Dear Reader,

Maybe I've known you for years; perhaps we just met in recent months (although it may feel as if it's been much longer); possibly I just shook hands with you for the first time last week. I might be privy to your greatest fears...or know little more than your name...or perhaps I don't even know that.
Regardless, I am praying for you.

Warm Fuzzies

I fell asleep with my cheek pressed into a tear-soaked pillow last Friday. When I awakened fully on Saturday morning, I found myself crying anew. And while it was not wrong for me to mourn the extended absence of a dear friend in this way, the chasm of depression hungrily waited nearby. I rose, wiping my eyes. Self-pity stalked me more closely than the two cats that shadowed me to the kitchen—eagerly anticipating the day’s first meal.

After going through the motions of early morning routine, I sought refuge in my favorite spot: an armchair nestled in the bay window’s embrace. I curled into empty cushions. In the pale, pre-dawn light outside, my gaze encountered a hushed brotherhood of trees. The sun would soon force through the slightest crevices of their solidarity--nothing is inseparable. My tears returned. The chasm’s grin menaced much nearer than before.

Cassie soon discovered my lap. The unguarded affection of her warm, black-and-white body purring against my thighs reestablished some distance between me and the waiting chasm. The little cat settled in for a long morning nap. I gratefully caressed her small head and let the tears flow. I poured out my grief offering before the King and Lover of my soul, wordlessly begging him to consume it, to make himself known. I stroked my sleeping companion and sought my Lord. But my spirit trembled. I had no words of praise or sorrow to give; I could not hear his words of comfort or direction, either. There were no words at all. Nothing is inseparable. Self-pity lurked intently beside me—eager to consume any surfeit that might spill from my unsteady grasp.

Abruptly, the cat awakened. She casually jumped down. Empty air devoured the remnants of Cassie’s warmth as I watched her saunter away from me. Such an innocent abandonment…but in that moment it was one separation too many. My grief twisted, and spilled over. Self-pity leapt upon me in hungry triumph. The gaping maw of depression opened directly beneath me. Staring out at the ranks of trees—now pierced through by a strong, indifferent sun—I let the tears burn.

But a small sound from behind my left shoulder caught my attention. Turning, I saw Cassie hunched at the far edge of the carpet: she was puking.

Those quiet retching noises separated me from the howling silence. Words returned. I could hear my Lord and Lover clearly once again: “Come on, baby! You know better than that,” he chastised with an arch smile in his voice. As the little cat finished her uncharacteristic deed and walked out of sight, I found myself on solid footing once more. The chasm was covered over. The Lord did not remove my sorrow, but in those brief moments he consumed the poison tainting my grief: self-pity. It was enough. My offering was made pure again.

He continued to lecture me gently as I collected baking soda and towels to soak up Cassie’s mess. “Nothing is lost—no person, no relationship, no blessing. I do not forsake or forget. You, my darling, are just being ridiculous. So come on, snap out of it, baby!”

My heart rejoiced in the midst of sorrow. I don’t know how he does it, but my Lord always manages to make me adore him just a little more. Wiping globs of cat vomit out of the rug, I had to smile, even giggle, through my tears. Only the Lover of my soul would use a furry critter’s gag reflex as a method of rescue.

*-*

...hmm...

So many things could be said about this...
www.cnn.com/2009/US/06/03/topless.shop.fire/index.html

Arson is not a justifiable solution. But I find the attitudes of the proprietor and employees very disturbing. This is the rapidly-growing mindset of our culture.

Romance

Do you ever sing lovesongs to your Lord?
www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGTDRztaCCw

Do you ever hear your Lover singing lovesongs to you?
www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhK81hZj4L4

4-01-09

For the past two weeks, Spring has slowly bubbled up from its hidden sources. The trees were still barren, and the earth remained brown; but a few flowers have been impatient early-risers. At first, the crocuses raised their heads in clusters of purple laughter. Gradually, much as adolescence overtakes childhood, the yellow crocuses' far-flung guffaws replaced the innocent chortles of the early purple. Now shallow pools of violets have collected in every dip and hollow like rainwater. I want to go puddle-jumping. What would splash marks from a violet puddle look like, I wonder?
On Saturday night, we had a thunderstorm. Lightening bathed the world in sparks of lavender magic. The trees, the earth…it called them out of their dreams. They yawned and stretched. By Sunday morning, naked limbs and bare ground rippled with sleepy-eyed greenery. A late snow passed through on Sunday afternoon—forcing chill faerie kisses on the chaste daffodil buds. But the summons of that lavender magic was stronger: the greenery won’t be retreating into dreams anytime soon. The trees and earth have a renewed interest in the world.

The cats were very intent upon the old dishwasher in our kitchen last Saturday morning. I could only assume that a mouse or some other critter had crawled inside of it. (I guess it's a good thing we always wash our dishes by hand.) I left the terrible duo to their vigil, and spent the day with a friend. When I arrived home Saturday night, the dishwasher door was open. Yes, that's right. Somehow those two rascals managed to flip open the door of the dishwasher! Personally, I had never bothered to look inside the machine before. There was still some standing water, as well as a few dishes—fugitives left to molder for who knows how many years. There was also a mouse huddled under a glass measuring cup in the lower rack. He was partially hidden by the large metal spoon. I don’t think I would have spotted him if he hadn’t happened to sneeze just as I reached down to close the dishwasher door. Realizing he’d been noticed, the mouse gave up on his ploy of immobility. He sneezed twice more and briefly washed his brown face. Then he inspected me from the safety of his glass fortress, his nose whiffling in perpetual suspicion. Quite frankly, I was puzzled over what I ought to do. It’s generally frowned upon to encourage rodents; but could I really catch and kill it? And how had it escaped from the cats? We stared at each other for several minutes. Eventually, he sneezed again.
“Hey, what’re you lookin’ at?” The glass measuring cup warped and amplified his small voice.
“M-me? I-I-I’m not looking at anything.” Except a talking mouse! Oh my gosh, a talking mouse!
“Well beat it! I already paid off the cats, and I wanna take a nap. So scram!” And with that, he sneezed a final time, turned his back on me, and curled up to sleep. Incredulous, I could only stare. Eventually I closed and locked the dishwasher door. I hope the rodent slum lord enjoyed his nap.
**April Fool! In case you didn’t notice, this is not an absolutely truthful account. (And for anyone who didn’t notice, you might want to visit your doctor in the near future…) The mouse is completely fictitious. At least, the one I saw was fictitious. The cats did manage to open the dishwasher, though. And I did shut and lock the door against any further attempts. Knowing these two cats, they’ll move on to bigger and better mischief. I do wonder what sort of currency that mouse used to bribe them, though. Hmmm. Well, whatever he offered was apparently insufficient: I found a dead mouse on the kitchen floor Sunday night. He got the cement shoes.

A Thought

Daily I am faced with two alternatives: walk a narrow path on a wide road, or walk a wide path on a narrow road.

25 Facts

There was a note going around Facebook a while back... (For those of you wise enough not to involve yourselves with Facebook, a “note” is basically the equivalent of some sort of blog post. Why it’s called a “note” is a mystery to me; for that matter, why a person’s Facebook page is called a “wall” is equally mysterious.) But regardless of the names, there’s a trend filtering through the Facebook world, entitled “25 Random Things About Me.” It’s rather like a chain letter: each person invited to read someone’s list of 25 pieces of information is then supposed to write a similar “note” on his/her own “wall” listing 25 things about himself or herself.

In spite of the numerous problems with Facebook, I decided this fad might have some merit. After all, what better method exists for selfishly forcing useless bits of personal trivia upon others? I can’t think of one, personally; face-to-face conversations are so antiquated, and telephone chats are becoming fairly passé as well. So here, for the augmentation of your useless information collection, and hopefully for your reading pleasure, are 25 Facts About Me.

*My List of 25 Facts*

1. #1 Before I reached the age of four, my aunt and paternal grandmother spent a summer taking turns babysitting me during the day. At Aunt Mary’s house, I watched Mickey Mouse cartoons, picked cherry tomatoes from her garden, and always had Red Pop with lunch.
   
2. #2 I don’t particularly like soda in general, but I like Red Pop to this day.
   
3. #3 At Grandma’s house, there were occasionally days that Grandma would wear her “Gettin’ Wet Clothes” while she sat by the kiddy pool. Whenever this particular outfit appeared, it signaled permission for me to drench her lawn chair and her person with cupfuls of water from my pool.
   
4. #4 One day at the age of three, when I was angry because I hadn't wanted to leave Grandma's house, I deliberately rammed my head upward into the car windshield and cracked it.
   
5. #5 I had serious anger issues as a kid.
   
6. #6 No lasting damage to my head was ever documented.
   
7. #7 I love violets and Lily of the Valley. Calla lilies are a close runner-up, too.
   
8. #8 Somewhere in my mother’s garage sits a large popcorn tin: the last shrine of my sparkly rock collection.
   
9. #9 My younger sister, Becky, and I named all of our stuffed animals; sometimes we got very creative. The most original name I ever bestowed upon one of my stuffed animals was given to my favorite black kitty: “Sleeping-Beauty-Costa-Rica.” I still have no notion of where I came up with that name, but I remember thinking it especially pretty at the time.
   
10. #10 I’m not at liberty to disclose Becky’s most original name, but I can tell you that our parents quickly convinced her to change it.
    
11. #11 I miss the “Calvin and Hobbs” comic. Any strips involving snowmen, bath time, or the babysitter, were especially fun.
    
12. #12 I was fortunate enough to have five freshman roommates during my college years; each of these girls was far more amazing than I deserved.
    
13. #13 I still enjoy listening to CDs of silly kids’ songs. I sing along and make up motions.
    
14. #14 I was in a three-year relationship with Alan Traxler, and seeing Curtis Wells behind his back during the last two years. My family moved just before I started third grade, and I’ve never had a boyfriend since.
    
15. #15 That “never had a boyfriend since” gig has been pretty enjoyable. Jesus makes up the difference.
    
16. #16 My cousin, Michelle, and I invented our own game when we were three and two. We got a kick out of walking around in other peoples’ shoes. This adorable “game” was called Shoe Cotz. Neither of our mothers ever determined the origins of this title or the goals of the “game,” but Michelle and I happily played Shoe Cotz for several years without ever knowing, or caring, how and why we came up with it.
    
17. #17 In spite of the psychological advancements in personality typing, I’m still frequently uncertain as to whether I’m really an Extrovert…or simply an Introvert who successfully acts extroverted. (The less-accepted category known as “ambivert” might be a viable option.)
    
18. #18 Blowing bubbles is one of my longstanding favorite recreational activities.
    
19. #19 In my personal opinion, “petunia” is probably the ugliest name you could give something. Then again, petunias are rather ugly flowers.
    
20. #20 If you blow bubbles onto petunias, the soap solution bleaches round spots on the petals, making them even uglier (if that’s possible), to the point that they almost become pretty.
    
21. #21 Warning: Do not try this at home! Moms can become strangely irate when their ugly fuchia petunias develop polka dots.
    
22. #22 I still have the Velveteen Rabbit I received from Santa (impersonated by an uncle) as a small child. The only other stuffed animal I keep close by is a monkey my sister made for me at Build-a-Bear.
    
23. #23 I love city streets at night after a rain. Lights reflect off the wet pavement; everything becomes deep and shining, rather than close and polluted.
    
24. #24 My maternal grandfather has ageless eyes.
    
25. #25 My parents put me to bed one night at eleven months of age, speaking the usual monosyllabic words: “ma,” “da,” etc. The next morning, I pulled myself upright in the crib, stared at them, and announced, “Mommy, Daddy, I’m awake now. Can I have up?” Much to the dismay of many friends, relatives, and hapless bystanders, my verbose outpouring has yet to end.
    
26. #26 One of my favorite quotes comes from Douglas Adams, writer of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy: “I love deadlines. I love the sound they make as they go whizzing by.”
    
27. #27 I really stink at meeting deadlines.
    
28. #28 When I finished first grade, we kept a pet turtle for a summer. Dad had rescued it from the roadside, and declared its name should be “Elvis.” Initially we fed Elvis crickets…but Mom was in charge of feeding. That diet regimen didn’t last long.
    
29. #29 In case anyone should happen to wonder, my mom jumps higher and squeals louder than any escaped crickets she may be attempting to recapture.
    
30. #30 I cannot remember why, but my sister and I both asked for fishing poles one Christmas when we were kids. The fun we’ve had with our grandmother and grandfather as a result is beyond my powers of expression. I love to go fishing. Even if I spend an entire day just “drowning worms,” I can return home empty handed, content in the camaraderie I’ve enjoyed.
    
31. #31 Unless you are terrible at math, you’ll notice that I’ve exceeded the 25 number limitation.
    
32. #32 I really stink at staying within number and page limitations.
    
33. #33 I’m pretty terrible at math, too.
    
34. #34 Maybe impacting that windshield did do something after all…