. I'm convinced that if someone had only known this about me when I was a teenager, my math tests would have been a lot less terrifying. This particular trait of mine frustrates my youngest daughter to no end. She likes to read things to me. Things I can't see. She'll be in the midst of a project, read instructions to me from another room, and I'm supposed to know what to do. This makes me insane. I can't think. Have you seen the movie 'Clue?' It sends me into Madeline Kahn's flames, flames on the sides of my face speech. Anyway, not too long ago when she was rattling off words and I could not discern any of them to be English, I stopped her. She hasn't seen Clue, so I had to go with something relatable. "Honey, you know when Charlie Brown talks to an adult on the phone and all they let you hear is 'wau wau-wau wau-wauh wau-wauaaaa?' That's what I hear when you talk to me about instructions and I can't see it. I need to see the list. Show me the rules."


Sometimes when I feel like life has thrown me some non-English wauh wauh-wauh wauh wauh stuff, I throw my hands up and say, "Lord you know what I need. I need a list. I need to see it. You explain it, and I'll write it down." The funny thing is, He all ready has. I just wasn't looking at the list. He absolutely does know what I need, what with Him being the One who made me and all, and I usually find that He's been whispering "Look at the instructions and just follow them" for quite some time. Pray without ceasing...Our Lord God is near to us whenever we pray to Him...but in everything, by prayer and petition...But the human brain is a funny thing, not nearly as miraculous for what it can remember as for what it can forget. (Like maybe there should be something with the word pumpkin in it on a list of things for pumpkin bread). In any crisis or time of questioning, I know my first line of defense needs to be prayer. And yet I forget. I might even be reading my Bible thoroughly and relentlessly. But I forget to pray. Even though I've experienced revelation and peace from those precious conversations, I manage to forget to have them. How utterly insane. You would think I would never want to come out from under the cover of that glorious place of rest and protection.  But how quickly I run to any and all other solutions first. I keep making the same recipe with disastrous outcome. Never remembering to just follow the instructions that produced such an incredible concoction of calm, understanding and the blessing of His presence in countless other instances. How tragic to forget. How tragic not to notice what's missing. It completely changes the result. I have got to write this stuff down.