The Red Door

"Take a right, then another right.  I'm the first house on the right; it's a two story log house with a blue door."

I said that a lot.

People found my house easily when I had a blue door.  But I got tired of it...I really wanted a red door.  But, since I have blue and white trim, a red door wasn't happening until I changed the trim colors.

I love my country but, well, that would be a little much.

As a compromise, a couple of years ago I painted my door a beautiful deep brown.  But telling people it's the log house with a brown door didn't seem to work.  I'd see them drive right past and have to go out and flag them down.

I decided this summer was The Year of The Red Door.

It kind of felt a little frivolous, painting my trim just so I could have a red door.  Then I got to really looking at it.  How did I miss how tired it had become?  The paint had actually peeled in places.  Ew.  It had to go.

Then I started looking at the posts that hold up my porch roof.   Then I noticed the deck.

Mercifully, I stopped there.

I tackled the posts  first; piece of cake.  Then I started on the deck, and I learned a little something-something.

1.  Go to a regular paint store and get the good stuff.  Listen to their instructions and follow them.
2.  If you buy water based stain at a store where the employees are clueless, you'll end up with dark lines in the places where you rolled, then stopped to paint the cracks, then started rolling again.  The good stuff is oil based.
3.  See #1.
4.  You have to bend down, sit down, and stand up approximately 2000 times when painting a deck.
5.  See #1, they'll sell you stuff that makes it easier on your thighs.
6.  A second coat of the cheap stuff doesn't really solve the problem.
7.  See #1.
8.  Make sure your back door is unlocked before you stain the entire front deck.

Now to tackle the trim. I decided it would be easier to pull my little white trim boards down and paint them separately from the main trim board.  That went pretty well on the lower roof.  However, I learned a few things when I got on the porch roof to start working up there.

1.  My son's old skate shoes do not have sufficient traction to be on a roof.
2.  Bare feet are better than old skate shoes.
3.  It's possible to break a 2x2 when trying to remove it.
4.  There are lots of crawly things on roofs.

Next, I drove to town.  I learned a few more things.

1.  The paint store employees have great knowledge about paint.
2.  The paint store paint costs a fortune.
3.  Payless Shoes has these amazing tennis shoes with gripper soles.  $27.99 is a very reasonable price when you start thinking about broken bones and stuff.  Besides,  I'm pretty sure Spiderman wears these shoes and I want to be cool like him.
4.  It's okay to go back to the coffee shop and complain if they put too much foam in your coffee.

(Actually, I already knew about #4.)

I came home and painted all the blue trim on the front of my house brown.  I also painted my arms and clothes.  I like to fully submerge myself in my work.

It's all looking pretty good, I must say.  Tomorrow, if the sun is still shining, I'll paint the little trim boards white then nail them back up.  And hopefully by tomorrow afternoon I will finally have a red door.

Then I can say, "Turn right, then right again.  It's the first house on the right; two story log house with brown trim on the front and blue trim on the other three sides.

Oh.  And a red door."

Locked Out

It's funny how different people are born with certain affinities.  Let's take singing, for example.  Some people are just born with a pretty voice.  They didn't inherit the talent or acquire it through training, they can just flat-out sing. It's a gift.

Other people may have a talent that has a logical explanation.  My son was an excellent baseball pitcher; he pitched a no-hitter during a Little League All Star game when he was twelve.  Was his talent inherited?  Not exactly.  You see, he was a huge baby.  His hand-eye coordination was highly developed because his large motor skills...ah....weren't.  The kid was so big he couldn't move. 

It's okay, you can blame me.  I'm his mother.

Thankfully, he grew out of his chubbiness by the time he was four and now he's pretty proud of it.  But I think his highly developed fine motor skills are one of the reasons he can play the guitar so beautifully.

So, I'm wondering, why do some people have an affinity for negative things?  Like, stupid negative things?  Like, why do some people continually lock themselves out of the house?

Let me say right up front that my house key is special.  I've tried to have spare copies made but nobody has the right blank.  Apparently there are only two keys in the world like my key and they are both inevitably locked in the house when I'm locked out. 

I do try to keep one of the keys hidden outside.  Wow, I'd really lock myself out a lot if it was never in its hiding place. 

Last Friday night I decided to wear my blue coat.  I had already locked the door when I realized I left my keys in my black coat.  A kind friend came and picked me up...she was especially kind because she also took me home.  And at 10 pm she and her unsuspecting husband ended up helping me break into my house.  I'm not going to give you the specifics, but it involved tromping through four feet of snow in the dark, a pocket knife and one of us being wedged into a small hole.  It wasn't me.

I'm still feeling kind of bad about the whole thing, but I'm trying not to.  I figure there must be some fundamental reason I have an affinity for locking myself out of the house.

So I'm going to blame my mother.

Valentine's Day

When I was a kid, Valentine's Day was one of my favorite holidays.  I loved picking out my box of Valentines at the dime store. I remember the angst I felt deciding which card to give my best friend, which to give the mean kid (if any), and which to give the cutest boy in the class.  I loved bringing my stash home, opening each little envelope and trying to decide what it all meant.

I got a big taste of reality when I was in the fifth grade.  I returned home after a fun-filled school day to find a strange man sitting in our living room.  He handed me a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and then listened with tears in his eyes as my mom explained he had run over my cat.

That's the thing about Valentine's Day.  It offers such highs and lows.

Two years ago I was walking on clouds.  I was in love and the object of my affection was a go-big-or-go-home kind of guy.  The bouquet of flowers I received was glorious; their scent, intoxicating. The guys in the office were complaining he was making everybody else look bad.

Last year I was still in love.  But instead of walking on clouds, I was nursing a broken heart.  And trying, once again, to figure out what it all meant.

You can imagine my surprise when a delivery person showed up at my office door with a huge bouquet of flowers.  I knew it had to be a mistake, but my name was on the card.  Mine.  There was no mistake.

I soon discovered that some amazing friends and family members had gone in together to send me the lovely bouquet.  They knew the day would be especially hard and they wanted me to know how much I am loved. A small bouquet wouldn't do, they wanted to make sure I understood theirs was a go-big-or-go-home kind of love.

That kind of love sustains.  And mends.

This year I'm not wondering what it all means. I know.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Coffee

The pastor of my church doesn't enjoy preaching sermons about giving.  But he teaches expositionally, so If he encounters a passage about giving in the book of the Bible he's preaching through, he can not ignore it.  He must preach about giving.

He must.  If it's in The Word, we need to hear it.  I need to hear it.

One Sunday I really needed to hear it. 

Pastor J was preaching about sacrificial giving that day, and I remember thinking, "I'm a single mom with two teenagers.  I make little money and there is simply nothing that can be sacrificed.  Nothing.  I've got this one, man.  I'm good."

Wrong.

 Mercifully, God only targeted one thing.  But he was very succinct.  A flashing neon sign appeared on the inside of my eye lids.  Every time I blinked I read COFFEE.

Nuh uh.  No way.  That sign couldn't have been meant for me, he must have goofed.  God would not ask me to give up coffee.  He loves me.

He does love me, but he knew some stuff.  He knew my car automatically turned into my favorite drive-through coffee shop every morning,  He knew the baristas at The Grind had my 'grande, half-caf, tan mocha with whip' made before I ever pulled up to the window.  He knew how much money I was spending on coffee every month.  It was a lot.

 God.  He's observant.  And he was serious...I needed to give it up.

The detox period was painful; the headaches lasted about a week.  The emotional detox was worse, a warm cup of chocolatey coffee is a such a comfort and I had to learn to start my day without it.  My poor co-workers, I wasn't very nice while I went through withdrawal.  Every Sunday for several months I placed the exact amount of my weekly coffee card in the offering plate.  It was important to me.  My girlfriend would ask, "Why don't you just write out a check for the whole month?"  Nope.  I refused to add it to my typical offering check. I wanted God to see that I was giving sacrificially.  I wanted him to notice.

Silly me.

It didn't take long for me to realize I felt much better without my coffee.  It was loaded with gluten and dairy...things I now know I can't have.  Eventually the sacrifice was no longer a sacrifice.  Eventually I tasted victory, and it didn't make me sick.

Eventually I realized soy milk makes a great cup of coffee. 

I haven't fallen completely off the wagon.  I only allow myself one a week.

And on Sundays, I drink tea.

The Laundry Room

Every house I've ever lived in has had a designated place to throw stuff.

Stuff.  You know, the stuff you might need someday.  The stuff you only use once a year.  The stuff your kid might want.  The stuff you can't bear to throw away.

That stuff.

There is a room in my house where my family has always thrown stuff.  It's technically the laundry room because it houses a washer and dryer.  That's what we call it, but it also doubles as a pseudo garage - our tools are kept in there.  It's a front closet - coats and shoes are stored in there. It's a pantry - there are shelves that contain canned goods and small appliances that don't fit in the kitchen cupboards.  There's an upright freezer, too.  And the room hosts access to the crawl space, furnace and hot water heater.

It's a busy place.

It's always a mess in the laundry room.  I mean, a big mess.  That's because the room isn't big enough to be a garage and it's too big to be a closet.  It's just the right size to be a big mess.  And every now and then somebody gets the urge to clean it. 

That somebody was me this week.  Technically, I'm the only one who lives here so I guess the mess, no matter when and why it was generated, now belongs to me.

I waded through a ton of stuff.  I got rid of old coats, old shoes and old...well, everything.  My car is filled to the brim with everything going to the dump, and there are bags sitting on my front porch waiting to be dropped off at Salvation Army. I can now walk through the laundry room. It feels good.

 I did find a few things I've been missing.  I found my taxes from 2010 and a borrowed palm sander I was sure I had returned.  I found the black mitten I've been looking for and the electric charger for the lawn mower.

I'm happy to have found that stuff, but if my house should burn down, I know I could live without it. Especially the palm sander.

I found a few other things, though, that I don't want to live without...

   - The pink felt Barbie skirt my grandmother made when I was seven.  She sewed tiny green leaf sequins on it.          

   - My daughter's collection of 9/11 newspapers and magazine articles.

   - My son's "Bears" baseball cap.  The Bears were undefeated the summer he was nine.

   - Candles from my daughter's wedding.

   - The recipe box my sister made me as a Christmas gift.

   - A medal my grandfather won at an art show in 1956.

   - An old dog collar that still has the name tag on it.

   - The plaster handprint my son made when he was six.

I'm really glad the laundry room is nice and clean.  I can't guarantee it will stay that way; historically it doesn't have a terrific track record.  But for now, I'm happy.

I've found so many things I need.

Moving Rocks

Weary.  Bone weary.  Even worse, soul weary.

That’s where my prayer journey had taken me.

I was well over a year into my quest to become a prayer warrior and I was being beaten up.  Negative thoughts were battering my mind, convincing me I was unlovable, worthless and foolish.  My mind would be circling the drain before I even realized I was being pummeled.  Though I continued praying, my knees became a scary place.  An emotional place. A battleground. 

I’m not even exaggerating. 

Before I left to spend Christmas in Oregon I asked God to intervene…in a big way.  I knew I could not come home and continue interceding without having a complete meltdown or losing my sanity. 

It was pretty bad.  

It was so like God to meet my needs in an unlikely way.  

My daughter and her husband hosted a party Christmas Eve and I got to chatting with one of their friends.  He had come to Christ at the very beginning of a twelve year prison sentence; he’s been out for less than a year.  He spent those twelve years getting to know Jesus and sharing the gospel with others.  I asked him if we could talk about prayer and began to share what I was going through.  His insight was remarkable, his wisdom life changing. 

I hope it changes your life, too.

First, prayer is hard because it’s beyond our senses.  We typically don’t hear, see, taste, touch or smell anything in response to our prayers.  We are acting on faith that is beyond our senses as well.  Prayer is other-worldly, it’s outside of our realm and in God’s realm.  Realizing that has made a huge difference to me, it frees me from expecting it to be different.

When we pray for someone faithfully, we don’t just sympathize with them; we begin to empathize with them.  We actually begin to feel what they feel…fear, despair, sadness, confusion.  That’s where the emotion comes in.  I want to be empathetic, but I need to be aware and not let the emotion master me, not let it sink me.  It totally can so I need to be careful.

My new friend told me a story about a man who came across a huge boulder in the road.  God instructed him to push the boulder.  The man spent the first day pushing with all his might; at the end of the day his strength was utterly spent.  The next day God again told him to push the boulder and the next and the next.  Finally, in frustration and exhaustion the man yelled out, “God!!  When will I move this boulder?”  God replied, “I didn’t tell you to move it, my son.  I simply told you to push it.”

That’s what intercessory prayer is.  Pushing the boulder.  It’s God’s job to move it, not mine.

Ephesians 3:20 says God is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine.  I believe that for those I pray for, but recently I’ve begun to realize I need to believe that for my heart, that he can do amazing things IN ME.   My friend assured me God will answer that prayer.  I began that night to open up some places in my heart I was holding back.  It hurts.  But I’m ready for healing.

I'm ready to keep pushing.       

And when the time is right, I'll be ready to watch the boulder move.

                 

Peeking

I used to have a problem. 

It was an insidious little thing...it only showed up once a year.  It wasn't something diagnosable, no medication would fix it.  I suppose therapy could have helped...but I didn't want to tell anybody the symptoms I suffered.  So I kept my problem a secret and endured in silence, unable to share the pain and guilt that came from my clandestine behavior.

Sigh. 

I was a peekaholic.

I just couldn't stand the suspense of not knowing what I was getting for Christmas.  I'd shake and rattle each box, then, when no one was home, I'd find a sharp knife and carefully slit the tape.  I'd take a look inside and then tape things back up so well nobody ever knew. 

Or so I thought.  One year I figured out a way to open my new Barry Manilow album and keep it accessible; I could slide it out and play it whenever my mother left the house.  My sister and I knew all the songs by Christmas morning.  I remember coming up with some lame excuse why that was...but I'm not a very good liar.  Then or now.  Mom got suspicious.

The following Christmas I found three piles of presents hiding in my mom's closet.  None of them had nametags on them, but it was pretty easy to figure out which stack was mine.  By the time I was done I not only knew what I was getting but I knew what my siblings were getting, too. 

I know.  I was sick.

My mother used to say I was only hurting myself by peeking.  If that was the case, I was very willing to hurt myself.  It was far less painful than living with all of those mysteries under the Christmas tree.

The cure to my peekaholism seems to have been, surprisingly, age.  I remember some pretty significant peeking episodes when I was in my twenties, but things have settled down considerably.  I spent years coming up with splendid surprises for my kids.  That kept me distracted.

Yikes.  What if peekaholism is hereditary and they were faking their surprise all those years?

I suppose that would serve me right.

Now that my kids are grown, I find I'm very willing to relinquish my roll in their lives as the major Christmas surpriser.  I will gladly hand that off to their spouses.

And I'm no longer distracted.

And my friend just brought me a Christmas gift.  It's in my purse.

Wanna know what it is?

Chivalry

I spend a lot of time with books.  It's my day job.

A few years ago there was a lot of fuss about a book called Twilight.  It looked teeny-bopperish and dumb.  Vampires?  Please.

I was heading home from someplace far away and realized I didn't have a book.  I caved at the airport bookstore and purchased a copy of Twilight. 

I can hear you scoffing.  But let me tell you something;  I couldn't put the dang thing down.  It's kind of embarrassing to admit, but I inhaled it.  The author was no Jane Austin, but there was just something compelling about the story line.  I'll give you a quick synopsis...

Girl meets boy.  They are inexplicably attracted to each other, but he fights it knowing it's not what's best for her. Girl discovers boy is a vampire...a good vampire who only dines on animal blood.  Bad vampire tries to kill girl.  Good vampire risks everything to save her because she is his one true love.

Hey, it worked for me.

Next thing I knew, Twilight became a movie.  I convinced my girlfriend we needed to see it...I pretty much had to drag her there kicking and screaming.  At first the movie seemed dumb and I felt a little sheepish.  But then the story progressed and, well, eventually I leaned over to my friend and asked, "Is it hot in here?" 

By the time it was over, we were both scrunched down in our seats like a couple of junior highers.  We looked at each other and said, "Wow. That was really good!"

No, it wasn't because there were a bunch of inappropriate love scenes.  It was because there wasn't.  

I know there are millions of opinions out there about Twilight, and my intent is not to disrespect those with opposing views about the books or movies.  But I do want to say I get why they are so popular.

I totally get it.

I'm not sure there is a girl out there who hasn't dreamed of finding the one man, the only man who has waited for only her, who will love only her his entire life, who will protect her...and her virtue...with his life.

The chivalry is the main draw, folks.  Duh, it's fiction and it's not real.  But there are a bunch of girls out there who want to believe chivalry isn't dead. 

I'm one of them. 

And if my one true love shows up with ice cold skin and pointy teeth?

I'm thinking that would work for me.

Studs

I didn't know much about cold weather when I moved to Alaska thirty years ago.

That's kind of an understatement.

One of my favorite family activities when I was growing up was driving "to the snow". We would leave our warm San Diego neighborhood and drive a couple of hours into the mountains.  When we came across a hill, we'd stop and slide down it.  We only went when it was sunny outside.  I don't remember ever owning any official snow gear; we wore jeans and gloves and tennis shoes.  And when we got cold, we went home.

It doesn't work like that here in Alaska.  You don't play in the snow, and then go home and mow the yard.

I've learned a lot about living in the cold.  In celebration of the -2 degree temp I woke up to this morning, I've decided to share some cold wheather wisdom with you.  If you live in Alaska, you could probably add something to my list.  If you don't, I think you might learn a little something-something.

1.  Cars need to be plugged in when it's cold outside.  Those plug-ins hanging out of our hoods aren't just for looks.  They help our cars start.

2.  The best gloves are the ones you can find.  They don't need to match to keep your hands warm.

3.  If you walk outside and your snot freezes, it's below -10.

4.  Don't spit your gum out and throw it in the front yard.  If you do, it'll be there waiting for you in the spring.

5.  Flip flops really aren't the best choice of foot wear.

6.  It's a good idea to make sure your hair is dry before you go outside.

7.  It's best to unplug your car from the extension cord connected to your house before you drive away.

8.  No need to make room in the freezer for the Thanksgiving turkey.  Just set it on the back porch.

9.  Roads are much safer in -30 than they are in +30.

10.  A stud is not a 2x4 or a hot guy.  It's a little metal thing that sticks out of a snow tire.

I wasn't really prepared for winter this year, it kind of caught me by surprise.  I'm glad it was dark outside when I hiked through two feet of snow in my flannel pajamas and polar fleece robe to retrieve the snow shovel.  I wouldn't want the neighbors to see.

I'm glad it's dark now; I have to go outside in my pajamas to untangle my extension cord and plug my car in.

Obviously there's something I still have yet to learn about the cold.

It's best to prepare for it when it's warm.

Scarred For Life

It looked so foreboding.

I stood on the sidewalk and tried to summon my courage. My big brother, several steps ahead, looked back and tried to goad me on.  I wanted to.  I had planned to.  

But I couldn't. I was terrified. 

It was the picture of innocence any other day of the year.  I played with the kids who lived inside almost daily.  Though their mom yelled a lot more than mine did, she was pretty normal.  Good grief, the house across the street was even pink.

How scary can a pink house be?

I timidly followed my brother up the driveway.  I could hear spooky sounds coming from the open door; I knew it was the sound track from Disney's Haunted Mansion, but it didn't matter.  It was the epitome of creepy.

Closer and closer we crept.  It was dark inside the house; I couldn't see anybody.  

Then I heard the clanking.  

She walked down the hallway toward the door.  She wore a loose white robe draped in chains; chains that kept her earth bound, unable to enter into eternal rest.  The nylon stocking over her head was needed to hold her decaying features to her face. She limped toward us, her eyes boring into my brain.

I screamed and ran.  I may have even wet my pants.  

No candy was worth it.  Mrs. Lloyd left me scarred for life.

When I was eleven or twelve, Mrs. Lloyd was asked to put together a haunted room for our elementary school carnival.  We neighbor kids were asked to participate.  One kid guarded the pot full of brains and eyeballs.  Another lifted a big lid from a table, exposing a decapitated head that was still alive.  My job was to sit in a chair with blood dripping all over me and look dead. 

I could hear people whisper as they walked by.  I thought I was pretty convincing until I heard a boy arguing with his mother.  "She's not dead, Mommy.  It's just pretend."  He got closer and closer...and then...and then...he touched me.

I screamed and ran.  I may have even wet my pants.

I bet he did, too.  

He's probably scarred for life.

 

The Max

I'm kind of sheltered here in River City, Alaska.

I know there are people in our community who deal with difficult physical and mental challenges.  I also know there are those who struggle with substance abuse, addiction and homelessness.

But I don't see them very often.  Honestly, here in my little town, I'm not really sure where to find them.

It doesn't feel good to admit that.  I should know.

That changes whenever I visit The Big City.  It's a really big city, especially for a country girl.

I like the public transportation there, it's a tram called The Max.  It's affordable, user friendly and convenient.  It's great.  And it opens my eyes.

One night I was on The Max with a man whose body twitched uncontrollably.  He spent the entire ride talking to a passenger who wasn't there.

A lot of twitchy people ride The Max.

I once saw a little woman board with an impressive collection of plastic grocery bags tied to her walker.  She was wearing open shoes and had horribly deformed feet.

I've had strong, healthy men ask me if I can spare a dollar.  I've ridden near a group of ridiculous teenagers speaking an unintelligable gang language I could not understand. I saw one guy get arrested the minute he stepped off the tram.

Though some of these things have made me uncomfortable, the folks I find the scariest on The Max are those who never look around, never smile and never speak.  That's, like, everybody.  Even when scrunched together shoulder to shoulder, the overwhelming majority of riders never look up, never say anything...they never really acknowledge there's anybody else on the tram.

I always find myself wondering about these people.  Where have they come from, where are they going?  Do they have somebody waiting for them to get home?

Do they know Jesus?

Am I one of them?

Jesus was drawn to illness and instability.  He healed those with deformities, disease and demons.  He never turned them away.

And he had strong words for those who lacked compassion and understanding; who ignored the downtrodden.

Don't worry, I'm not going to start conversing with drug addicts and gang bangers the next time I ride The Max.  But what if I bury my head and choose not to interact with somebody who needs an encouraging word?  Is there anything wrong with making eye contact and sharing a smile?

Why am I asking these questions?

I should know.

Cussing

I remember the days when my kids were little.  The "b" word was butt, the "s" word was shut up and the "f" word was fart.

Man, I miss those days.

Cussing.  I really, really hate it.  Always have.  I think it's irreverent, degrading and cheap.  I think it makes a man look weak and a woman look trashy.

Aren't you glad you asked me how I really feel?

There was a group of kids that hung around the entrance to our Safeway store.  They dressed in black, smoked cigarettes and cussed.   They were scary and everybody I knew hated walking through them just to buy groceries.  Lots of folks would go to a different store to avoid them, including my 17 year old daughter.  I didn't blame them, but it sure was inconvenient. 

I had complained several times to the management, but they said the cops were tired of coming around and unless this group of kids did more than loiter, they wouldn't come back.  I guess I can understand that from the cops' perspective.  It just seemed like the store should do something since it was their property and their business.  Ever heard of private security, Safeway?

Lame. 

Anyway...I'm not sure what the catalyst was, but one night I had just had enough.

I was braver back then.

I stormed into the group of kids and told them I did not appreciate their language.  There were little kids and older people within earshot of their filth every day.  Besides, a lot of other people - including me - just didn't like it.  I told them I suspected their mothers probably taught them better and they should be ashamed of themselves.

So there. 

I went into the store and immediately started shaking.  Was I nuts??  A sane person would have told them off right before she got into her car and drove away, not before she intended to shop for 45 minutes.  That gave them all kinds of time to plan my demise.

I exited the store with trepidation.  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I hoped if they planned to kill me it would be quick.  I didn't want to feel any pain.  And I was glad I had recently purchased life insurance.

Sure enough, three kids broke off from the pack and followed me to my car.  "Ma'am?"  the ringleader said. 

I hate it when people call me ma'am.  But considering the words I had heard out of the mouths of these kids, ma'am seemed like a step in the right direction.

I turned around and faced them.  "Yes?"

"We would like to apologize.  You're right; our mothers did teach us better than this...at least mine did.   I'm really sorry."

We stood there for 30 minutes and had a nice chat.  I was able to to admire their tatoos and piercings up close.  And I'm pretty sure my ice cream melted.

So, if that was your kid, thank you for teaching him better.

You may be surprised, but he really was listening.

In The Dark

Let’s face it; being from Alaska is a novelty.  I doubt whether people from Nevada or Kansas or even Maine get asked some of the ridiculous questions we Alaskans do when we travel. 

“Alaska, huh?  Do you live in an igloo?”

“You’re from Alaska?  Do you eat whale blubber?”

“Alaska?  Wow!  Do they have roads up there?”

I mean, seriously. 

As amusing (or insulting) as these questions can be, my least favorite is, “Isn’t it, like, dark 24 hours a day up there in the winter?”

I think that ridiculous question bugs me because it’s kind of true.

There are locations in Alaska where it does stay dark in the winter pretty much all day.  Thankfully, I don’t live there.  In the dead of winter where I live, it gets light about 10 am and dark around 3:30 or 4:00 pm.  I don’t have a window in my office, so if I don’t leave the building for lunch, I don’t see any daylight. 

I always leave the building for lunch.

It’s an interesting thing, learning to deal with so much darkness. The biggest adjustment is realizing the sounds that go bump in the dark night are the same sounds that go bump in the light night.

I’m not afraid of the dark.  But I do like to see what is making scary noises.

I had a girlfriend once who would not come over to my house at night in the winter because I didn’t have blinds on all my windows.  It didn’t matter that my living room was on the second floor on a hill and faced a swamp where nobody would ever go.  She was scared.  And I thought she was silly.

I’m not sure I think that any more.

A couple of years ago somebody knocked on my door at 10:30 pm.  I was just about to head to bed and it really startled me.  I clicked on the front porch light and there stood a strange man.  He was disheveled, unkempt.  Because I’m brilliant, I opened the door.

I know, right?

He told me this story about his sister and how she sent him to borrow some items a man would never ask for.  I told him I couldn't help him, then closed the door and locked it.  He hollered at me for awhile, then left.

By the time I found my neighbor’s phone number he had already been to her door.  We decided to call the police because it was just too weird.  They drove around our neighborhood, but didn’t see him. 

I was surprised my neighbor opened her door to this creepy dude.  What was she thinking?  She had little kids..and besides, she's smarter than me. Then I found out she answered her door brandishing a gun. 

What a woman. 

Now when I hear bumps in the night, I just click a button on my phone.

I have her on speed dial.

Disconnected

I had a life altering experience last Friday night.

I lost my phone.

I mean, I really lost my phone.  Like, it was gone.  Nowhere to be found.  

You may wonder how I knew it was nowhere to be found.  Well, I have two cell phones; one is my personal phone and the other is my business phone.  When my brilliant son-in-law suggested getting another line, I ran to AT&T as fast as my Toyota could carry me.  It made sense to have a line dedicated only to business, but, more importantly, I knew I'd have a way to call myself when I couldn't find my phone.

I called myself Friday night and nobody answered.

I remember talking to a friend on my way to the store, so I knew it had to be there.  HAD TO BE.  I called the customer service desk.  They didn't have it, and they were getting ready to close.  No time to send a search party.

That's when I panicked.  

WHAT IF SOMEBODY NEEDED TO GET AHOLD OF ME????

I texted the bad news to both my kids from my business phone.

I immediately received a text back from my daughter.  It said, "Who is this??"  

My son didn't recognize the number either.  

See why my other phone is so important????

The next morning I called the store again.  Nothing.  NOTHING.  I was beginning to feel lost, disconnected, estranged.  The truth is, I know very few of my friend's phone numbers.  My phone, on the other hand, knows all of them.  

It's a sad state of things, but it's the truth.

About noon I decided to go search the store myself.  I had been trying on jackets and sweaters, so I checked every pocket of every jacket and sweater in my size.  No phone.  I called my number thinking maybe I would hear it, but it went directly to voice mail.  Nuts!  The battery was probably dead.

As a last ditch effort, I checked with the customer service desk.  I had little hope; I had already talked to them that morning.

The clerk opened her drawer and there was my phone.  

Somebody had turned if off, so I waited anxiously while it came to life.  Just as I feared, I had missed something important.  Lots of somethings important.  I had twelve missed calls.  TWELVE!!!

Every one of them was from me.

The Date

I went on a date a couple of weeks ago.

Oh, stop.  It's rude to look so shocked.

Nope, I'm not telling you who it was with.  That would be too personal, and I try not to share anything personal on this blog.

Right.

So...it's an interesting thing, going on a date with somebody you don't really know.  All day long I kept telling myself it was just dinner, and everybody has to eat. Then I would think about how embarrassed I would be if I got home and found spinach in my teeth, or enchilada sauce on my blouse.

That didn't happen, by the way.

I handled the day pretty well, but when I got off work I had two hours to kill.  I didn't want to sit around making myself nervous, so I started to clean the house.

I had it completely spotless in an hour and a half.

Then I attempted to get cute...but not too cute.  A girl never wants to look like she's trying too hard, but she doesn't want to look frumpy either.

It's kind of complicated.

I left my house...then decided I didn't want to be too early.  But I didn't want to be late either.

I took the back road to the restaurant.  It worked, I got there one minute early.

He was already there, and I was glad.  Being there first would have looked desperate.

Hey, I may be a lot of things, but desperate isn't one of them.

I sat down and we started to chat.  I was the picture of poise, I was a natural.  I could do this thing.

Then out of the blue he asked me the most random question.

"Were you nervous about tonight?" he asked.

"Hmmm...."  I responded.  I was thinking fast. "Not really.  It's just dinner and everybody has to eat, right?  Why do you ask?"

"I had a friend whose neck used to get really red when she was nervous.  And yours is really red right now."

Dang, I forgot about my traitorous neck!

"Yeah, well, okay, I may have been a tad nervous,"  I stammered.  "But just because I've lived here for 30 years and I know somebody will see me and give me a hard time tomorrow."

We had a nice time, we did.  And I may decide to try this date thing again sometime.

And if you see me, be sure to say hello.

I'll be the girl in the scarf.

Four Eyes

When I was a kid, Friday nights were TV nights.  The Brady Bunch came first, followed by the Partridge Family.  My siblings and I had our own designated seating assignments.  I used to lay on the floor about four feet away from the television.

I didn't get glasses until I was 12.  But I suspect I may have needed them before that.

I've always hated wearing glasses.

Within months, I lost my first pair.  I remember trying to convince my mom they had to have fallen out of my pocket and down into the storm drain below our street. That was the only explanation because I had looked EVERYWHERE.  I never did get those glasses back;  she never allowed me to climb down there and look for them. They're probably still there.

High school brought on contact lense angst.

Remember those hard contacts people had back in the day?  I could never wear those.  My best friend could pop hers out, stick it in her mouth to rinse it off, then pop it back in without needing a mirror.

I was so jealous.

When soft contacts became popular, I was first in line.  I had several years of success wearing them.  But for some reason after my son was born, I could no longer wear them.  I have no idea why, but I totally blame him.  Every couple of years I try them again, and every time I end up miserable and am reminded what tremendous sacrifices I've made as a mother.

I guess it was worth it.

You'd think after so many years of wearing glasses, I wouldn't have any problems.  But I do.  The older I get, the harder it is for me to get used to a new pair.  It's torture.

My insurance pays for new glasses every two years, but about a year ago I was having a hard time seeing my computer.  I needed new glasses, and I had to pay for them 100%.  I wear transition lenses, and let me tell you, they ain't cheap.

I liked the ones I bought, but I couldn't get used to them.  No matter how many times I had them adjusted, it felt like they were squeezing my head.  They came with a warranty, so I exchanged them for the lightest pair available.  The lady at the eye doctor said I would have absolutely no problem with these...and I payed an additional $200.  Ouch.

She's right, they are light.

And, after a year of suffering, I'm finally used to them.

But my computer is looking kind of fuzzy...

Stress

This has been quite a day.  Actually, the last couple of weeks have pretty much eaten my lunch.

Unfortunately that's not quite true.  I tend to eat more lunch when I'm stressed.  And more breakfast and dinner.  Know what I mean?

This chain of misfortune started with my car.  It had two leaky seals.  I saw the boxes my new seals came in; they were about the size of canning jar lids.  Too bad I couldn't pop my car into a pressure cooker and seal the leaks, it would have been much cheaper.

You know, I always wonder if the guys who work on my car really work on my car.  I had my transmission flushed once; my car looked exactly the same when I picked it up as it did when I dropped it off.  It ran the same too.  How do you men know?  Maybe it's a testosterone thing that this estrogen laden woman will never understand.

And I am okay with that.

Then my hot water heater died.  It was a slow, painful death...I'd known it was coming.  Water kept raining down on the pilot light; I was getting used to lighting it in the morning and waiting for 30 minutes before I took a shower.  Finally, it gave up.  Kaput.

I mourned.

A few days later, The Beast (my quilt machine) refused to go sideways.  Funny thing...I found this random part under the table a few weeks ago; for the life of me I couldn't figure out where it came from.  It seemed to work fine without it...until it didn't.

That part made it go sideways.  Who knew?  Well, the repair man knew, but that's beside the point.

Things come in threes, right?  Wrongo.

Saturday morning I booted up the computer on The Beast and the screen went black.

I've never had a computer crash before.  It's not very fun.

My brilliant (and patient) son-in-law spent two hours on the other side of a webcam trying to get me up and running again.  We thought we had it, but when I heard him say, "Uh oh.  That's not good," I knew it was over.

I ordered a new computer yesterday.

As fun as it would be to feel sorry for myself, I simply can't.  God won't let me.  In retrospect, I can see the places he's stretched my faith, and then provided...stretched my faith, and then provided, sometimes in truly humbling and miraculous ways.

I think I'm getting it.

I suspect he's getting ready to move on, to deal with something else in my character.

I bet it will have something to do with eating my lunch.

About Prayer...the Sequel

Today is a very important anniversary in my life.

One year ago today, I began my prayer journey.

If you've recently joined this wild ride with me, here's my original post about it. http://shelikesskirts.blogspot.com/2011/03/about-prayer.html

I know this may sound terrible, but I'm relieved to have this year over.  I met my goal; I prayed consistently every single day for an entire year.  The pressure is off and now I can relax and let somebody else pray for a change.

Right?

Ah....no.  Wrong.  Very, very wrong.

I had some preconceived ideas about what being a prayer warrior would be like.  They were all way off the mark.  Like, way.

Prayer continues to be hard work for me.  At the beginning, I hoped it would get easier, but it never has.  I've decided that's because prayer isn't about me at all.  It's about God and about others...and for some reason when something isn't all about me, it's harder.  I hope I'm not the only person in the world with this flaw...but there it is.

I can be really selfish.

Prayer is also hard work because it can be very emotional.  As hard as I try, I can rarely keep from getting teary while I pray.  There always seems to be one request every day that just gets to me.  

I've learned to put my eye makeup on each morning after I've finished praying.

I used to think consistent prayer warriors must experience a special connection with God...some ethereal peace that prayer-challenged people like me don't have.  Maybe there are those that do, but I don't.  I am seldom drawn to my knees in the morning because I can hardly wait to talk to God.  I don't often get warm fuzzies from prayer.  Prayer for me is a choice, it is an act of my will that I have to make happen.   I'm accountable to no one...except God.  And as incredulous as it sounds, I can pretty easily tune him out.  The best way for me not to is to make sure I'm reading the Bible every day.

That's something else I've done every day for an entire year.  I've learned prayer and scripture reading go together like peanut butter and jelly.  Like chips and salsa.  Like milk and cookies.

You just can't have one without the other.  Having both every single day has changed my life.

How?  Good question.

First, I think less of myself and more of others.  God has grown a new level of compassion in my heart.

I don't know how to explain it.  I care more.  And I don't have to think about it more, it just happens.  And I really, really like it.

Second, I love God more.  I've asked him to help me fall more in love with Jesus Christ, and he is answering that prayer.  It didn't come over night, he had to root out some wrong thinking in my life first.  But it's happening.  I want more of Jesus, and I'm not just saying that because Jesus is always the right answer.  I really long for deeper knowledge of my Savior.

Lord, give me more of Jesus.

You may want to know if God has answered my prayers.  I can honestly say he absolutely has.

He said yes to some.  My mother's health has improved tremendously. My son got a great job.

He said no to others.  My friend's dear son-in-law died.  An important relationship has not been restored.

To many, many other prayers he has said wait.  And keep praying.

I used to wonder if it was okay to ask God for the same thing over and over again,  but for me, that's what being a prayer warrior is.  And the more I pray, even though it's hard, the more I'm convinced that God really can do more than we can ever ask or imagine.  That faith didn't come naturally from my sad, sinful little heart. It came as a gift from Almighty God.

The one who invites me into his throne room every day.

The one who rewards me with far more than my simple attempt at devotion will ever deserve.

Come on, join me.

Being Okay

Gate E6 is down two flights of stairs.  It kind of feels like its own little airport.

You can't get away from people at gate E6.  There's no Starbucks to disappear in.  It's just a bunch of chairs and a door that leads outside to the plane.

I sat across from them; a dad and his two kids.  He wore a weight lifting t-shirt and an arrogant expression.

I didn't like him.

His son was probably 12. His father spoke to him like he should know everything about air travel.  The boy looked like the weight of the world was on his shoulders...he looked scared.  They were traveling alone to Houston, which, I surmised, was home, and where their mother lived.

The little girl was about eight.  She was crying and clinging to her dad.  Every now and then he would reach down and wipe away the tears that were falling on his arm, like they were a bug.  Occasionally he would pat her awkwardly and tell her she would be okay.

I was tempted to argue with him.

I was in first grade, so I was probably six.  My parents divorced when I was five and my dad had moved to San Francisco.  Compared to my home in L.A., San Francisco was cold.  When my brother and I flew up for a weekend visit, my mom sent me with my bright orange fake fur coat.

Do you ever wonder if you remember actual events, or if what you remember came from looking at pictures?

Besides that coat, what I remember is a horrible, panicky feeling.  My six year old brain was convinced my mom would not be safe without me.  I was terrified that something would happen to her and my baby sister while I was away.

I remember crying.   A lot.  I also remember trying really hard not to cry because I didn't want my dad to feel bad. But I couldn't help it.

I didn't see much of my dad while I was growing up.  We moved to San Diego and he moved to L.A., but we only saw him on an occasional weekend.  He always took us to the zoo and to a Mexican restaurant where he drank margaritas.

Eventually our relationship became a Christmas card and sometimes a birthday card.

He died this year on New Year's day.  Though I had recently tried to be more communicative, I hadn't seen him in years.

Didn't matter.  His death crushed me.

Like God, I hate divorce, but it is prevalent in my extended family. With one exception, everyone in my extended family has been divorced.  I don't know all of the reasons, and I can't judge.  But I had hoped that family legacy would end with me.  It didn't and my kids have had to go through some of the same emotions I did as a child.  At times, that haunts me.

But I know the family legacy will end with my children.  Their marriages are based on a foundation that will never move.

Hallelujah.

Shortly before we boarded our flight, that little girl pushed her way onto her dad's lap.  She gripped his neck and cried buckets.

He was embarrassed, the big jerk.  I had to give up my seat and stand as far away as I could to keep from smacking him.  Or at least giving him a really dirty look.

I know normal people don't get married with the goal of getting divorced.  And I suppose countless parents have patted their children as they cry in airports and told them they will be okay.

But, I have a question.

Compared to what?

The Airport

Airports are fascinating places; there is so much to entertain.   Truthfully, a traveler might experience sensory overload before ever stepping foot on a plane. 

“Huh?” you ask. 

‘Tis true.

For example….

At this moment, Carrie Underwood is singing about smashing out her boyfriend’s taillights with a Louisville Slugger over the intercom. 

I was just at McDonald’s where I heard several Asian employees speaking an Asian language really, really fast. 

The little Hispanic girl working the counter looked completely lost.

I stood in line behind two twenty-somethings that smelled like they hadn’t had a shower since they were twelve. 

I’ll never understand why people don’t shower before they get on a plane. I mean, seriously.  It’s a given that people will smell you in planes and elevators. 

Somebody should make a public service TV commercial to enlighten the masses.

I’m in the B concourse, never been here before.  I think they collected the oldest seats in the state to furnish this place.  The seat next to me has a huge hole in it; it’s swallowed my power cord.  And the seat I’m in?  I’m feeling no padding at all.

Though not fan of these seats, I kind of like the freaky wooden birds scattered about this concourse.  They’re huge and funky. 

And Alaskan.

I’ve saved the best for last.  There is SO much to see. 

I saw a young teenage girl wearing the tightest jeans in the history of the world.  I wondered how her mother ever let her out of the house, and then I saw her mother.  Now I understand.

I saw a nice looking young man in shorts, a nice jacket, a visor and nice sandals.  He was somewhat unremarkable until I noticed the bright purple nail polish he’s wearing on his toes.

I’ve seen Amish folks, Muslim folks, and Russian folks.  I’m sitting across from a woman with very long, very grey braids, and a woman with pink and purple hair.

There are lots of average folks too.

One lady I saw was really interesting.  She looked like she got up early to clean, worked all day and then drove to Anchorage. She had her friend cut and color her hair (she's trying to hide the grey from her kids), had a gluten free energy bar for dinner, then a McDonald’s ice cream cone.  She looks like she really needs a nap.

Wait…I didn’t see her in the terminal. 

I saw her in the mirror.  

She definitely overloaded my senses.