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.