tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72334332413123690572024-03-12T22:24:30.158-05:00Adventures of a Recovering Basket CaseMy joys, fears, sorrows, and laughter. What I've learned along the way. How God has been conforming me according to his plan.Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.comBlogger475125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-70870088638466489322023-12-07T17:22:00.004-06:002023-12-07T17:22:54.225-06:00Good News!<p>The radiologist called me today and let me know that Monday's biopsy was benign. He said the quality of the samples was excellent, and he is "confident that it is not cancer." </p><p>The site has been marked and will be followed closely on future mammograms.</p><p>Thank the Lord! Thank you, everyone, for your love and prayers. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZuILru7hvyK793-VVxux3uHLcNYfp5ZC4EeN2MIwKhzfYboXDxRij7K21DkaV5sa4RfMfYiGMl4ZyTUq5IPlYCX9pvtumSNMx7iqop5icVraKifTcRjln1xaQRH4cdsvAI4UBJ6kUI2tNcsjqaOevUjV2JKCBMDoRrBYFiGUEvzCgiOCgPl1fDxb50sy/s1944/404954815_3670459979843798_854461105670015071_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="1458" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZuILru7hvyK793-VVxux3uHLcNYfp5ZC4EeN2MIwKhzfYboXDxRij7K21DkaV5sa4RfMfYiGMl4ZyTUq5IPlYCX9pvtumSNMx7iqop5icVraKifTcRjln1xaQRH4cdsvAI4UBJ6kUI2tNcsjqaOevUjV2JKCBMDoRrBYFiGUEvzCgiOCgPl1fDxb50sy/s320/404954815_3670459979843798_854461105670015071_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-51013409005465801372023-12-06T22:58:00.002-06:002023-12-06T22:58:19.663-06:00My Long Lost Brother<p>A week or two ago, I took leftover spaghetti sauce to work for lunch. I had no noodles left because I usually only make enough for a single meal; the gluten-free noodles don't hold up very well in the refrigerator. Briefly, I contemplated taking the dry noodles and a small pot to cook them in on the full-sized stove in the break room. I'd never seen anyone cooking anything on that stove, only reheating meals in the five microwave ovens. To my knowledge, I'm the only one who uses the toaster/convection oven (because I don't trust microwave radiation).</p><p>I decided the stove was probably there for potluck lunches, and if anyone saw me cooking on it, they'd think I was weird. Had I known everyone better, I wouldn't have cared what they thought. Indeed, at my previous office job, I had occasionally cooked my dinner in a slow cooker under my desk. My coworkers had laughed at my eccentricity and ribbed me mercilessly, but I didn't mind. No one was laughing when the tempting aromas wafted through our quad of cubes and into the surrounding ones. One after another, my coworkers commented on how amazing it smelled. "Yep!" I agreed smugly. "Nope," I replied when they asked for a taste.</p><p>After chuckling over those fond memories, I decided I'd better make my noodles on my own stove while I cooked oatmeal for my breakfast. For most of my four years at this job, I've been fully remote, and now I only go to the office on Mondays and Fridays. Therefore, very few people in the office know anything about me, let alone about all of my quirks. I don't know why it should seem weird to cook at work, but I'm too conventional to rock the boat. Today, however, I learned that some people dare to defy cooking conventions. </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Early this morning, a foundation repair crew arrived to lift my sagging garage. The man who knocked on my door asked me to open the garage door so they could access my electricity. I snapped the cover on the cat door leading into the garage and then opened the garage door for them. <p></p><p>At lunchtime, I saw Arwen hovering near the blocked cat door and decided I'd better bring in the litter box if I didn't want to clean up any messes. I steeled myself for this unpleasant task and stepped through the inner door into the garage. For a moment, I was perplexed when a tantalizing aroma filled my nostrils instead of the litter box stench I'd anticipated. </p><p>"Pardon me," I murmured to a young man standing with his back to me. On the cement floor at his feet was a paper plate with a Ziploc bag full of tortillas. But where was that smell...? As I stepped between him and his lunch paraphernalia on my way to the litter box, my head swiveled at the discovery that the wonderful odor was emanating from a... microwave!</p><p>The small, heavy appliance, circa 1980, sat on the floor by the wall, plugged into the surge protector under the light trap for insects. I quickly turned my back to hide my twitching lips. Taking a slow cooker to work on a non-potluck day is one thing. Taking a clunky microwave is another thing entirely! It was an ingenious idea to be sure. Why buy convenience store junk food when you could heat up a home-cooked meal instead? This was just the sort of thing I would do if I only had the guts. </p><p>As I cleaned the litter box, I actually contemplated telling this man, in my halting Spanish, how much I admired his cleverness, and that we surely must be siblings separated at birth. Convention won out, though, and I concluded that the polite thing to do was to pretend I hadn't noticed the humming microwave with its delectable contents. So I pressed my lips together and strode back into the house, carrying the litter box with me.</p><p>I was still laughing to myself over the experience when my sister Emily came through the garage door with our sister Amy. "Did you guys see the microwave in the garage?" I asked.</p><p>"What??" Emily asked.</p><p>"That guy is cooking his lunch in my garage in a microwave he brought with him!" I choked out. "It's smart, I guess. It's just... I've never heard of <b>anyone </b>taking a microwave to work."<br /></p><p>"His wife probably cooked his lunch for him," Emily said. "I didn't see it."</p><p>"Look," I urged her.</p><p>She pulled the door open a crack and then shut it quickly to conceal our peals of laughter. "I saw it!" she hissed.</p><p>After she'd gone, I casually returned to the garage, ostensibly to retrieve the pooper scooper that I'd left after dropping one of Macey's deposits from when I'd taken her out at the start of my lunch. Finding the garage empty, I surreptitiously took a photo. You may need to click the picture to enlarge it because I took it from the doorway. I didn't want them to see me through the open garage door and be embarrassed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE48T91LTI2-Oh6TD36rXFKD71hyphenhyphenH470NDTs1G7ECefMG7mQyvhh-8T9OcjEwjUyhfGBWAXyF4qbaZQEaF9md76kCf1urrXe7-BdHErUew55lg-WkDe-hv2CiOXjdMi5awYnmGUnAy5Unxyu_gs6bgkUGtYRmaG5fjYzA-2c9ydOXeHJ6xpUPVkt2H8pr3/s1560/404111099_1131965104828774_8421528045664778089_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE48T91LTI2-Oh6TD36rXFKD71hyphenhyphenH470NDTs1G7ECefMG7mQyvhh-8T9OcjEwjUyhfGBWAXyF4qbaZQEaF9md76kCf1urrXe7-BdHErUew55lg-WkDe-hv2CiOXjdMi5awYnmGUnAy5Unxyu_gs6bgkUGtYRmaG5fjYzA-2c9ydOXeHJ6xpUPVkt2H8pr3/s320/404111099_1131965104828774_8421528045664778089_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJKcatlPRFGrIKc6mLFsmmiSc8oloc3AxDioE6LwMQOXresx6dLaIVCGtt2-rE04FDebkdv-sGmSujUxEXRd-TGqCLIwBSiYIR-mKmhkeLAgfoAQIC7j_3yBhH3o8YagREi8U3bzwD9VdtUOJJTRY4mFOoyjpf1LUIfRR_jLc1bL1-gwARXn4EDC__yH9/s1560/403904127_1012135153178053_963529035026140753_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSJKcatlPRFGrIKc6mLFsmmiSc8oloc3AxDioE6LwMQOXresx6dLaIVCGtt2-rE04FDebkdv-sGmSujUxEXRd-TGqCLIwBSiYIR-mKmhkeLAgfoAQIC7j_3yBhH3o8YagREi8U3bzwD9VdtUOJJTRY4mFOoyjpf1LUIfRR_jLc1bL1-gwARXn4EDC__yH9/s320/403904127_1012135153178053_963529035026140753_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The front walk was impassable.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>As I laughingly related the whole story to Amy tonight--she hadn't paid attention to our chatter this afternoon--she replied, "That sounds like something you would do, Sarah."</p><p>"I know!" I replied. "It's almost like he's my brother or something."</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-16027923080685513782023-12-05T23:16:00.004-06:002023-12-06T23:07:22.396-06:00Blessing in Their HandsThe breast biopsy that I wrote about in my last post had to be postponed due to a problem with insurance approval. I didn't find out about it until nearly 5:00 last Monday, on the night before the scheduled procedure. I spent Tuesday morning on the phone with the doctor's office and the hospital trying to cut through the red tape. The hospital scheduler tried from her end as well, but we had to admit defeat about 45 minutes before my appointment time. <div><br /></div><div>At first, the scheduler said I'd have to wait until December 21 for the next available appointment, which put my total waiting time at 7 weeks from the date of my repeat mammogram. While we were on the phone, though, an opening came up for yesterday, December 4. </div><div><br /></div><div>I arrived at the hospital at 11:58, two whole minutes early, only to find a sign on the door stating that the staff were off for lunch until 12:45. Mystified, I sat down in the hospital lobby and laboriously logged in to the patient portal on my ailing phone. It turns out that I'd read the instructions incorrectly, and I was actually supposed to arrive at 12:45. At first I was aggravated with myself, but then I decided to go buy some Tylenol, which I would need after the procedure. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then I spent a relaxing 20 minutes in the car listening to an audiobook, only to realize that I'd gotten confused again, and now I was <b>late</b>!</div><div><br /></div><div>I arrived at the desk, breathless and apologetic, at 12:52. The receptionist was very gracious, but I felt pretty frazzled. In the waiting room, I settled myself with some deep breathing and silent prayer. </div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div>I was disappointed to find that my usual mammogram technician was not the one who would be taking care of me, but the woman who ushered me back was equally kind. I soon learned that she was the one who'd helped me the week before with obtaining insurance approval, so she wasn't quite a stranger. She introduced herself, but I promptly forgot her name. I'm going to call her Lynn, but that probably isn't right. </div><div><br /></div><div>We sat in a small room where Lynn went over all the details of the upcoming procedure, including the risks. "After the biopsy, we'll do a quick mammogram to verify the placement of the titanium clip," she concluded. "If the biopsy shows cancer, that will mark the spot for the surgeon." She touched my knee. "But let's hope it will just be calcification, like last time. Remember, 80 percent of these biopsies are benign." </div><div><br /></div><div>Next, the radiologist came in to see if I had any questions. I didn't. I was just ready to get it over with.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the procedure room, another tech named Beth joined us. I relinquished my cozy gown and climbed the little staircase on trembling legs. I clambered onto the shoulder-high table and crawled into position with my left breast over a circular hole about six inches in diameter. Lynn gently draped the gown over my back.</div><div><br /></div><div>While Beth adjusted the camera, Lynn gave me instructions. "Scoot down a bit... Put your left arm down by your side... No, your other left." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Get as comfortable as you can," Beth advised. "Once we've entered the coordinates, you won't be able to move at all until the biopsy is over." </div><div><br /></div><div>On my previous tour of the room, I'd been so relieved to find an actual table instead of the so-called bed from my previous biopsy, which had actually been a very uncomfortable chair. Now, struggling to find a position that wouldn't hurt my neck, I realized that this arrangement might not be quite as comfortable as I'd thought. Also, I felt oddly vulnerable with my breast dangling through a hole in a table!</div><div><br /></div><div>I kept my left arm at my side as instructed and bent my right arm so that my hand was level with my face. When I closed my eyes, the bright light shining through my eyelids almost felt like sunlight. I tried to imagine that I was lying on a towel on the sand and listening to the waves rolling into the shore. </div><div><br /></div><div>Lynn tugged and tugged at my breast, but Beth said the calcifications were not visible on the screen. </div><div>"On the mammogram report, it said the calcifications were against the chest wall," I said, and then I felt silly because of course they knew that.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, it's really posterior," Beth agreed. "Let's try the thinner pad," she said to Lynn. "It won't be quite as comfortable." </div><div><br /></div><div>"It's okay," I said as I helped slide the new cushion into position. I settled myself facedown for the second time, and Lynn resumed tugging at my breast. I prayed silently that they would be able to visualize the area; I did not want to come back for a surgical biopsy!</div><div><br /></div><div>At last, Beth was able to lock in the coordinates. "The radiologist will be here in just a moment," she said. "He'll cleanse your breast with Betadine, and then he'll numb your skin with a lidocaine injection. That will be the most painful part because breast tissue is very vascular. Then, when the needle goes in deeper, it will deliver more numbing medicine. At that point you should feel only pressure. If you feel pain, let us know right away."</div><div><br /></div><div>I swallowed awkwardly, careful not to move my body a millimeter. Remembering my other breast biopsy, I thought of how the technician had held my hand during the injection. In my peripheral vision, I could just see Beth standing by the computer screen. I wanted to ask her to hold my hand, but I wasn't sure whether she would be in the way.</div><div><br /></div><div>I closed my eyes again and went back to the beach in my mind. I heard the door open and the rustling of the radiologist settling onto the low stool. "Hello," he said. "I'm going to cleanse your breast. It will feel wet and a little cold."</div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to breathe deeply, but it was hard to take in a good breath due to my awkward position. My neck already felt stiff. "Quiet me with your love," I prayed silently. Just then, I felt pressure on my hand. I opened my eyes to see Beth's blue gloved hand on top of mine. I opened my fingers, and she clasped them. "I was hoping you'd hold my hand," I murmured, and closed my eyes again.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I've been through this before," she said. "I know it helps. Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to." </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm going to start the lidocaine injection now," the radiologist said. "You'll feel a sharp pinch." </div><div><br /></div><div>Beth rubbed her thumb over my knuckles, and I had to admonish myself sternly not to cry over her kindness. The last thing I wanted was to lie perfectly still for 10 or 15 minutes with a dripping nose. </div><div><br /></div><div>The pain was shockingly sharp as the needle went deeper into the tissue.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you doing okay?" Beth asked.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes," I said through gritted teeth. </div><div><br /></div><div>Although I'd expected to wait a minute or two for the anesthetic to take effect, the radiologist said, "Now you'll hear some mechanical sounds while I collect the samples." I wanted to ask if we should wait, but I figured he must know what he was doing. I remembered having the same worries the last time I'd had a biopsy, though I did think that there had been at least a minute or two in between the lidocaine and the rest of the procedure.</div><div><br /></div><div>The burning intensified. "I <b>am </b>feeling some pain," I said. "It's burning quite a lot."</div><div><br /></div><div>"The needle is delivering more medication," he said. "As it takes effect, you should only feel pressure."</div><div><br /></div><div>Beth squeezed my hand and let go. "I have to take a picture," she said. Moments later, she was back, and I squeezed her hand gratefully.</div><div><br /></div><div>I heard a lot of sloshing noises and then felt an odd sensation that I can't think how to describe. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm irrigating the area," the radiologist explained. "Now I'm going to place the clip." I heard and felt a click, almost like a stapler. </div><div><br /></div><div>He walked over to the screen. "The biopsy was a success," he announced. "I collected six samples." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, that's good!" I said, and took in a shuddering breath.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'll call you with the results, probably on Thursday or Friday, or maybe Monday," he said.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then it was just me and the two techs again. "You did great!" Beth said.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>"Thank you," I said. "Holding your hand really helped." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Would you like to see the image?" she asked, gesturing to the screen on my right. I squinted at the dark image, which seemed to show a cluster of perhaps six or eight white dots. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Weren't there only three before?</i> I wondered, a little alarmed. <i>No more worrying,</i> I told myself. I wasn't wearing my glasses, and the image was probably taken from a different angle. Who knew what I was really seeing? </div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, Lynn applied steady pressure to my breast until the bleeding had stopped. Then, she crisscrossed two Steri Strips over the wound. </div><div><br /></div><div>Beth then led me to another room. "We have to do a mammogram now, just a couple of images to verify the placement of the clip," she said apologetically. "It may be a little difficult because the site is so posterior." </div><div><br /></div><div>I glanced down at the spot of blood near my cleavage and fervently hoped the lidocaine was still doing its job.... It was. Beth quickly captured the images she needed, and then Lynn wrapped an ACE compression bandage around and around my chest. "Try to leave this in place until tomorrow," she instructed. </div><div><br /></div><div>"And take some Tylenol as soon as you get home to get the pain medicine on board before the anesthetic wears off," Beth added.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Here's your goody bag," Lynn said. "There's some water and a few snacks, and your care instructions."</div><div><br /></div><div>In the car, I opened the pink bag and smiled over a little loop of pink and white beads with the pink ribbon emblem and this message printed on a tiny square of paper: </div><div><br /></div><div><blockquote>"Our prayer beads are a reminder of God's presence... a gift to you to remind you of God's love, comfort, and presence with you.... a gift from someone's heart created and made by the blessing of their hands." </blockquote></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ts-todu8cWbXh9n2wmRvBqOXcWoYRRLU4ukMk2AfM3coqCgXygaK3nj2N8zpyCKvavaWhrEBAEuM_HWlpItgnnqm4Yis6MqQ__Cu1CVAQYiyrmDDmNOfm6-uADffyBWJwpuj8uP0CEwMjcoV9gDYjbbTEbtlL-my-xHb72KWyX7MJIfGLpbFGVvAoV10/s206/prayer%20beads.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Ts-todu8cWbXh9n2wmRvBqOXcWoYRRLU4ukMk2AfM3coqCgXygaK3nj2N8zpyCKvavaWhrEBAEuM_HWlpItgnnqm4Yis6MqQ__Cu1CVAQYiyrmDDmNOfm6-uADffyBWJwpuj8uP0CEwMjcoV9gDYjbbTEbtlL-my-xHb72KWyX7MJIfGLpbFGVvAoV10/s1600/prayer%20beads.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now I let the tears come, the embodiment of my relief that the procedure was over and of my gratitude for the comfort of divine kindness expressed through human hands. I dried my eyes, swallowed two Tylenol, and drove home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks to the excellent care I'd received after the procedure, I had almost no pain, unlike after my first biopsy. The ACE bandage itched like mad, but I was so exhausted that I slipped easily into sleep moments after I sank onto the couch. I slept most of the afternoon, with Arwen snuggled around my waist. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I wait. Thank you to everyone who has been praying for me. I can really feel your love. I'll let you know as soon as I get my results. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-51592190887868397032023-11-25T22:59:00.003-06:002023-11-26T09:27:16.628-06:00Safe and Secure<p>If you've been reading long, you know that I struggle with worrying. I like to think I've made some progress with that over the years, but maybe not. </p><p>If you are a fellow worrier, you understand that worrying itself can engender more worrying. For example, during both of my pregnancies, I worried more about worrying than about the actual object of my worries. I'd read that the mother's emotional state can affect the temperament of the growing baby, so I tried my very hardest not to worry about anything. But of course that was virtually impossible, so every time I caught myself worrying, I would scold myself and launch into even more worrying about worrying. </p><p>I'm sure I'm not the only one to ever worry about worrying, but I wonder if anyone else has taken worrying to an even higher (lower?) level. Have you ever worried about... <b>not </b>worrying? </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Toward the end of September, I had my annual screening mammogram. Since I have had a few scares with abnormal mammogram findings, I tend to feel at least mildly anxious every time I go for a mammogram. But this time, I felt relaxed and ready to check this overdue item off my list. <p></p><p>The morning of my mammogram, I marveled as usual at the kindness and efficiency of the mammogram technician. I focused on her wall of crosses as I prepared for the contortions and breath holding that I knew were coming. I was in and out within maybe 40 minutes and then started my workday as usual.</p><p>I didn't give the results a second thought until a virtual visit with my family doctor to review my latest lab work. The nurse practitioner told me my thyroid levels are looking good, as is my estrone level, which had previously been sharply elevated. As I smiled over all the good news, she mentioned that they had just received my mammogram results, and I needed to schedule a repeat exam. </p><p>I thanked her and took a deep breath. Within moments, I was drawn into a vivid memory of the last time I'd had an abnormal mammogram, in 2020 just before the pandemic. When I received the phone call, I'd been at my new job only a couple of months, and it felt like the many trials that resulted from my Hashimoto's flare-up were coming to an end. The kind woman from the hospital informed me that I needed to schedule an ultrasound as soon as possible, though it wasn't an emergency. To my chagrin, I burst into tears right in front of my new coworker, Chris. He was very understanding, and the prayer he said over me calmed me. Still, I lived in dread until my appointment. I felt I'd gotten lucky that other time when I'd needed a breast biopsy, and with all of the bad things that had happened to me recently, I doubted I'd get lucky again. </p><p>I'd scheduled the ultrasound for the afternoon before a planned trip with Ethan, Sumer, and Allyson. I was so afraid that I might get results that could ruin my vacation, but it was the opposite. I remember staring at a cross on the wall while a young man ran an ultrasound wand over my breast. "Help me be brave," I prayed silently as a tear trickled into my ear.</p><p>"Good news," the man said. "It's just a cyst. It's nothing to worry about." </p><p>I went on vacation with magnified joy and a renewed appreciation for the blessing of time with my children. </p><p>Thinking back on that week or two of agonized worrying, I decided that this time I was <b>not </b>going to waste time and energy on worrying. I picked up the phone right away to schedule the mammogram and get it over with. I learned that I would likely need an ultrasound as well. </p><p>I mentioned the repeat mammogram at the second meeting of my new ladies' small group, but I said I wasn't worried about it since I have dense breast tissue and have frequently been called back after mammograms. "It's probably just calcification," I concluded. </p><p>True to my word, I experienced only a flicker of unease as I returned to the hospital on the morning of November 2. The same kind tech welcomed me, and I gazed at the same wall of crosses, breathing deeply and reading the encouraging inscriptions as I waited for her to return after the radiologist had viewed my new images. </p><p>When the radiologist came through the door right behind her, I knew it wasn't good news. "There's no need to do an ultrasound," he told me. "We wouldn't be able to see what we need to see." He gestured to three tiny dots on the computer screen. "Those spots were not on your mammogram last year," he explained. "There's a very good chance they are just calcification, but we can't tell without doing a biopsy."</p><p>He hastened to assure me that 80 percent of these biopsies are benign. "Is it a needle biopsy?" I asked. He nodded. "I've had a needle biopsy before, on the other side." </p><p>"Then you know what to expect," he said. I nodded, smiling grimly. I knew exactly what to expect, and <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2016/12/more-like-screw-driver.html" target="_blank">it was no fun</a>. </p><p>After the radiologist left, the technician showed me the room where I will have the biopsy and explained the procedure. Then, she introduced me to the scheduler, who was equally kind. I was disappointed to learn that I would have to wait nearly a full month for my biopsy.</p><p>On the way to the car, tears filled my eyes as I battled worry and something else that I like to think I'm not vulnerable to: superstition. Had I been foolish not to worry about this repeat mammogram? Maybe I'd jinxed myself. "That's ridiculous," I told myself. "It doesn't work that way."</p><p>"But what about self-fulfilling prophecies? There really is power in our thoughts. Still, wouldn't worrying about something actually be more likely to have negative effects than <b>failing</b> to worry?" I sat in the car and ruminated about whether there was any reason to worry, whether I was worrying too much, and whether I had been worrying too little. Finally, I dried my eyes, mumbled an apology to God for not trusting Him more, and hurried home to start my workday.</p><p>In the weeks since that morning, I've tried not to think about the biopsy at all. Most days, I've succeeded, but on other days I wondered whether I might need surgery and chemotherapy. It's all so exhausting that I even considered asking for a preventive double mastectomy. This admittedly extreme reaction resulted more from the stress and the ridiculous cost of breast biopsies than from concern over cancer.</p><p>Although I have asked several friends and family members to pray for me, I've mostly avoided talking about it, especially over the Thanksgiving holiday. After all, the chances are very good that everything will be fine, so there's no reason to give other people a cause for concern.</p><p>This morning, three days before the procedure, was the first time I felt truly peaceful when the biopsy came to mind. I was sitting in my favorite chair enjoying some chai tea and my <i>Write the Word</i> scripture journal, struggling to write around a very contented kitty who took up most of the space on my lap. Sweet Riggy, whom I'm fostering for my son and daughter-in-law, was curled up like a cinnamon bun, purring softly with her eyes closed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xoRtEfaZGWdPguBoshMmTYA3yF_3y35JvlEoTeS4ylp1wIVieOd2bpkXUcUdMYD5dYv2MrP_YcVkuDwWQyfxRQIUNxAgCK50LifVBv43Ig88y-BpLqZHo3SV6p5wWlClqkYqIMl6Mw9NWhweUiWGO79z4-Fv6UN7Fk2pqgo58WBLgVKNxRtUKVywseXZ/s4032/387508118_1220656016004253_2012933638963600527_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xoRtEfaZGWdPguBoshMmTYA3yF_3y35JvlEoTeS4ylp1wIVieOd2bpkXUcUdMYD5dYv2MrP_YcVkuDwWQyfxRQIUNxAgCK50LifVBv43Ig88y-BpLqZHo3SV6p5wWlClqkYqIMl6Mw9NWhweUiWGO79z4-Fv6UN7Fk2pqgo58WBLgVKNxRtUKVywseXZ/s320/387508118_1220656016004253_2012933638963600527_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>In my laborious cursive, I copied, "I have loved you with an everlasting love" Jeremiah 31:3. The word <i>everlasting </i>arrested me. How reassuring that in everything that has ever happened to me, and in everything that ever will happen to me, God has loved me steadfastly. </p><p>I studied Riggy. Clearly, she felt absolutely safe and secure on my lap. Not one worry marred her serenity, not even the fact that she's mostly confined to my room due to a jealous and rather violent cat (CiCi) who thinks she has usurped her rightful place on my bed. In this moment of bliss, all her fears were forgotten.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_gaTqCFjqGLdbS_UOeeLBKO97NhmEeVz_iSBDnZgkw5cEDIg-4L6oUctIT4UoDZODbEGsuBqb5tjvpCCY9dN29sK5GUyyw3wVZYsfkYe13d90QKV9WTW_UWryOp6iL1-Sj8ohUM_QjhPIkQFuXsMCmiap-3zHz3uX2HncV9gOxdd8vG6VyhijtBEumYZ/s1200/370671884_364090206198788_4823604283439624388_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY_gaTqCFjqGLdbS_UOeeLBKO97NhmEeVz_iSBDnZgkw5cEDIg-4L6oUctIT4UoDZODbEGsuBqb5tjvpCCY9dN29sK5GUyyw3wVZYsfkYe13d90QKV9WTW_UWryOp6iL1-Sj8ohUM_QjhPIkQFuXsMCmiap-3zHz3uX2HncV9gOxdd8vG6VyhijtBEumYZ/s320/370671884_364090206198788_4823604283439624388_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CiCi Doesn't Look So Mean, Does She?</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Just then, I shifted in my seat to reach for my tea, and Riggy opened one eye. I lazily rubbed her ear until she closed her eye again, pulling her paw over it for good measure. I smiled. "You're on to something," I whispered. "You don't need to see anything. You're safe here." </p><p>My smile widened as I pictured myself safe and secure in God's hand, with my hand covering my eyes. I realized then--or remembered--that it's actually God's mercy that prevents me from looking into my future. I don't need to see what's coming as long as I know that He will be with me. I'm not going to worry. And I'm not going to worry about not worrying. It's all good. </p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-45734805634520434162023-09-23T23:25:00.003-05:002023-09-23T23:48:04.856-05:00Eternal Beauty<p>Recently I was reflecting on how dry I have felt spiritually, wondering why I don't seem to hear God's voice as much as I did in the past. It must be because because I'm always so busy with day-to-day responsibilities that I don't have much time to be still, let alone think about anything eternal.</p><p>This morning, God reminded me that He still speaks. </p><p>After sleeping in until nearly nine, I fed the pets--four of them now; I'll have to tell you about that another day. I poured my sister Amy a bowl of cereal, put in a load of laundry, and walked across the park to meditate on my scripture memory cards. By now it was nearly ten, and it was shockingly hot. I hadn't even made it out of the cul-de-sac before the sun beating on my back nearly made me rethink my decision. The house was a wreck, and there was plenty I could be doing in the air conditioning, but I pressed on. </p><p>When I reached the big circle in the middle of the park, I hesitated in the shade on the path. I looked to my right, where I'd planned to go. That way leads to my favorite part of the park, where the path ends in a little loop overhung with giant trees. I'd had a lovely time studying my scriptures at a picnic table there the week before. Surveying the path, I realized there were zero trees shading the path as far as I could see.</p><p>To my left, the other picnic table where I've often meditated on my scriptures was sitting in full sun. That would not be an option. Then I gazed across the soccer field to the playground, half full of energetic children. Next to that was the basketball court, where a few teenagers were shooting baskets. The picnic tables over there were in full shade, but I craved silence. I sighed, poised to return home. </p><p>No! I wanted to study my scriptures, and I wanted to do it surrounded by green trees and grass and blue skies, not dirty laundry. As soon as I set foot on the big circular sidewalk leading to the playground, the sun beat down on me mercilessly. The soccer field was empty at this hour, so I made a sudden left and cut across the grass.</p><p>Sweat was just beginning to trickle down my back when I reached the shade next to the playground. I settled onto one of the picnic table benches and pulled out a stack of cards. Immediately, a little red spider crawled onto my hand. I crushed it without a thought, then felt bad. Keeping my eyes on the little business cards where I have copied perhaps 20 precious memory passages that God has given me over the last couple of decades, I tried to imagine that I was alone.</p><p>I whispered verse after verse to myself, marveling that I hardly needed to glance at the cards even though I often go months without pulling them out to refresh my memory. The familiar, beloved words filled my mind and heart as the voices of children and teenagers receded out of my consciousness. A cool breeze lifted my hair, and I smiled. "Thank you," I whispered.</p><p>One thing that I couldn't block out was the parade of spiders that crawled over my hands, my legs, my phone, and the little black bag where I keep the scripture cards. I carefully knocked each one away. The only other thing that I smashed was a fire ant that bit my calf. </p><p>After about 20 minutes, I'd had all of the spiders I could take, so I stacked my cards and stowed them in the bag, inspecting for wayward critters before I fastened the Velcro. Considering my options for returning home, I decided to walk away from the big circle and over the other bridge, hoping there might be more shade on that path. </p><p>As I crossed the bridge, I noticed two hand-painted plaques leaning against the low concrete wall, each decorated with random embellishments such as angels and rainbows. "Add a painted stone," the first said. The second said, "To see how long I can get." What on earth was that supposed to mean?</p><p>Then my eyes moved lower, to a line of painted stones that extended all the way down the wall and partway down the path. There were humble colored rocks in every color, along with elaborately decorated stones with googly eyes and glitter. <i>How wonderful</i>, I thought. I don't know why, but that crooked line of painted stones really moved me. One person, probably a child, had made a sweet gesture and invited others to do the same... and they had answered the call. </p><p>I looked back and forth down the line of stones and took it all into my heart, a smile stretching across my face, the hot sun momentarily forgotten.</p><p>As I cut across the Frisbee golf course under the shade of two giant trees, I opened my mouth and let the joy bubble out. "Thank you for putting beauty in the heart of man," I whispered. A Bible verse tickled the back of my mind, just out of reach. Beauty in the heart of man.... Or was it eternity in the heart of man? Maybe it was both, I decided. God set the beauty of eternity in the heart of man, so that we could look up from the darkness around us and the tedium of everyday life and take pleasure in all the little joys around us, so that we could find beauty and <b>make </b>beauty, and we could do it together. </p><p>On the short walk home, I thanked God for the painted rocks, the shade, the breeze, the scriptures, and even for the labor unions who gifted us with weekends. Back at the house, I measured out 12 grams of coffee beans and poured them in my little hand grinder, mixing in some vanilla flavored chicory. I only drink one cup of coffee a week, which is one cup more than my doctor wants me to have. That makes it extra special. I let the coffee steep for four minutes in the French press and then pressed the plunger down.</p><p>Turning my back on the dirty dishes, I carried the coffee to my room and plunked down in my favorite easy chair. I read my <i>Jesus Calling </i>devotional, which never gets old even though I'm now on my third year of daily readings. Next, I wrote three pages of increasingly messy cursive in my gratitude journal; I've been making myself write in cursive for the last several weeks because I don't like to think that cursive is a dying art, and also because I've read that it's good for the brain. In any case, I don't like my sloppy writing, but it does get easier the more I do it. </p><p>After all that gratitude, my chores were calling to me, but then I remembered that I'd been unable to complete an entry in my latest <i><a href="https://cultivatewhatmatters.com/collections/write-the-word">Write the Word</a></i> journal a couple of days before because my pen had run out of ink. My work could wait a few more minutes, I decided. I flipped to the page marked with a ribbon and then wrinkled my forehead in confusion. The date of the entry was May 8, 2021. Oh, this was the wrong journal. It was the first of my three <i>Write the Word</i> journals, a gift from my boss a couple of years ago. </p><p>Since the book was in my hands, I decided to read an old entry. I love looking back on old journal entries, like stepping back in time. I riffled through the pages, wondering where I should read. I finally settled on the second entry, from May 5, 2021. My eyes widened when I read the verse I had copied in neat, crisp print. You can probably guess what verse it was, but I was flabbergasted!</p><p></p><blockquote><p>He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men, yet they cannot fathom the work that God has done from beginning to end.</p><p>I know that there is nothing better for them than to rejoice and do good while they live, and also that every man should eat and drink and find satisfaction in all his labor—this is the gift of God. (Ecclesiastes 3:11-13) </p></blockquote><p></p><p>Below the passage, I had written, "How can God make <b>everything</b> beautiful? I know He does it <b>in His time</b>, in its time. It takes time to build beauty, and in time that beauty becomes visible.... I love it that God thinks the best thing we can do is rejoice. He wants us to have joy and do good, and to enjoy doing good. He wants us to eat and drink and enjoy the fruit of our labor. That feeling of 'job well done' is God's gift to us." </p><p>I left that other journal entry unfinished so I could revel in this sacred echo. I'd been right. The passage <b>was </b>about both eternity and beauty. Also, it showed me that God had enjoyed hearing my list of everyday joys just a few minutes before.</p><p>I set the journal back in the bin tenderly and set about my weekend chores with a light heart. Oh yes! God still speaks to me. But only when I take the time to listen.</p><p>More beauty in my day:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7yok6bVYLeoUBdYzvySB9jCkavx7SU-VnYUgZA45we3-vh9L0ZuA2q9DV3Wmb2slpfrxQOq3n78I1Db0zLY_Wp82WIxvOkEkJh1HNU53Wnayj6trd5EilLMyr9oNHFrWSWae_RkaCLkHWX52EL3jA2r1FsChPUuIxs3tZpjR0qJO5R5UoRoKqNtILyyZ/s2048/381315798_1780346435750780_6574529570690461448_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi7yok6bVYLeoUBdYzvySB9jCkavx7SU-VnYUgZA45we3-vh9L0ZuA2q9DV3Wmb2slpfrxQOq3n78I1Db0zLY_Wp82WIxvOkEkJh1HNU53Wnayj6trd5EilLMyr9oNHFrWSWae_RkaCLkHWX52EL3jA2r1FsChPUuIxs3tZpjR0qJO5R5UoRoKqNtILyyZ/s320/381315798_1780346435750780_6574529570690461448_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson's Last Homecoming Dance</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JeLfYa5Y2B9_FCMkB_JmNxcruLGAXh8eW9mJ9L1qBDJ-V1K3w9xY48i99Kx5CP1nWJBJO0ZbuLIquLXnB9RIEWylqBSnygq-8dmB7tt2Ghv8H0HKPl2bysGrsUaNg1gx8IlPrnv8TgnH_b78wf-iVXRHdxMnl_LA9z0VFu6qD3wmxMKmLNRP6U-HFVZB/s2048/381486419_694797902099197_5483371237525290985_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JeLfYa5Y2B9_FCMkB_JmNxcruLGAXh8eW9mJ9L1qBDJ-V1K3w9xY48i99Kx5CP1nWJBJO0ZbuLIquLXnB9RIEWylqBSnygq-8dmB7tt2Ghv8H0HKPl2bysGrsUaNg1gx8IlPrnv8TgnH_b78wf-iVXRHdxMnl_LA9z0VFu6qD3wmxMKmLNRP6U-HFVZB/s320/381486419_694797902099197_5483371237525290985_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best Friends</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-90298349718076755152023-07-11T22:22:00.002-05:002023-07-13T21:50:53.260-05:00The Gift of Renewed Appreciation In a relatively recent entry, I related how God gave me <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-gift-i-didnt-know-i-wanted.html" target="_blank">a gift I didn't know I wanted</a>, in the form of a Lab mix named Olive. A few months later, He gave me another gift I hadn't been looking for. <div><br /></div><div>Long before Olive came along, two cats joined our family. The first was <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/search/label/Arwen" target="_blank">Arwen</a>, a Russian blue that Ethan picked out. She was soon followed by <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/search/label/CiCi" target="_blank">CiCi</a>, a white and gray scamp with an astonishing capacity for dreaming up mischief. <div><br /></div><div>In truth, I never wanted a cat at all, but my two children wore me down with their relentless pleading. We'd all suffered a staggering blow when Bill and I divorced, and I wanted to give them a little joy as we embarked on our new life in a single-parent household. Arwen and CiCi fulfilled every misgiving that had fueled my arguments against owning a cat, and they had additional vices I'd never even imagined. Even so, Arwen quickly stole my heart, but that is <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2013/10/though-she-stumbles.html" target="_blank">another story</a>. <div><br /></div><div>CiCi came to us as a baby whom I could hold in one hand. Although she was impossibly cute, she was all claws and teeth, and much of my affection ebbed away each time <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2014/11/let-go-of-your-agenda.html" target="_blank">she drew blood</a> in the fight to keep stolen food, or used her claws to communicate her desire to be left alone. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5tRhXXU8bN43qUalQre_gjJq4ploEs92hCJ4C28JP5uMt_Giqph3ZRkJVuZfbx7YXb5nRl0bwAm7D1_N_l2x6Cozws2N7KCwNNUY-LrCfsPUEoCMYxxKlVSD08mUIbYsmdLbxsI8sgBg4VZ-gYe_i5oEZCt98DO7sCXOMzTjUY1IJ4MdqV-Fh_Y79UfX/s800/baby%20CiCi.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5tRhXXU8bN43qUalQre_gjJq4ploEs92hCJ4C28JP5uMt_Giqph3ZRkJVuZfbx7YXb5nRl0bwAm7D1_N_l2x6Cozws2N7KCwNNUY-LrCfsPUEoCMYxxKlVSD08mUIbYsmdLbxsI8sgBg4VZ-gYe_i5oEZCt98DO7sCXOMzTjUY1IJ4MdqV-Fh_Y79UfX/s320/baby%20CiCi.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby CiCi and Allyson</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Orphaned as a newborn, CiCi has been a talented scavenger from the start. We soon learned there is virtually nothing she won't eat; for example, she licks out empty cans of tomato paste the moment I set them on the counter. She shares my love of carbohydrates but has an advantage over me in that she can literally sniff out tortillas and loaves of bread within seconds. For that reason, we can never leave grocery bags unguarded, or else we will find holes in the wrapper and hunks of bread missing, or a perfect half moon cut out of a stack of tortillas. But her favorite food is anything she can fish out of the toaster, such as my beloved pancakes. </div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div>CiCi is also a connoisseur of charger cords, and there are very few safe places where we can hide them from her keen hunting skills. She also loves to poke holes in everything from couches to leather Bible covers. (I often remark that CiCi hates the Bible.) </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UsaM-WXN9TIe3LITKpj-B2srNWVe09EphVLydmvE1DLAuCuTfbYlnhJ5HYvjcEGxa2kpJ4_tTL27bFc16AvqZsYG5llUdyGseqq8iqhkzCQiW-A8bFyFLxjkpEL8ha5hf8WX_XVkPv7naCUSJL_MDNYc-Sl5txOiX3ix7S_NjQ48YIPyZxW4D_k_q0EO/s1560/356308095_787365179549117_8037922710960813572_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1560" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UsaM-WXN9TIe3LITKpj-B2srNWVe09EphVLydmvE1DLAuCuTfbYlnhJ5HYvjcEGxa2kpJ4_tTL27bFc16AvqZsYG5llUdyGseqq8iqhkzCQiW-A8bFyFLxjkpEL8ha5hf8WX_XVkPv7naCUSJL_MDNYc-Sl5txOiX3ix7S_NjQ48YIPyZxW4D_k_q0EO/s320/356308095_787365179549117_8037922710960813572_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The junk drawer is not a safe hiding spot!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Allyson has always been able to look past all of these flaws to the sweet kitten underneath. Fluent in reading CiCi's body language, Allyson can not only pet her, but even hug and kiss her; occasionally, she can even cradle her like a baby. And if she pushes her luck too far and is rewarded with a scratch, she quickly forgives and takes responsibility for provoking her kitty. </div><div><br /></div><div>If not for Allyson, I might have looked for another home for CiCi years ago. In fact, a few of her most painful scratches led me to contemplate re-homing her, but I never felt right about foisting her on some other hapless family.
Ultimately, I turned a blind eye to her transgressions and tried to feel some affection for her because of the joy she brings to Allyson.
In return, CiCi gave me a bit of affection some days, probably due to me being the Food Giver. Over time, she started to sit beside me and purr loudly, and to submit to two or three strokes of her luxuriant fur. </div><div><br /></div><div>For many years, I kept one cat-free sanctuary: my bedroom. Early on, I'd tried letting one or both cats sleep with me, only to be awakened by noisy tussling or clumsy wandering over my dresser in the middle of the night. On a few occasions when I left my door open in the daytime, someone had decided that a laundry basket full of freshly washed clothes--or a pile of laundry on my bed--was a lovely alternative to the litter boxes in the garage.
Fairly certain that Arwen was the culprit, I gradually became less vigilant about keeping CiCi out. </div><div><br /></div><div>I found that she was actually great company during my workday, especially when she perched behind my head during virtual meetings, charming my colleagues. Sometimes she was a bad influence on me with her indolent ways; her extravagant relaxation often made me long for a cat nap. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nf34iYmOTTDQVwZlHQMnuTQm9oIsFFrcYbkFlSmQOmtA_5cf8C7trjWi09_-luyGgt8TWyNKoTJf-VS0iPdTblm8G55LQdI7iDRXT8_hCR29gOGQsWWAYYAqMICWwO6RJWT_dZemzTo91DPHh5fqjs7CwhewiiPrDE6HUEcwKlVn6TzquiZYwqskbpx-/s2320/MicrosoftTeams-image.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1740" data-original-width="2320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nf34iYmOTTDQVwZlHQMnuTQm9oIsFFrcYbkFlSmQOmtA_5cf8C7trjWi09_-luyGgt8TWyNKoTJf-VS0iPdTblm8G55LQdI7iDRXT8_hCR29gOGQsWWAYYAqMICWwO6RJWT_dZemzTo91DPHh5fqjs7CwhewiiPrDE6HUEcwKlVn6TzquiZYwqskbpx-/s320/MicrosoftTeams-image.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>At bedtime, though, I meant business: my room was a cat-free zone. As a former insomniac, I had learned to guard my sleep as fiercely as CiCi guards a purloined muffin.
This only strengthened CiCi's determination to find a way in, probably from nothing but pure contrariness.</div><div><br /></div><div>On numerous occasions, CiCi lay in wait, observing my predictable movements at the bedtime hour. Just as I arrived at the bedroom door, she would surge forward like a cheetah chasing its unwary prey. Too late, I'd perceive her swishing against my ankle as we crossed the threshold together. She always headed immediately for the safety of the cavernous space under my bed. I tried driving her out with thunderous, incessant clapping, but that tactic only works on Arwen. Inevitably, I had to trudge to the laundry room for a wide dust mop, which I used to dust her right out from under the bed. Hissing and growling, she emerged from the other side of the bed, but before I could get around to force her out the door, she'd dart back to her sanctuary. Unless Allyson was home to help me, it often took several minutes for me to wear her down and triumphantly slam the door behind her. All of that excitement would have been quite fun if it hadn't been 11:30 or so at night. </div><div><br /></div><div>One workday morning at the beginning of this past November, I started my workday with a very unpleasant, though not terribly unusual, surprise. CiCi puked up her entire breakfast just moments after she'd finished it. Thankfully, she vomited on the wood floor instead of on the rug or the furniture, but racing to clean up her mess before my shift started was far from enjoyable. As I logged on to my laptop, I pondered whether CiCi had just eaten too quickly, or whether she might have eaten something spoiled or picked up a bug. I figured it might be a combination of those things; CiCi has always had a delicate digestive system.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the bedtime feeding, I had forgotten the whole thing, but it all came back to me when CiCi scarcely touched her food yet still threw up the little that she had eaten. The poor thing surely had a stomach virus. I cleaned up the small mess and went on to bed. CiCi had no energy for a bedtime skirmish on this night, and I slept soundly. I figured she'd be fine by morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next morning, though, she wouldn't eat or drink. I worried about her all through my workday, wondering if I should take her to the vet. If she were my child, I reasoned, I wouldn't take her to the doctor just because she had vomited a few times. I decided to watch and wait. </div><div><br /></div><div>She threw up a tiny bit a couple of times that day, but her stomach was empty so it didn't amount to much. At bedtime, I knelt beside her and dipped a finger in the meaty water that covered her small serving of wet and dry food. I pressed my finger to her lips, but she turned her head. My chest tightened with anxiety. How long could a cat go without drinking? </div><div><br /></div><div>Because it was a Wednesday, Allyson was at her dad's. Most nights, CiCi slept with Allyson, but tonight she would have to sleep alone. What if she needed help in the night? I agonized for a couple of minutes and then did something that probably shocked and confused poor CiCi: I opened my bedroom door and called her inside. Before lifting her onto my high bed, I laid out the waterproof mat that we usually kept under Olive's water bowl. Then I gently laid her on the mat and curled up beside her, stroking her cautiously. I needn't have worried about getting scratched; she simply stared at me listlessly.</div><div><br /></div><div>Panic flooded my body. Why hadn't I taken her to the vet? Now, I feared she might pass away during the night. Would I have to tell Allyson that I had stood by and done nothing while her precious kitty lay dying? I laid a hand lightly over CiCi's back and prayed fervently that she would recover. I reminded God how much she meant to Allyson and asked Him to give her this good gift. </div><div><br /></div><div>Satisfied that I had done all I could do for CiCi at the moment, I dropped into a fitful sleep. Over and over throughout the long night, I woke and peered at the tiny sleeping form on the other side of my bed, often touching her to be sure her belly was still rising and falling. In the middle of the night, CiCi threw up one more time, but my only reaction was worry. I wiped up the mess with an old towel and stroked her gently. "You'll be okay," I whispered. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I registered the shock of not only having a cat in my bed, but having a <b>vomiting </b>cat in my bed, it dawned on me that Allyson was not the only one who loved this naughty kitty with all her heart. "Please, God," I repeated. "Please heal CiCi." </div><div><br /></div><div>When the alarm went off at 7, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and examined CiCi. She hadn't thrown up any more, and based on her soft purr, she might have been feeling a bit better. I hurried to the kitchen and scooped about a teaspoon of wet food into a bowl with a tiny bit of water. "Don't get used to this," I said when I placed it in front of her on the bed. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDT3tThnWqQ0SfA5hrTEioqdiMUfj-dQRLbSDQUVBDhuMN8WlT82RWxYuha03DtatmkGX4m1dBxEIU-xfmHrcoP6hEGyOjIEbwlQ47pIPLv_O9juicFU7YcRW2eeHz47y1_hQB_Cw6ZFTaG_MG4uHSqYYUw835R4L2Zg8mDHINl0Jij5-37HhAfyhttuqg/s1600/354264334_290362196694473_287968952139349248_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDT3tThnWqQ0SfA5hrTEioqdiMUfj-dQRLbSDQUVBDhuMN8WlT82RWxYuha03DtatmkGX4m1dBxEIU-xfmHrcoP6hEGyOjIEbwlQ47pIPLv_O9juicFU7YcRW2eeHz47y1_hQB_Cw6ZFTaG_MG4uHSqYYUw835R4L2Zg8mDHINl0Jij5-37HhAfyhttuqg/s320/354264334_290362196694473_287968952139349248_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast in bed!<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>To my relief, CiCi ate about half of the food and lapped up some of the water. "Good girl!" I crooned, perhaps for the first time ever. </div><div><br /></div><div>Her strength apparently fortified, she jumped down from the bed and wandered into my bathroom. Figuring she wasn't up to the animosity she still felt for our <span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2022/12/a-gift-i-didnt-know-i-wanted.html" target="_blank">part-time dog</a></span>, Olive, I shut her in the bathroom with the rest of the food. When I checked on her an hour later, the food and water were gone. I gave her another teaspoon of food, and she ate it right up. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I think you're on the mend!" I said. "Oh, thank God!" </div><div><br /></div><div>The following morning, I sent Allyson an update via text message:</div><div><br /></div></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div><div><div><b>Me:</b> CiCi ate all her food last night.... But Arwen wouldn't eat hers. Must be a bug of some sort. </div></div></div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Allyson [15 hours later]:</b> hmm, is she doing better tonight? </div></div></blockquote><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Me: </b>Yes, they are both back to their food stealing ways :)</div></div></blockquote><div><div><br /></div><div>Eight months have passed, and the tenderness I felt while nursing CiCi has stayed with me. So has my new roomie--at least on the nights when Allyson is away. I was shocked to discover that I like sleeping with a cat! I never know what to expect, though. Some nights, CiCi settles at the foot of the bed without so much as a whisker touching me. Others, she circles a couple of times on my chest (with unsheathed claws!) and folds her front paws under her contentedly, usually with her tail in my face. But I let her stay as long as I can stand the awkward weight because the loud vibration of her purring against my heart is profoundly calming. My favorite nights, though, are the ones when she curls up with her back against my back. It's like spooning with a husband... without the battles for the covers.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sp3xgHV61DuT0_SaV536Bnt5cRHTcau6WnJIsoNtPYXiO9n_s1nmUEaQpm7nP0AFrW1uJsnfPA3LSY1tKzHtHMP1UIKpzmpEBtFql-1jJoUJTv1O17xVS5s53grad33A2S0HtGLb476KJmGtV_mllC7YBYg18SBYVLSZitTAPQQ8eAGX7ANB_b3U5psP/s800/Cici%20and%20Allyson.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1sp3xgHV61DuT0_SaV536Bnt5cRHTcau6WnJIsoNtPYXiO9n_s1nmUEaQpm7nP0AFrW1uJsnfPA3LSY1tKzHtHMP1UIKpzmpEBtFql-1jJoUJTv1O17xVS5s53grad33A2S0HtGLb476KJmGtV_mllC7YBYg18SBYVLSZitTAPQQ8eAGX7ANB_b3U5psP/s320/Cici%20and%20Allyson.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CiCi has slept on Allyson's chest for years</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>In the morning, she often greets me with an Eskimo kiss, barely brushing her nose against the tip of mine and tickling me with her breath. Actually, she's just smelling my breath to see if I ate anything interesting, but I still find it endearing.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxT-8Hzn8Db96mzIEb8WMcQTITqb6t6QAzlBVNsfW2oCSEa36aTD2qSXETM0tFp1PVO83ZS5YQh9tJ4vK00740tobczt7LaMCEPrcZKKVY4fs8uBVeeWNwVoAGsq7cupBv3L14ak-TdQBaaxP2QqVgc4wKsYCcmR0hvIe1TnVrWbxSRZGBqkpR54lLkNsw/s800/Eskimo%20kiss.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxT-8Hzn8Db96mzIEb8WMcQTITqb6t6QAzlBVNsfW2oCSEa36aTD2qSXETM0tFp1PVO83ZS5YQh9tJ4vK00740tobczt7LaMCEPrcZKKVY4fs8uBVeeWNwVoAGsq7cupBv3L14ak-TdQBaaxP2QqVgc4wKsYCcmR0hvIe1TnVrWbxSRZGBqkpR54lLkNsw/s320/Eskimo%20kiss.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of CiCi's early Eskimo kisses</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Although CiCi still gets on my last nerve frequently with all her creative mischief, now I always remember what a gift she is. Sometimes you don't realize how much you love someone until you face the possibility of losing them. Especially when that someone is a cat. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>In Other Pet News</b></div><div>While Amy and I were in Indiana for a family reunion last month, Olive stayed with her favorite person in the world, Morgan. When we returned, Morgan told me that they had decided to keep Olive full time, but we will keep her whenever they go on vacation. Although I miss Olive, I can't be sad because I know how excited she must be to be with Morgan every single day. Amy is really sad, though. She'd love to get another dog, but I don't know. We'll see. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-36130629839349992042023-03-24T22:37:00.000-05:002023-03-24T22:37:01.621-05:00Worth Getting Up For<p>On Friday and Saturday, February 24-25, Allyson and her teammates competed in the state Academic Decathlon meet in Frisco, Texas. Although it was an hour's drive, there was no way I would miss the awards ceremony that Sunday morning.</p><p>When I sent a text requesting the details, Allyson tried to dissuade me:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><b>Sarah</b>: ...I want to be there when you give your winning speech ♥</p><p><b>Allyson</b>: nooooo</p><p><b>Sarah</b>: I want to cheer for your awards, whatever you get</p><p><b>Allyson</b>: idk how to explain it but i probably won't win many individual awards, cause i'm going for a overall award rather than just individual</p><p><b>Sarah</b>: Oh. I've been looking forward to cheering for you and your team. :( </p><p><b>Allyson</b>: you can come it's fine... it's just there's two ways you can strategize for state you can study really hard on one subject to try to win one medal or you can study all of them- not get individual medals, and try to win as an overall student...</p><p><b>Sarah</b>: Well, if I can go, I'd like to.</p><p><b>Allyson</b>: you have to buy a ticket</p></blockquote><p>I sent several more messages requesting instructions on purchasing the ticket, and Allyson continued warning me to lower my expectations. She told me that her prepared speech had been a little short on time so she'd had to improvise, but that her impromptu speech had been great. Other than that, she wasn't sure how she did.</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p><b>Allyson</b>: there is no guarantee i get any awards keep that in mind</p><p><b>Sarah</b>: I know. I think you will. But even if you don't I will be super proud of you and your team. You all worked very hard.</p><p><b>Allyson</b>: thank you</p></blockquote><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>To my dismay, I learned that the award ceremony was scheduled for 8 a.m. For just a moment, I contemplated heeding Allyson's warnings and getting a couple more hours of much-needed sleep. But then I thought about her amazing performance in the regional competition a few weeks before and knew that I just had to be there to cheer for her.<p></p><p>There were two options for the tickets: $20 for observer only, or $35 with breakfast. My love of breakfast battled with my frugality, but in the end I decided to go with the cheap ticket since there weren't likely to be a lot of gluten-free options. Because it was very late, and I'd had a scratchy throat and burning eyes all day, I decided to wait until morning to buy my ticket. I didn't want to waste my money on the off chance that I could be sick. </p><p>When my alarm sounded in the pre-dawn darkness the next morning, I groaned aloud. This was the earliest I'd woken up in many months. There was no time to feel sorry for myself, though. I pulled on the clothes I'd laid out, brushed my teeth, and got out the peanut butter overnight oats I'd prepared the night before. I set my sister Amy's portion on the kitchen table in an insulated lunch bag and carried my own jar of cold oats out to the car.</p><p>The commute started off on the wrong foot before I'd even left my driveway. Although I'd mapped it at 52 minutes at 11 p.m. the night before, today's estimate was 1 hour and 10 minutes. On a Sunday! Argh! I hesitated for a few seconds wondering whether I should go ahead and purchase my ticket right then. Was there any way the tickets could sell out? </p><p>I decided to buy the tickets in the parking lot of the hotel because obviously there must be a wreck on my route, and maybe the traffic would get even worse.</p><p>The drive was actually pretty smooth, if circuitous. I felt grateful, as I often do, that Google Maps knows all the alternate routes. I arrived with 8 minutes to spare, and I didn't spill any oatmeal on myself. Not bad!</p><p>By the time I found an empty space on the fifth level of the parking garage, that spare time had been whittled down to 6 minutes. With shaking fingers, I opened the link from Allyson's text and began filling out the payment information. I chewed a fingernail. Would my cell service hold out inside the garage?</p><p>Yes, it would! But... the payment failed, with a maddeningly vague error message. I reviewed all the information and submitted it again. The error persisted. I took off my glasses and brought the tiny screen closer to my face. Ah, there it was: I'd entered the wrong expiration year. I corrected my mistake and submitted the payment again. </p><p>Again, it failed.</p><p>A text message beeped in from Allyson: "are you here yet"</p><p>I glanced at the time: 7:56!</p><p>"I'm here," I replied. I didn't mention that I was still in the parking garage.</p><p>I tried not to panic. Surely after driving all this way, I would not be prevented from watching the award ceremony due to technical difficulties. I decided to find my way to the conference hall first and try to sort out the problem with the credit card there. Perhaps there would be a human being who could help me.</p><p>I took some comfort in seeing the stream of other latecomers converging on the elevators. Clearly, I wasn't the only one who hadn't allowed for much margin. On the ground floor, I followed the crowd into the lobby, where hundreds of students and parents milled around, wearing everything from blue jeans to evening gowns. I headed toward one of the tables, prepared to share my sob story and hope for mercy. But then I realized they were only selling team photos and shirts.</p><p>I set my things down on the end of the table and fished out my cell phone. Then, I meticulously entered the 16 digits of my credit card and scrolled to the correct expiration year. I verified the code on the back of the card as well as my zip code. Crossing my fingers, I pressed Submit one more time. </p><p>Failed!</p><p>Just then, the nearest double doors swung open, and a river of people surged through them. My heart thudded and tears gathered in my eyes as I searched for someone who could help me. There was no one. </p><p>I squeezed my eyes shut and said a quick but fervent mental prayer. There was nothing to do but try again. I cross-checked the number against my credit card and scrolled to the year once again. With my finger poised over the Submit button, my eyes flitted to the expiration <b>month</b>--which had defaulted to the current month of February. I corrected my error and pressed the button....</p><p>Success! <i>Oh, thank you, Jesus!</i> I thought.</p><p>I strode through the unsecured doors and peered across the sea of tables. With 40 teams of nine students in the giant hall, there was little hope of spotting Allyson. I wondered whether I could have sat with her if I'd coughed up $15 for breakfast. </p><p>I found the shockingly small observers' area at the back of the room and settled into an empty seat, casting a shy smile at the couple directly next to me. The time was 8:03. Whew!</p><p>As I waited for the program to begin, I was amused to hear the mom behind me voicing my exact thoughts. "I'm surprised there was no one to check our tickets. We could have just walked right in!"</p><p>"I know," her husband answered with a chuckle. "We should have sat at one of the breakfast tables."</p><p>A minute later, a woman about my age sat down on my left. We nodded and smiled but didn't speak. I pulled out my phone to send Allyson a text describing my location and then opened the Chrome browser to amuse myself. But then, I turned the phone off. Here was an opportunity to connect with a person, rather than an algorithm. </p><p>It took me two minutes to think of how to start a conversation and another minute to work up the nerve. Finally, I asked, "How long was your drive this morning?"</p><p>"Just 38 minutes," she replied. "We live in Rockwall. But I drove in from Houston just last night so I could make it today. Both of my parents have been very sick, so I've been staying with them this week." </p><p>"You're such a good mom!" I exclaimed. "...and daughter." This woman had gotten up early on a Sunday after driving five hours just the night before, all without any assurance that her child would win any awards. </p><p>We talked for several minutes about our shared experiences as new members of the "sandwich generation," with the stresses of raising children while simultaneously helping our aging parents as they are in and out of the hospital.</p><p>"I never used to understand why they say it's so stressful when your parents get to the age of having so many health problems," I said. "But now I do."</p><p>"Yes!" she agreed.</p><p>We talked all through the quiet moments during the breakfast, in between a couple of speakers. By the time the actual awards started, I felt happy to be biting my fingernails next to a new friend. </p><p>I needed her support because the suspense was agonizing. As each category was announced, a list of names filled the screen. If your child's name appeared on the list, you knew that they had placed. Next, the emcee announced the winners for the small schools, and then the medium schools, and then the large schools--Allyson's category. For each of these groups, the winners were announced by level: first varsity, then scholastic (Allyson's level), and finally honors. Within each level, the prizes were announced from third place to first place. This means there were a minimum of 27 names to announce for each category; often, several students tied for an award.</p><p>The first category was the essay. As the names flashed on the screen, I gasped in surprise. "Your daughter?" my friend asked. "Yes!" I clasped sweaty hands as all the names flowed over my ears: nine awards for the small schools, and nine more for the medium schools. Then three more awards for the varsity level of the large schools. </p><p>Now was the moment of truth. I crossed my fingers, hoping <b>not </b>to hear Allyson's name. But I did. She'd won third place in the state essay contest. I hollered and clapped as loud as I could. Writing the third-place essay in the state was an amazing achievement. And the essay was not even what she considered her strongest category. </p><p>The second category was the interview. Allyson had made a perfect score on this in the regional competition. Once more, I crossed my fingers. And there was her name! Yes!! This time, the suspense lasted even longer because... ALLYSON WON FIRST PLACE! I shouted and raised a fist. I heard the murmurs of appreciation around me. Although our children were rivals, we were all in this together.</p><p>For just a moment, I wondered if Allyson would sweep all the categories, but I didn't hear her name again until until the end. She ranked 12th in the state! Her team placed 10th overall in their division. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcb16Z-yqKvxJZOufiRNQAWtgJT5RNuawvWfDfWmf4YV_5wrld1dAJ23114w2UNo6jQSwK0EWmm-RY3j1K-Jxx9eXwamV5bjyq0hHwZ6sWEXgR-aNSmCPcnd6d3dPuAUbb57L8dqD7rb-TgPVL4BfpiOtXYf-zZQcEwF6VjRQ26t4fhFFP9gi37h-BhQ/s1559/ac%20dec%20champs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1559" data-original-width="1170" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcb16Z-yqKvxJZOufiRNQAWtgJT5RNuawvWfDfWmf4YV_5wrld1dAJ23114w2UNo6jQSwK0EWmm-RY3j1K-Jxx9eXwamV5bjyq0hHwZ6sWEXgR-aNSmCPcnd6d3dPuAUbb57L8dqD7rb-TgPVL4BfpiOtXYf-zZQcEwF6VjRQ26t4fhFFP9gi37h-BhQ/s320/ac%20dec%20champs.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson is the first in the middle row.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Aside from Allyson's awards, I had two favorite moments that morning. The first was when a young man who may have had autism won an award. He stood frozen in place, both hands gripping his head as he smiled from ear to ear, apparently overwhelmed with surprise and delight. Tears filled my eyes as I cheered for him. Everyone else must have felt similarly moved; although our hands were numb from too much clapping, the applause for this award was more thunderous than for any first-place medal.</p><p>The second moment was the award for an academic decathlon coach. Before announcing the teacher's name, the emcee read a heartfelt letter from the student who'd nominated her. He wrote about the hours she'd given, both at school and in her spare time, to help their team prepare. And he explained what her love and support had meant to him personally. Then, the teacher gave a short speech that brought tears to my eyes again because it made me miss my brief time in the classroom. </p><p>Three hours after I'd arrived, I fought my way to Allyson's table at the front of the hall and squeezed her very tightly. "I'm <b>SO </b>proud of you!" I exclaimed. Flushed with triumph, she replied, "I can't <b>wait </b>for next year!" </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu3BJ89ZAuxgR7j5PxlVQ3EjdRj_Pl88YxiFs-PTz_T9EEMUOx0E4xlCrfLNj9_eVoO6f99DGkFt5X1zaa-DeEAZgSqcfxlYJM7P-VOrknwRnv84b3d_2ALEaQV_dRWvfV1-Kt9eiz_ngBkrZRz-AEJpOTsdMiYE5nuJ8RO45EagUflQY8EqeFOVcVGw/s1170/ac%20dec%20table.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="789" data-original-width="1170" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu3BJ89ZAuxgR7j5PxlVQ3EjdRj_Pl88YxiFs-PTz_T9EEMUOx0E4xlCrfLNj9_eVoO6f99DGkFt5X1zaa-DeEAZgSqcfxlYJM7P-VOrknwRnv84b3d_2ALEaQV_dRWvfV1-Kt9eiz_ngBkrZRz-AEJpOTsdMiYE5nuJ8RO45EagUflQY8EqeFOVcVGw/s320/ac%20dec%20table.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Although I'd hoped to hear all the details on the long ride home, Allyson opted to ride home with her team. The same thing happened to the Rockwall mom. She told me it had been the same when she'd come the year before. Rockwell, by the way, placed fourth overall.</p><p>"Wow, that's amazing!" I told her when the rank was announced. "Congratulations! They must have worked so hard." </p><p>"Actually, they didn't work so hard this year; their coach won't be happy," she said. With an impossibly casual tone, she added, "Last year, they won first." </p><p>"Wow!" I repeated. "Well, I hope to see you here again next year!"</p><p>"Yes! I'll look for you."</p><p>Allyson later learned that she had placed fourth in the speech category. If she had given her speech as well as she'd done at the regional competition, she believed she could have had a chance at first place. She'd been so nervous that she'd talked faster, and then she'd had to improvise. Still, fourth place was nothing to be ashamed of, I assured her. </p><p>"I'm really happy that you won in the essay and interview categories," I said late that evening when I finally got to hear all the details of her amazing weekend. "Any award would be an accomplishment, but oral and written communication skills will get you far in any career. You are confident and articulate, and you can think on your feet. You're a leader who will make a difference in everything you do." </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN1N1uF-qd2aLH1uube8kcX2Zcvqzl8EGunlEYqJLRowjL2eDNnjFgW5VoUq-hmGU9dkkUsj2aLlqtgrGWDBtbvNy7dfJRZFS7qRUlWUn6JtUQ2m0fNU7qx12ro0w88zsR5XSE9AXsXf9Kib3o8PvZUdDZriS20kMNg8DeJnF0aZxjjBMfnSOgJb8Nw/s2048/ac%20dec%20fun.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfN1N1uF-qd2aLH1uube8kcX2Zcvqzl8EGunlEYqJLRowjL2eDNnjFgW5VoUq-hmGU9dkkUsj2aLlqtgrGWDBtbvNy7dfJRZFS7qRUlWUn6JtUQ2m0fNU7qx12ro0w88zsR5XSE9AXsXf9Kib3o8PvZUdDZriS20kMNg8DeJnF0aZxjjBMfnSOgJb8Nw/s320/ac%20dec%20fun.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They found some time for fun during their amazing weekend.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQyVPTolhEMIRbdTvETToU18CcSUA7nL_GM-bAPBCNtiP4pnasJMFDcLeRTEsC3NTRkn-05yIXkJ0IrkS6LBtZPraV6JPFBeJvPWdcNjKYypNuGc_HgDPekkRASS69ON9qsJYQTRkPpaxapiELWFJgiHF1UCnkuKM7IcJ64VFsv6jc9XozzAcFcQn6GA/s2048/silly%20string.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQyVPTolhEMIRbdTvETToU18CcSUA7nL_GM-bAPBCNtiP4pnasJMFDcLeRTEsC3NTRkn-05yIXkJ0IrkS6LBtZPraV6JPFBeJvPWdcNjKYypNuGc_HgDPekkRASS69ON9qsJYQTRkPpaxapiELWFJgiHF1UCnkuKM7IcJ64VFsv6jc9XozzAcFcQn6GA/s320/silly%20string.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Like Allyson, I'm already excited for next year's competition. The theme will be technology and humanity. I wonder what Allyson will teach me about that topic. I'll be sure to pass it on.</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-79987759572287377542023-01-31T18:21:00.002-06:002023-01-31T18:24:28.871-06:00I Wasn't Surprised<p> As I mentioned in my <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2023/01/let-me-tell-you-bout-my-girl.html">previous entry</a>, Allyson has taken her role as co-captain of the Academic Decathlon team very seriously, especially in recent weeks as they were preparing for their regional meet. Over Christmas break, I was shocked when she woke up early one morning to meet her teammates at a coffee shop for a study session which she had organized. And I was even more impressed when she came home and said she'd really enjoyed it. </p><p>Last Monday (January 23), she went to her room with an energy drink after an early supper to study and finish planning her speech. </p><p>"Will it be a late night?" I asked. "I'm afraid you won't be able to sleep if you drink that."</p><p>She nodded. "I need it to stay awake. I'll probably be up until 2 or 3." </p><p>The next morning after she'd left for school, I came across the note cards for her speech on the bathroom counter. The top card captured my attention with a riveting introduction. I knew she planned to share the speech with me when she was finished, but I couldn't resist reading the whole thing right then. I smiled as I flipped through the cards because it took me back to speech class in college, when I'd written my notes on index cards just like these; I'd figured that no one wrote notes in ink anymore due to all the electronic options these days. (The notes, it turns out, were only for practicing. At the actual competition, she would have to give her speech from memory.)</p><p>I noted with satisfaction the smooth transitions, the appeals to emotion and logic, and the statistics she used to back her claim that hateful rhetoric in the media incites physical violence. I noted one section where the transition felt a little abrupt but decided not to mention it unless she asked for my advice. </p><p>That same evening, Allyson asked me to brew her a pot of coffee after dinner for another late night. As I twisted the hand grinder that I use each Saturday to prepare my one cup of coffee each week, I marveled that my little girl was old enough to drink coffee--even though she's actually been drinking it for several years. It felt different, somehow, like when my parents used to drink coffee from a Thermos to stay awake all night on cross-country trips.</p><p>About four hours later, when I was getting ready for bed, Allyson came into my room for a few minutes for our usual bedtime prayer. When I asked if she had any requests, she asked that God would help her perform well at the upcoming Academic Decathlon competition scheduled for the coming Friday and Saturday (January 27-28). </p><p>"You left the notes for your speech in the bathroom today," I said. "I hope you don't mind that I read them. I think your speech is really strong. I especially like the intro. It really grabbed my attention." </p><p>She frowned. "I don't like my speech at all. I'm going to work on it tonight."</p><p>"Are you just tweaking it, or revamping it completely?" I contemplated offering advice about the transition, but her answer made it irrelevant.</p><p>"Revamping it."</p><p>Next, she told me about the sleepover she'd planned for the team on Friday night. Other teams who'd traveled to compete would be staying in a hotel and using every moment together to study, and Allyson wanted her team to have the same advantage. "The whole team--well, the nine people who are competing--will be spending the night at my dad's."</p><p>"Won't you need to go to bed early?"<br /></p><p>"We have to cram for Saturday," she said. </p><p>She said it was the first sleepover some of the girls had ever been to, and she was nervous about making it an experience that everyone would enjoy. I was touched that she was not only concerned with the studying, but also with making everyone feel comfortable.</p><p>So we prayed that the study session would be productive and fun for everyone, and then I asked God to help Allyson as she reworked her speech that evening, and that He would help her deliver the speech in a way that would impact everyone who heard it. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6UMt40g_KEt2EJlY-37CWyW9hsRUkONX7GMB326-uX8zyw2KpK_1Jkd_m1eoMJpFGQSFsB7WYbkfU5SrVomyrfl7LTE6485yNMFuM8kuGDYLX96KQfH7xEmzccsn6EQ76b2U88mxi1NugdcFzOMIGX8TGhwWodw6_lI9NEPQHSAVUjsvPobjTjRvo4Q/s1333/327630268_1196675071055155_2986112167586844166_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6UMt40g_KEt2EJlY-37CWyW9hsRUkONX7GMB326-uX8zyw2KpK_1Jkd_m1eoMJpFGQSFsB7WYbkfU5SrVomyrfl7LTE6485yNMFuM8kuGDYLX96KQfH7xEmzccsn6EQ76b2U88mxi1NugdcFzOMIGX8TGhwWodw6_lI9NEPQHSAVUjsvPobjTjRvo4Q/s320/327630268_1196675071055155_2986112167586844166_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Quizzing Each Other with Flashcards<br />The Sleepover Was A Success Both Academically and Socially</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>After we said amen, I told Allyson I wished I could be there to hear the speech. <p></p><p>"The only way you could hear my speech is if I got first place at state," she said.</p><p>"Maybe that will happen."</p><p>"Mama, there will be hundreds of other kids. I'm not going to win first place." </p><p>"Don't count yourself out," I replied.</p><p>On Friday afternoon, the first day of the regional competition, I texted Allyson to ask how she'd done.</p><p>She replied: </p><blockquote><p>good! math was really hard but i did great on literature speech and interview </p></blockquote><p>The following evening at 6:51 p.m., she sent me this picture:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCEuPdwcAQfTw3Ph43ojsmpYF4IpOplICCbfWIEWFLiA0bqrEpA3UW5Yys1eLOSEnHI4qmtHz7x6pCnJt2qEzwTaps1FvJ7q_8g93IrN9I8n9fH0oIP0saXh2mZ4yKpfvLKHmYdUg5x9Y72kqcZ6FPaKDHgrdFv9enc5Hzf2UsoXmT48aCTTHNhNWkg/s1280/327116510_655265279622948_115442535924958083_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSCEuPdwcAQfTw3Ph43ojsmpYF4IpOplICCbfWIEWFLiA0bqrEpA3UW5Yys1eLOSEnHI4qmtHz7x6pCnJt2qEzwTaps1FvJ7q_8g93IrN9I8n9fH0oIP0saXh2mZ4yKpfvLKHmYdUg5x9Y72kqcZ6FPaKDHgrdFv9enc5Hzf2UsoXmT48aCTTHNhNWkg/s320/327116510_655265279622948_115442535924958083_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Within her division, among approximately 300 students from as far away as Odessa, Allyson had taken first place in:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>interview</li><li>speech</li><li>music</li></ul><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqkmcO4M6n-o3WfEJ-Kg5o5V1K1z7zC3bApAizvjo6i8RrauPf3yWnL8tIrTArY-A7YoNGzLKrKXUnaHfUibON3BImHGKaRaKBMX36QeybkVfwa66S9pUdUHQUBlRl8SAxN7BdcGUBetXm0Irz8-tiuPOWHhipQZSXlGtAPIeqXuTbMjwG3PuggmO2A/s836/327671571_1333813334019529_6972155705622194466_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="836" data-original-width="627" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqkmcO4M6n-o3WfEJ-Kg5o5V1K1z7zC3bApAizvjo6i8RrauPf3yWnL8tIrTArY-A7YoNGzLKrKXUnaHfUibON3BImHGKaRaKBMX36QeybkVfwa66S9pUdUHQUBlRl8SAxN7BdcGUBetXm0Irz8-tiuPOWHhipQZSXlGtAPIeqXuTbMjwG3PuggmO2A/s320/327671571_1333813334019529_6972155705622194466_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winning Her First Medal!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>She'd earned second place in:</div><div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>art</li><li>social science</li></ul><div>She was the second-place student overall, and her team had placed second overall. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsIlRkNusWSyEnWt8kzuRtjhfUMvaMLDuH2llJfuXgdwkdm49DbQuQ4esis5oDnBwI6wsI9XLUp1a2ohlOxtcwLDAgRM13Q_qMwLUjhQxYEH3cysnv0H4rMgejr0zJjg7Q91v7mEBPC9fkv0_SRGO7IteotlGIpNj-vq34YeBUHh42myYlSvbAvFYPEA/s1600/327667804_1147884349254306_8785480040536352887_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsIlRkNusWSyEnWt8kzuRtjhfUMvaMLDuH2llJfuXgdwkdm49DbQuQ4esis5oDnBwI6wsI9XLUp1a2ohlOxtcwLDAgRM13Q_qMwLUjhQxYEH3cysnv0H4rMgejr0zJjg7Q91v7mEBPC9fkv0_SRGO7IteotlGIpNj-vq34YeBUHh42myYlSvbAvFYPEA/s320/327667804_1147884349254306_8785480040536352887_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shared Triumph</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Also, she received a perfect score on her interview, in which she had to answer ten minutes of questions without any preparation. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Here is the end of our text conversation: </div><p></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"> <b>Sarah:</b> Wow!! I told you not to count yourself out for winning first place!!</p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Allyson:</b> i wasn't expecting it at all</div><p></p></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Sarah:</b> I was. :)</div><p></p></blockquote><p></p><div>Last night when I got back from visiting my parents, Allyson was already home. It was a delight hearing all the details of her amazing day. I learned that the competition included a thrilling "super quiz" component. The team, divided into three levels (varsity, scholastic, and honors), collaborated on an oral quiz. Each question was read aloud, along with the answer choices. Allyson conferred with her two scholastic team members and wrote down her answers. When each answer was announced, everyone who'd answered correctly raised their pencils in the air and twirled them. The correct answers were then verified and recorded. This was one of the most challenging parts of the competition because each of the three teams had to count on the others to do well in order for all of them to have a chance at advancing to the state competition. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSQ-u6XOkLy5mHyAPNDSu81fGwUYNjApCGBRL9B-27M9bqxGs96lKS9f6W0dP7zwh78bVOZ1nJ85OEaPzW4B6UG8pTmir9YkVKFKfqDQzMvAb64F8WRFllb0mtUQSnOOVM9aZA7Uq7HWY85PBujR9gtiOFIb8JOQZ7ZackifrmDJSv1OvATy2nK4wdw/s2048/327319846_495697322639017_2473598624395827879_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSQ-u6XOkLy5mHyAPNDSu81fGwUYNjApCGBRL9B-27M9bqxGs96lKS9f6W0dP7zwh78bVOZ1nJ85OEaPzW4B6UG8pTmir9YkVKFKfqDQzMvAb64F8WRFllb0mtUQSnOOVM9aZA7Uq7HWY85PBujR9gtiOFIb8JOQZ7ZackifrmDJSv1OvATy2nK4wdw/s320/327319846_495697322639017_2473598624395827879_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YES!!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Another challenging aspect of the competition was an impromptu speech. Allyson had to choose one of three prompts and give a three-minute speech after just one minute of preparation! She said she'd chosen to talk about what part-time job she might want to pursue as a career, and she told the truth: she'd love to be a beekeeper because bees are crucial to the health of the planet and because beekeeping can connect you with the local community. </div><div><br /></div><div>When Allyson had finished her story, I asked, "Why didn't I get to hear your speech? I thought you would give the speech if you got first place."</div><div><br /></div><div>"That's only if I get first place at <b>state</b>." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Oh, yeah. That's what you told me. Well, maybe I'll be hearing your speech when you go to state, then." </div><div><br /></div><div>"If we make it." She explained that they would not find out the results until the next day in the afternoon. "At first they said we were in first place, and we definitely would have made it. But then they recalculated some of the speech scores and said that we were actually in second place. I estimate we have an 85 percent chance of going to state." </div><div><br /></div><div>On Sunday afternoon, Allyson and three close friends sat in her room listening to the results over a virtual call. From the jubilant shouts, I knew it was good news. I ran into her room to hear the details. Allyson's team will compete at the state meet next month in Frisco, Texas. They will be matched against teams from schools similar in size, and they have a decent shot at winning. If their team places, each student will receive a scholarship, and individual students can receive scholarships based on their overall scores. This means there is a very good chance that Allyson could walk away with some money.</div><div><br /></div><div>This explains why Allyson woke up at 10:30 on a snow day so that she could study chemistry, the toughest event, most of today. Even as I type, I can hear her talking about proton numbers in her room, on a virtual call with her teammates. When I think of how I spent the few snow days we ever got when I was a kid growing up in Texas, I have to say that these kids deserve to win state! </div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Best Part</b></div><div><br /></div><div>As I'm sure you've surmised, I am incredibly proud of Allyson's hard work, perseverance, intelligence, and poise. But that is not what makes me the most proud. These notes that she received as feedback on her interview capture my sentiments perfectly.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAfKJWDQ3okb18GlzjyC9T56p8jT6k91TeO7bWMYrOIzx8ICG5-7Jmz_sfS7km38yrlHFtla6FVQxGci1dBa0CyBUa7wrukGEKW3zCzQfQpaxN8obLHzswZioIADuvSocYVZWu43Ib8XU8Z1PzDywf_KA1qcuGx4EnaOroJidriZt2U6basiA_uDcxA/s1600/327116512_495596812744850_4997231278143620727_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJAfKJWDQ3okb18GlzjyC9T56p8jT6k91TeO7bWMYrOIzx8ICG5-7Jmz_sfS7km38yrlHFtla6FVQxGci1dBa0CyBUa7wrukGEKW3zCzQfQpaxN8obLHzswZioIADuvSocYVZWu43Ib8XU8Z1PzDywf_KA1qcuGx4EnaOroJidriZt2U6basiA_uDcxA/w300-h400/327116512_495596812744850_4997231278143620727_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">May God Bless the Teacher Who Wrote This</td></tr></tbody></table><blockquote><div>1066: Your confidence and attitude towards life is commendable. Your idea of being strong and good human being is what impressed me most. Your smile spreads happiness. Keep smiling and be proud of who you are. Because, I am extremely proud of you.</div></blockquote><p>Within just ten minutes, this kind stranger saw what I see in my daughter, and I am thankful she took the time to express her admiration so eloquently. I wish she could know that Allyson tacked this note to her bedroom wall, where it will remind her that she is seen and known, and she makes a difference. I imagine the teacher will continue to speak life in this way to other students, and that makes me very happy.</p><p>I am proud of Allyson for being smart and capable and working hard and doing all the things that she does "right." I am proud of her for persevering when life gets tough. But I am <b>most </b>proud because she is an amazing human being. She is generous, kind, and compassionate. I believe that she will use the gifts God gave her to make an impact on this world, and that will be a beautiful thing to behold. </p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-28627053456485545762023-01-30T22:44:00.007-06:002023-01-31T20:22:56.928-06:00Let Me Tell You 'Bout My GirlIt's been far too long since I wrote a post about Allyson, so I decided to take the time today to bring you up to date. I hope you will forgive me if I do a bit of bragging; I just can't help being very proud of my girl.<div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbTKwwMcX0cPsC1ZhgMm3EecytjLm0ql0wSrnyntRAK25_rBn75UxX99HJBF2Hnku2kAThgGxkyQxfKVEIT6--xqNyjAyc1NHjE1UmGWDnDOTlnRgneIiNqJLOzvPQyg9MbUSx1Qi6KmXgba4vv1vJbs61o7-FGjhXyhrunFHQM4vK6RPIj1z-Xxnxg/s1875/327106861_1137591550277065_6310795526012355412_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1875" data-original-width="1407" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgbTKwwMcX0cPsC1ZhgMm3EecytjLm0ql0wSrnyntRAK25_rBn75UxX99HJBF2Hnku2kAThgGxkyQxfKVEIT6--xqNyjAyc1NHjE1UmGWDnDOTlnRgneIiNqJLOzvPQyg9MbUSx1Qi6KmXgba4vv1vJbs61o7-FGjhXyhrunFHQM4vK6RPIj1z-Xxnxg/s320/327106861_1137591550277065_6310795526012355412_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson at Painting with a Twist</td></tr></tbody></table><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><div>Since my post in July 2021 about <a href="199E13611900901099004" target="_blank">her first job</a>, Allyson has attained two promotions. First, she became a monitor during her second summer as a lifeguard, which means she could work alone to oversee swimmers and supervise the facilities at various community pools. Just a few weeks later, she became a manager, which entailed supervising other lifeguards, helping ensure shifts were covered, and handling problems with guests. At the tender age of 16, she shouldered these new responsibilities admirably. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaY3PFNWJhgSfeTCG9NUH0WWS3UV0_E1AcfAKI3oRLvugkWk8u_-i6GHNT2nkbqi426Mxdoj3EDGLQlf6kSpadhBhvXf01PlVpMJZkrx39OItQDTGL1hFhhiCrfX_dmk-0OXDC_xXXBy9aROIL3BVicwAYSdd-rQSXnfHRiU86aEne5EZUYHIMCBOQg/s1024/327150221_514667963983346_433985107147131852_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaY3PFNWJhgSfeTCG9NUH0WWS3UV0_E1AcfAKI3oRLvugkWk8u_-i6GHNT2nkbqi426Mxdoj3EDGLQlf6kSpadhBhvXf01PlVpMJZkrx39OItQDTGL1hFhhiCrfX_dmk-0OXDC_xXXBy9aROIL3BVicwAYSdd-rQSXnfHRiU86aEne5EZUYHIMCBOQg/s320/327150221_514667963983346_433985107147131852_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson and Three Lifeguard Friends<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7jzo6wYzVecLqJ_E2f7rvqnPf_WyFKCsCBOLANcWqvSh3W-_NomWZG4hBDJAH_daO2ViKyGoOLjjPgRuK4MahMZxC0t_07Ww0OAIMh3B6blY_5FWyo3V5o0Zd2wnGWlIn7dZdiXyPwhqU8MechysnqKTTzuNktjiaTm05eiPIGqw_hH0qpsf5xspuQ/s480/327106575_1386914875445646_2327389097844745565_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7jzo6wYzVecLqJ_E2f7rvqnPf_WyFKCsCBOLANcWqvSh3W-_NomWZG4hBDJAH_daO2ViKyGoOLjjPgRuK4MahMZxC0t_07Ww0OAIMh3B6blY_5FWyo3V5o0Zd2wnGWlIn7dZdiXyPwhqU8MechysnqKTTzuNktjiaTm05eiPIGqw_hH0qpsf5xspuQ/s320/327106575_1386914875445646_2327389097844745565_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson in Monitor Uniform<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzc8jx9Hg9rTrKZtNDKk5P5TNWdiP2pH6KCvpodBPUTIye4sW-LEAuX5ubywxPIaJ7MfT70GzCQW7DMbCCyXW4PazYIdkQfcdCr0RX7WH3S_ksA75ic73BiZa4-uEwtoAAmoO4L6SU1_XaQwzhjtTlSSNyKMmMOMMSX9ExEPssCeZZ-s2_bQzCoDrscw/s800/327523475_589746735822111_9006904182716463462_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzc8jx9Hg9rTrKZtNDKk5P5TNWdiP2pH6KCvpodBPUTIye4sW-LEAuX5ubywxPIaJ7MfT70GzCQW7DMbCCyXW4PazYIdkQfcdCr0RX7WH3S_ksA75ic73BiZa4-uEwtoAAmoO4L6SU1_XaQwzhjtTlSSNyKMmMOMMSX9ExEPssCeZZ-s2_bQzCoDrscw/s320/327523475_589746735822111_9006904182716463462_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Manager Uniform</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>She has been recommended for yet another promotion this upcoming season, as a lifeguard instructor. In this new role, she will earn significantly more money and will have the opportunity to impact other young workers as they learn crucial lifesaving skills. Before she can start this new phase of her career, she must complete even more rigorous physical and academic training than when she first became a lifeguard, and she must pass tests that many other lifeguards have failed. "What if I can't do it?" she asked recently. "It would be so embarrassing to try and fail." </div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div><br /></div><div>"I have no doubt that you can do it," I assured her. Unlike the first time she started lifeguard training, this time I wasn't just saying that for her comfort. Over the last couple of years, she has inspired me with her determination and dedication to achieving her goals, even when she has felt anxious and unsure of her abilities. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>License to Drive</b></div><div><br /></div><div>For example, she worked diligently to obtain her driver license this past September. Both of us had wondered how her driver's training would go given her sometimes overwhelming anxiety over car travel, especially in high traffic. The first time she got behind the wheel after earning her learner's permit was on a road trip to Arkansas, on an interstate packed with heavy trucks. I clutched the door handle tightly with a sweaty palm and breathed deeply as she executed pass after pass, but she showed no outward sign of anxiety. When I asked her about it, she said that she felt a lot more secure in the driver's seat because she felt more in control. She had paid close attention to her training, and she found it comforting to follow the procedures she'd learned. At the same time, she lacked the overconfidence that can make some new drivers so dangerous. She understood the gravity of her responsibility, and she was receptive to all the guidance I offered. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over the next six months, she was my chauffeur for every trip, whether to the grocery store two blocks away or to soccer practice on the other side of an hour's rush-hour traffic. Through it all, she stayed calm and confident, even when she missed a turn one time and unexpectedly had to navigate across six lanes of traffic in downtown Dallas, in the dark. The more challenges she successfully faced, the more comfortable I felt riding in the passenger's seat beside her. I felt sure that after all this practice, the driving test would be a piece of cake for her. </div><div><br /></div><div>The night before her test, however, she had an attack of nerves that made her feel sick to her stomach. I tried to calm her as she drove to the site of her test to rehearse the route and practice parallel parking. The short route posed no challenge, but the parallel parking space was much more difficult than any I've ever encountered in over 30 years of driving. Allyson had to back down a rather steep hill and swing the back end of her car sharply to the right, into a little alcove set back from the rest of the parking lot. Although she had accomplished this feat with relative ease several times over the last few days, on this night there was a small line of other prospective drivers and their parents to serve as witnesses. Feeling rushed and self-conscious, she made one mistake after another as we queued up for repeated attempts. First she was too far from the curb, and then she backed too soon and came in at a bad angle. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wanted to give her pointers, but since I can count on one hand the occasions when I've actually had to parallel park in the last 30 years, all I could offer was moral support. "Don't worry," I advised. "Even if you fail this portion of the test, you can still get your license, as long as you don't hit a pole. Remember, I failed my parallel parking when I was 16, but I still got my license. I passed with a 70, but hey... passing is passing! Just don't hit a pole, and you'll be fine."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm going to pull forward and try again," she replied with dogged determination. </div><div><br /></div><div>As if I'd jinxed her, she clipped the front flexible marker as she eased back out of the space. Undaunted, she simply tried again. This time, she waited too long to start turning toward the curb, and she ended up backing into the marker at the rear of the space. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Maybe you should stop for tonight," I suggested. "You've successfully done this several times before, and I'm sure you can do it again tomorrow. You're just too nervous right now." </div><div><br /></div><div>She shook her head and circled around for another attempt. At last, she pulled in correctly. I breathed a sigh of relief and imagined a round of applause from the parents in the other vehicles waiting behind us. "Fifth time's the charm," I joked, but she wasn't laughing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back at home, I said a prayer for my anxious daughter and then prayed some more as I laid my head on the pillow. In the morning, I was disappointed to hear that she'd passed a very difficult night and had never fallen into a deep sleep. I prayed for her one more time and sent her on her way with her father, who'd been her official teacher in the online driver's education program.</div><div><br /></div><div>An hour or so later, I received a phone call from my ecstatic daughter, a newly licensed driver. "I got my license!" she cried. Then she exultantly recounted the whole story. She'd performed flawlessly on the driving portion... and nailed the parallel parking! She passed her test with a 94. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here she is in her VW Jetta, for which she'd saved $2000 over the summer to help us buy. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJS9VaXO8ON8Lp4PL5HT0Eee3MRA92fYk98rQtTJpGI6pUBNdJ_eQLIW89S8xE2nzuubMCxtNklQbRw4r8Me_iItNFzHOt67O7zK0qm3uksRjpVLudULr8u2KefKlMBepkuN3vS3fHJSBev9FQ2ljVUD3aY_KnR-3-K2UDPhp4AkO8NwzQpJMyKfYBEw/s2048/326897565_551733473646210_5772356739410969275_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJS9VaXO8ON8Lp4PL5HT0Eee3MRA92fYk98rQtTJpGI6pUBNdJ_eQLIW89S8xE2nzuubMCxtNklQbRw4r8Me_iItNFzHOt67O7zK0qm3uksRjpVLudULr8u2KefKlMBepkuN3vS3fHJSBev9FQ2ljVUD3aY_KnR-3-K2UDPhp4AkO8NwzQpJMyKfYBEw/s320/326897565_551733473646210_5772356739410969275_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Since that day back in September, she's driven herself everywhere, far and wide. It's been a bittersweet transition for me. Now that she can take herself to and from school, to appointments, and to soccer practice twice a week, several hours a week have been added back into my schedule. But with her newfound independence, Allyson is scarcely ever home. My girl is already starting to fly the coop! </div><div><br /></div><div>What I am learning from this experience is to treasure every moment with her. I always remember the advice my brother's wife Diane gave me years ago when Ethan was a teen: Teenagers are like cats. You can't chase after them, but have to let them come to you. When they do, you give them your full attention, even if it's midnight and all you want to do is go to sleep. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>West Coast Trail</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Another highlight of Allyson's summer was hiking 75 kilometers over the course of six days, along the west coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. She carried a 55-pound pack on her back, loaded with a tiny pup tent, a chair, a sleeping bag, her clothes, and all her food. She traveled with her dad, her friend Aeris and her father, her cousin Kurt and her Auntie Lisa. </div><div><br /></div><div>This was no walk in the park. To quote her dad, Bill: It was six days of "beach, boulders, mud, roots, ladders, cable cars, and bridges." It was rigorous, exhausting, and at times even dangerous, but they all made it out alive. It was an adventure Allyson will remember as long as she lives. </div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUtOpGfPQIJtCxyiKZcS8-X58rBDeRurqwoK2Eip74IF_-t7MBLqVC99Vn8iIPKtmncQfDSgA5cs2UMR21gWBlJBCklVbXlC_EyJtFtb5aAMbtFIgNlRfbhaYo1Ksnd8kAwWaI2KYikobEfURbpir2T5gp3SLc9jWQ0Bb2gt-7Z5cBxV0-w2QIPl25Q/s2048/326796274_1217452402498704_5050027783504411524_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUtOpGfPQIJtCxyiKZcS8-X58rBDeRurqwoK2Eip74IF_-t7MBLqVC99Vn8iIPKtmncQfDSgA5cs2UMR21gWBlJBCklVbXlC_EyJtFtb5aAMbtFIgNlRfbhaYo1Ksnd8kAwWaI2KYikobEfURbpir2T5gp3SLc9jWQ0Bb2gt-7Z5cBxV0-w2QIPl25Q/s320/326796274_1217452402498704_5050027783504411524_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson (Front) with Auntie Lisa</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8pr0554rEKGD0wo_D7TFv_Na5gvRvlZaKR3K_m3cKtWwddXjrkPkwdf2jUbV90jgXRYx8QZyxxtXCeMHMoS_hExbXx8rFg0Sj4tark3sTdMAqLjs_OHaQZpa5_CJNPyUXHBiZIF12rE4q85PTmdPlhNQsv58SedV3jA8jRFtMOGxRyKtN4LXLdbf9A/s1024/327058010_952301095757056_2063500809691275712_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB8pr0554rEKGD0wo_D7TFv_Na5gvRvlZaKR3K_m3cKtWwddXjrkPkwdf2jUbV90jgXRYx8QZyxxtXCeMHMoS_hExbXx8rFg0Sj4tark3sTdMAqLjs_OHaQZpa5_CJNPyUXHBiZIF12rE4q85PTmdPlhNQsv58SedV3jA8jRFtMOGxRyKtN4LXLdbf9A/s320/327058010_952301095757056_2063500809691275712_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Many Bridges</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluX_R9oQlPiNRrcYoJNE3TC0SZBDaVVaKFhowiaV0g1bg1ACXRCQxTiQ2HUQTsZy9v4IGBC_UnW6cdJ5oLz4klJU2xP38wgvQc2ZVy_WFTCpEg8sTfge_OWCj2D_VCvvXQr-uqV3XGhApnpUJGKsKP-SVL65iVNM1WylW_nIZnKkLj2qEakKNfJESAg/s1600/327016003_1848562655543273_4367936062520877894_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1133" data-original-width="1600" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgluX_R9oQlPiNRrcYoJNE3TC0SZBDaVVaKFhowiaV0g1bg1ACXRCQxTiQ2HUQTsZy9v4IGBC_UnW6cdJ5oLz4klJU2xP38wgvQc2ZVy_WFTCpEg8sTfge_OWCj2D_VCvvXQr-uqV3XGhApnpUJGKsKP-SVL65iVNM1WylW_nIZnKkLj2qEakKNfJESAg/s320/327016003_1848562655543273_4367936062520877894_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson in Foreground, Freezing to Death</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCtse4ev96Y6yC6bwrofYCDUJQaD3zj4uAS7MQVQNCJf1keaXnOXAvTck93MPyURUR74BlOoWyf1kEsFMz6E_BUFr4stoIMhQKMbScxJQqh7h4Quq7j2nmbIaa7ZVJuVRlCgFelAniVw3Q-E8r2IP0KogqFrlxvkFIQHjrq15Q61SboArRcLFxkbZ2Q/s1280/327787885_1527439844415194_2018701452726357701_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQCtse4ev96Y6yC6bwrofYCDUJQaD3zj4uAS7MQVQNCJf1keaXnOXAvTck93MPyURUR74BlOoWyf1kEsFMz6E_BUFr4stoIMhQKMbScxJQqh7h4Quq7j2nmbIaa7ZVJuVRlCgFelAniVw3Q-E8r2IP0KogqFrlxvkFIQHjrq15Q61SboArRcLFxkbZ2Q/s320/327787885_1527439844415194_2018701452726357701_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson Hugs a Tree on Every Hike</td></tr></tbody></table><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>And in Soccer News...</b></div><div><br /></div><div>This year Allyson has continued to play in goal on her select soccer team and on the varsity team at school. On the select team, she has weathered the ups and downs of a very competitive position with perseverance and grace as she shares time with another goalkeeper. Each time she's in goal, she not only faces the pressure of blocking shots from extremely talented opponents, but she also has to push past the stress of constantly proving her value; if she makes too many mistakes, she might not get to start in the next game--or play at all. At times, her confidence has wavered, but she refuses to quit and she continues applying all the training she's received. All that hard work is paying off, both in a close bond with her team and in future scholarship opportunities. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGtw38QwuGESUwNZU9dmo2FeXtt_kife1_VZrXhnGLX96-c7vgnUFF0Modwlkmn_8IJrJuDLuJuhmN0CyN52wGUCzbSgjZNWIZ41tLLQ793wlHPcL5NZoCW1IH-XhXSpuC_FW0Ar1mIZjvDRQge6CJp5OoEAEbcJL6gC-gJxtkWN7DXOa8ucg19Uqgiw/s1170/326989215_904373054238578_7853825571590719894_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1170" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGtw38QwuGESUwNZU9dmo2FeXtt_kife1_VZrXhnGLX96-c7vgnUFF0Modwlkmn_8IJrJuDLuJuhmN0CyN52wGUCzbSgjZNWIZ41tLLQ793wlHPcL5NZoCW1IH-XhXSpuC_FW0Ar1mIZjvDRQge6CJp5OoEAEbcJL6gC-gJxtkWN7DXOa8ucg19Uqgiw/s320/326989215_904373054238578_7853825571590719894_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson with Her Club Team, Solar (Back Row, in Hoodie)</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, she faces a different challenge on her school team. There, she plays the whole game, every game. Because her high school is very large but not affluent, her team usually plays against teams with much better training and experience. That means Allyson often takes a beating in goal. She blocks shot after shot, making my breath catch in my throat as she leaps and dives fearlessly. Despite her formidable talent, a few goals inevitably slip by her, and I know that she often feels disheartened. But no matter how badly her team may be losing, Allyson never stops giving it her all. Nor does she collapse into a sobbing heap, as I'm sure I would do in her place! Instead, she keeps shouting encouragement to her teammates. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQkvF0gNxWuxinFeDYU-Ph3wXi7kV2ojWIMyxHoadeTtL6IObZMOgxrRhJxPaF1Cl74YUU3hK8Sk-gaIO9uq3UbCOLInQAyWKP9LCHPD78SRXid-v7Xxrpu6Ahz_vmnzwx7R3NMgcGRQ-zxI1oNxs53TVjcTCPmP9JXZ-SSDez3NlvorBTKFw-V-aLA/s1600/327115492_699999138271254_8675354205628934487_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiQkvF0gNxWuxinFeDYU-Ph3wXi7kV2ojWIMyxHoadeTtL6IObZMOgxrRhJxPaF1Cl74YUU3hK8Sk-gaIO9uq3UbCOLInQAyWKP9LCHPD78SRXid-v7Xxrpu6Ahz_vmnzwx7R3NMgcGRQ-zxI1oNxs53TVjcTCPmP9JXZ-SSDez3NlvorBTKFw-V-aLA/s320/327115492_699999138271254_8675354205628934487_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making a Save for Her High School Team<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q2NAJsJ0eQoKVGqxCsX26k4cfVYPSB69benyD9XCD02LCSnLmlJHfYK8J-YI5ttadsNgz4CMoPZitF9zlocd2XqU7foJl4DIi4BTnFF9XNXeqt44yNFtpp1LVn98LEAvDC8TaDz4i1qOL0qn7jVdC3KfS86yTBYAPUpQPtFOZ2X4cIUexY6fi7pM_A/s1600/327681198_1612412169210097_4439156389981344319_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Q2NAJsJ0eQoKVGqxCsX26k4cfVYPSB69benyD9XCD02LCSnLmlJHfYK8J-YI5ttadsNgz4CMoPZitF9zlocd2XqU7foJl4DIi4BTnFF9XNXeqt44yNFtpp1LVn98LEAvDC8TaDz4i1qOL0qn7jVdC3KfS86yTBYAPUpQPtFOZ2X4cIUexY6fi7pM_A/s320/327681198_1612412169210097_4439156389981344319_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why She Needs a Chiropractor on a Regular Basis</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Exercising the Mind as Well as the Body</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Another area where Allyson shows leadership is on the Academic Decathlon team, of which she is a co-captain this year. All year long, she has spent hours studying the American Revolution, both alone and with her team. She has organized study sessions at coffee shops, bringing donuts to repay her teammates for sacrificing their precious free time. </div><div><br /></div><div>All their hard work really paid off at the regional competition this past weekend, but that's <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2023/01/i-wasnt-surprised.html">another story</a>. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq6Aon166RH7XWJc__Dule9nlelgW42jFdGXR6zgLRrB-12jOfRhOkTKDTXkINd4sBtU35kdTgpfnOBv7BCwcW1vilanv7B4foNcbYx2WTIbVW0gwK6HpsX4O2GwrrZscLlv6W4DJ7amM-_i43bYCi-CG098U8j_It3E_T49Xh8TCwTMIq46vmt6n69Q/s1170/326935821_2287055058167695_7431626638416314704_n.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="1170" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq6Aon166RH7XWJc__Dule9nlelgW42jFdGXR6zgLRrB-12jOfRhOkTKDTXkINd4sBtU35kdTgpfnOBv7BCwcW1vilanv7B4foNcbYx2WTIbVW0gwK6HpsX4O2GwrrZscLlv6W4DJ7amM-_i43bYCi-CG098U8j_It3E_T49Xh8TCwTMIq46vmt6n69Q/s320/326935821_2287055058167695_7431626638416314704_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Our Game Faces On at a Study Sesh Three Days Before Region"</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div></div></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-10052268992144295182022-12-15T21:55:00.003-06:002022-12-15T22:14:43.184-06:00A Gift I Didn't Know I Wanted<p>If you've been reading a long time, you know that I have experienced some frustrations with my pets. I have one <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/search/label/Arwen" target="_blank">sweet cat</a> and one <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/search/label/CiCi" target="_blank">rather mean cat</a>, and both of them are very, very naughty. Their main vice is stealing food--sometimes right off our plates--and they have many other terrible habits, like clawing the furniture and occasionally even peeing on piles of laundry... which may or may have been lying on my bed for days waiting to be folded. </p><p>Sometime last spring, Allyson asked if I might think about getting a dog. My first response was that we already had two pets too many, and my second was that I really am not a dog person. But she said having a dog at my house would really make her happy, so I promised to think about the idea. We prayed about it, and I promptly forgot all about it. </p><p>In April, Allyson's former stepsister Morgan asked if we could keep Olive for a couple of weeks while she looked for another home. I agreed readily, thinking it would be a good chance to try out having a dog with no strings attached, and if it didn't work out, we could put the whole thing behind us.</p><p>Olive had been Allyson's dog, too, at her dad's house. They'd decided to get a puppy after Lola passed away, and they chose Olive because she looked a lot like her. (Lola had been my dog, too, until shortly after the divorce.) If you've been reading a <b>very </b>long time, you may remember that my fondness for Lola was tempered with aggravation over <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2009/03/lola-la-la-la-la-lola.html" target="_blank">her perpetual mischief</a>, such as the time she ate my favorite cloth diaper with the duckies on it right off the clothesline or the time she <a href="http://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2010/07/maybe-im-not-dog-whisperer.html">murdered my tomato plants</a>. So I was surprised at the surge of tenderness I felt when I first met Olive. She resembles Lola so much that I often accidentally call her by that name.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ipzhs_xfsFRa-3OkFzROcLWB4y0ss-OXVXzzxFO8UXpOYxq20TXrk6s4Cx_3pDVl7LwzetcDHQonGM15Ege4SCIPg03PZ5GDxtTKQ31dNpyMFaot7KL8hTYkouPRLHqi00WIG06rdGiiNwGAO__CYwI_ipCnokraZXh3G5AQ6E7of2Lvyzx6j7O-hw/s429/lola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="429" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ipzhs_xfsFRa-3OkFzROcLWB4y0ss-OXVXzzxFO8UXpOYxq20TXrk6s4Cx_3pDVl7LwzetcDHQonGM15Ege4SCIPg03PZ5GDxtTKQ31dNpyMFaot7KL8hTYkouPRLHqi00WIG06rdGiiNwGAO__CYwI_ipCnokraZXh3G5AQ6E7of2Lvyzx6j7O-hw/s320/lola.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lola on Left, Olive on Right</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Lola... I mean, Olive!... did not have tender feelings for <b>me</b> at first. In fact, she showed her teeth and growled menacingly at me every time I got close to Allyson, or even entered her room. Allyson assured me that she is actually quite timid, and she would never bite anyone, but I kept my distance just in case. Even though I generally don't particularly care for dogs, my feelings were a little hurt that she felt the need to protect Allyson from me. I've always heard that dogs are excellent judges of character, so what did that say about me? <p></p><p>Two weeks quickly turned into four. Morgan's mother could no longer keep her, and Morgan couldn't find anyone else to take her. Bill already has one more dog than his lease was supposed to allow. Her dad and stepmom, Steve and Amanda, had recently suffered the loss of their beloved dog, and it felt too soon for them to get a new one. Also, at their house Olive would be left alone for most of the day, and she has separation anxiety. Since I work from home, Olive almost never has to be alone here.</p><p>My life felt way too busy to take on one more responsibility, but I didn't have the heart to send Olive to a shelter because her devotion to Morgan is a beautiful thing to see. Morgan comes over faithfully several times a week to walk her, and Olive always knocks her down and covers her face in kisses. </p><p>I began to pray fervently that God would lead Olive to her permanent home, and that it would be somewhere where she could still spend time with Morgan. I acknowledged that His plans are perfect, but humbly suggested that Morgan's dad's house would be an ideal solution. </p><p>I told Morgan that I had my mom, my sisters, and my niece praying, and I was confident God would give her this gift because He loves them both so much. The grateful tears in her eyes tugged at my heart, and after a few weeks of praying, I added this statement the next time I reminded her that we were still praying: "We're praying that God will lead Olive to the home He has chosen for her... even if that turns out to be our house."</p><p>Once Olive decided that I wasn't dangerous, she started growing on me. She really is an excellent dog who seems to have zero naughty habits. And although she didn't shower <b>me </b>with kisses--thank goodness!--she did seem to think I was pretty wonderful. </p><h4 style="text-align: left;">An Impossible Dilemma</h4><p>My hesitation to keep her permanently stemmed from concern for CiCi (also known as Naughty Cat) and, by extension, for Allyson. For months, CiCi hissed at Olive every time she was obliged to go anywhere near her. Usually, Olive didn't pay her much attention, but if Allyson or Morgan happened to be in the room, she would lunge and snarl at CiCi. I was terrified that she might injure her or even kill her. Crazy, food-aggressive CiCi was actually too terrified to eat if Olive was in the room, and more importantly, she was afraid to go in Allyson's room because Olive had claimed it as her safe place. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFKIfFFukp5rRW3VF3G6NwEE3-_ucW8ABzWTNVxCGVPYS6VkpANVwckNlQcvr7STNOCCjtGNQphs7YYjLCTKMXTD_0IhYHgnEAPLgrW3Ka9d2k1DDCyIvGjJxJTMqbEOBq7Ik02G9Nw28iAvhgZhlrdWnEhw390uONooiIsTRvL_x0cB2z5icLSrCPg/s275/olive%20on%20bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFKIfFFukp5rRW3VF3G6NwEE3-_ucW8ABzWTNVxCGVPYS6VkpANVwckNlQcvr7STNOCCjtGNQphs7YYjLCTKMXTD_0IhYHgnEAPLgrW3Ka9d2k1DDCyIvGjJxJTMqbEOBq7Ik02G9Nw28iAvhgZhlrdWnEhw390uONooiIsTRvL_x0cB2z5icLSrCPg/s1600/olive%20on%20bed.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olive on Allyson's Bed<br />This Sad Expression Lasted for Weeks</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>CiCi </b>is Allyson's safe place. They've been roomies from the time when CiCi outgrew her wild nocturnal escapades, and she calms and comforts Allyson better than any medication could. I had to choose between taking away Allyson's emotional support animal and taking away Morgan's. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQNLtTqOGUelqnBitCwMh1hLOIP3xuYIPIBgRctJ0mY_lQy_UY4-bc02Rl2WxQyIiy9Oxp7TH5lpooX5bKnGTvyBiSt8aJHxcPqmZ5dUHBc9MofQfHWv9W-5dXqQRFILbt-RL6tcjIdMHJuZDV_nSaqF-jqAHDaUbqVcBpfmnlRQjd1qvUFMAggcNlg/s2048/319651879_820144982427922_1313720308775068545_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQNLtTqOGUelqnBitCwMh1hLOIP3xuYIPIBgRctJ0mY_lQy_UY4-bc02Rl2WxQyIiy9Oxp7TH5lpooX5bKnGTvyBiSt8aJHxcPqmZ5dUHBc9MofQfHWv9W-5dXqQRFILbt-RL6tcjIdMHJuZDV_nSaqF-jqAHDaUbqVcBpfmnlRQjd1qvUFMAggcNlg/s320/319651879_820144982427922_1313720308775068545_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CiCi Yawning Before a Nap with Allyson</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>I kept praying for Olive to find a home, or for CiCi to accept her as part of the family. After many months, God answered that second prayer. Though they certainly aren't best buddies, CiCi seems to be at ease with Olive, and Olive no longer views her as a threat to Allyson or Morgan. Everyone gets along. </p><p>In contrast, Arwen was never afraid of Olive, except perhaps on the first day. On the rare occasion when Olive eats her food too slowly, Arwen walks right up to her bowl and tries to steal it from under her nose. When Olive snaps a warning at her, Arwen just struts away cheekily. Whenever Olive is lying in between Arwen and me, Arwen leap-frogs right over her back to get to my lap. And if Olive's head happens to be on my lap, Arwen shoulders her out of the way.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">Another Member Is Added to the Household </h4><p>In September, my sister Amy came to live with us after our mom broke her pelvis and could no longer care for her. Amy has been hemiplegic (half paralyzed) since she suffered a stroke six years ago. Unlike me, Amy is very much a dog person. She couldn't bring her own dog, Macy, to stay with us because Macy hates cats, and there might have been bloodshed... I'm not sure whose. I wouldn't want to get caught in the crossfire! </p><p>For many days, Olive bared her teeth and growled at Amy every time she walked past with her quad cane. It made me wonder if someone had beaten her with a stick before Bill adopted her. After Amy cooed over her and petted her for many days, she eventually realized that the cane was like an extension of Amy, who wasn't scary. </p><p>Amy quickly bonded with Olive, whom she calls "My Sunshine." Olive sleeps in Amy's room each night, and they keep each other company while I work all day. I get a kick out of hearing their conversations. Several times every morning, Olive groans theatrically, and Amy replies, "No, you just went outside. I'm not taking you out again." But Olive groans and groans, and Amy always relents in the end. "Oh, all right!" She opens the door for Olive and follows her out onto the back porch, where she sits down and keeps her company if the weather is nice.</p><p>There's nothing Olive enjoys more than going for a walk. Every time I put on my walking shoes, she begins the funniest doggy dance I've ever seen--the same one she does each time Morgan walks through our front door. She jumps up and down forcefully with just her front feet, and her nails click against the wood floor. She dances circles around me all through the endless preparations as I slip on her harness, clip on her bungee jogging leash, hook it to a special belt around my waist, push Amy's wheelchair out to the driveway, and hold the front door open for Amy. Then, Olive jogs along beside us while I push Amy to the park across the street. If I go fast enough, she usually keeps pace with me... until she stops suddenly to smell a hydrant or some trail of pee only she can perceive. When that happens, the leash yanks me sharply to a stop, but the bungee cord absorbs most of the shock. </p><p>At the main circle in the park, Amy pushes herself up from the wheelchair and walks until her back gets tired. We trail along behind her with the wheelchair, Olive taking advantage of the slower pace to read all the "pee-mail" left by other dogs. If we actually see another dog, I have to brace my whole body to keep Olive from pulling me off my feet. She whines piteously until they greet each other or, more likely, until the other dog's owner pulls it far away down the sidewalk.</p><p><b>Shared Custody</b></p><p>A few months ago, Allyson had a soccer tournament in Houston, and Steve and Amanda watched Olive for us. Afterward, Morgan told me that Amanda fell in love with her instantly and really wanted to take her, but they didn't want to make Amy sad. I realized then that when I'd prayed for a home where Olive would be loved and would be a blessing to someone, I'd been praying about my own home! "God knew Amy would need Olive," I told Morgan. </p><p>Since then, we've settled into a rhythm that almost feels like a custody agreement. Every weekend and school holiday, Olive stays with Morgan. I get a little break from cleaning up dog hair and standing in the weather while Olive does her business, and Olive gets to spend time with her favorite person in the world. Each Sunday night, she returns to our house, where Amy waits to fervently welcome her. She lays her head in Amy's lap, and if I'll allow it, she covers my face in kisses.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">Maybe I'm Turning into a Dog Person</h4><p>Although I generally prefer petting silky cat fur over wiry dog hair, I've been surprised to discover that Olive's ears are wondrously velvety. When she lays her head in my lap and gazes up at me with adoring eyes, it's quite lovely to stroke her ears. And if I allow her on the couch because she's terrified of a storm, it's very cozy to wrap my arms around her neck as she sprawls across my lap.</p><p>Sometimes God's greatest gifts are the ones you didn't even know you wanted. </p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngA1J5FIG4URMqkCyhVf1WXQ4J_pE-7__8B5MrrWvTZiCZyg8I7PSoUK-J1QlAGx4gaW4XUpDy0qgrY36OkWsBq7tw_AfUKuFKul18wyjstHCRFaSNBvjA9CfBaW_AqCFZWHFAiiuAVFXUap1qyDhTt3w0gE9vqS7G-cW8rKKXwgRUM1H9aEDgxWfwg/s1944/a%20dog%20person.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="1944" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjngA1J5FIG4URMqkCyhVf1WXQ4J_pE-7__8B5MrrWvTZiCZyg8I7PSoUK-J1QlAGx4gaW4XUpDy0qgrY36OkWsBq7tw_AfUKuFKul18wyjstHCRFaSNBvjA9CfBaW_AqCFZWHFAiiuAVFXUap1qyDhTt3w0gE9vqS7G-cW8rKKXwgRUM1H9aEDgxWfwg/s320/a%20dog%20person.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Very First Dog Selfie<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0Vvhv994ja37N49wBM0Rif58mgkkBc7zJ_eMUqCcV9T46SZV1wD89azM6wM-wFDSn9NiMzCrByoRXNzO-5vAPB1sETTMH_7ECZNVKhxLW0MgirFxolNfMCx0dZfUI0gKO9rilm7IeDyQJM1URzYl2Li-UtSadRC533LgCBhxpglrEEYfWu5dQTj6vw/s1944/Dog%20kisses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1458" data-original-width="1944" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH0Vvhv994ja37N49wBM0Rif58mgkkBc7zJ_eMUqCcV9T46SZV1wD89azM6wM-wFDSn9NiMzCrByoRXNzO-5vAPB1sETTMH_7ECZNVKhxLW0MgirFxolNfMCx0dZfUI0gKO9rilm7IeDyQJM1URzYl2Li-UtSadRC533LgCBhxpglrEEYfWu5dQTj6vw/s320/Dog%20kisses.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olive Stole a Few Kisses While I Was Looking for the Right Angle</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-23220025696889020272022-11-27T19:39:00.002-06:002022-11-27T20:03:03.248-06:00Simply Wonderful<p>Last Saturday, the day of Ethan and Sumer's wedding, dawned chilly and overcast. Though it had seemed quite bearable when I arrived late in the morning, the temperature began dropping as sunset approached. By four o'clock, it was cold enough to set my teeth chattering despite the beautiful winter white coat I'd borrowed from my sister Emily, but I was grateful that at least it wasn't raining.</p><p>As Sumer slowly walked from the bridal suite toward the outdoor ceremony area, I asked to carry her train. I'd already extricated a leaf or two from the lacy hem, and I wanted it to be pristine when she walked down the aisle. At my side was Ethan's stepmother, Erica. Tottering over the paved walkway on numb toes in my unaccustomed heels, I alternated between worrying about breaking an ankle and savoring the gathering of in-laws, exes, and ex-laws to honor and celebrate with two young people whom we all loved.</p><p>At that moment, Allyson hurried around the corner in her own unaccustomed heels and a beautiful full-length, velvety green dress. "Mama," she called urgently. "Where have you been? You're the first to go down the aisle!" </p><p>"What? I'm part of the procession?" </p><p>"Yes! Ethan is walking you and Sumer's mom down the aisle first. Hurry up!" </p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Reluctantly, I released Sumer's train to drag in the dirt and shuffled as quickly as my numb toes would allow. Even more reluctantly, I shrugged out of the coat and draped it over my elbow. I'd briefly contemplated wearing it down the aisle, but I could hear Emily's adamant voice in my head: <i>Take that off! We didn't spend an hour and a half trying on 20 dresses for you to cover your dress up with a coat!</i><p></p><p>I made my way to the front of the green and maroon procession and hooked my left arm through Ethan's waiting elbow. On his other arm was Sumer's mom, who wore a burgundy dress in a similar shade to my own. We couldn't have coordinated so well even if we'd planned it.</p><p>We walked down the aisle to the strains of one of the Star Wars movie themes (<b>not </b>the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bzWSJG93P8">Darth Vader theme</a>!) The song was regal and fitting, and I loved it that Ethan and Sumer had planned this event with such personal flair. During that short walk, I scanned the small crowd and took in the friendly faces of loved ones who'd traveled from as far as Canada to share in this celebration. I imagined I could read their thoughts: how could sweet little Ethan be a not only a man, but also a husband? </p><p>At the front, Ethan hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek, and then he did the same with Lisa. I sniffled as I took my seat next to my parents on the front row.</p><p>My eyes got mistier as I watched my beautiful daughter walk down the aisle, tall and graceful, and take her place along with the other bridesmaids. On the other side of the platform, the groom and his four attendants looked handsome in their khaki pants and white cotton shirts. Ethan had decided against wearing tuxedos or suits because it was his wedding, and he doesn't like them. </p><p>The music changed then to a romantic song I'd never heard called "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLEM-LxXJDU">Saving Grace</a>," with sweet lyrics set to acoustic guitar. Ethan's father Byron, who was officiating, directed us to stand. How beautiful Sumer looked with her upswept hair and flowing lace gown, her expression both shy and radiant. If any leaves were tangled in her train, surely no one could have noticed. </p><p>I turned to steal a glance at Ethan and saw immediately that his eyes brimmed with tears. Never had I seen such a broad smile on his face, and my heart swelled with gratitude that he had found a woman who could bring him such joy.</p><p>By now my own eyes overflowed with tears, and I discovered that Allyson, too, was crying as she looked back and forth between Sumer, her brother, and me. I touched my heart as I reveled in the strength of our little family's bond. For a moment, I thought of the devastation I'd felt when divorce separated our family. Now, I realized how wrong I'd been to think that the strength of a family's love could be broken so easily. </p><p>Before I sat down, I slipped gratefully back into my sister's coat. Then I pressed close to my daddy and pulled the corner of the blanket he shared with Mom over my bare knees. </p><p>I must confess that I was nervous over Byron performing the ceremony. If he'd ever married anyone before, I wasn't aware of it. I needn't have worried, though. The ceremony was short and sweet. My favorite part was when he said we could look to the Bible to understand what love looks like, and then he read a portion of 1 Corinthians 13. </p><blockquote><p>Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.</p></blockquote><p>I prayed silently that God would help this couple—and the rest of us—to love each other like that.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4CawfkFSuhi_urxu3LeE74HXLH6ozFrOh3BHAVdPymG12bKuDaMpcsKQMgirnjo321BwAaybRjUUeSsPNND2iQbPgHLkClILxvrBMajZW7iRl_SghZY-6jGrqwcUTnwVyLUs-NRcXP6tnxMUa8VbbBbrIhlVuHo54T-KDnHHdoDJcbPBFr8KoURu3g/s2048/ceremony.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4CawfkFSuhi_urxu3LeE74HXLH6ozFrOh3BHAVdPymG12bKuDaMpcsKQMgirnjo321BwAaybRjUUeSsPNND2iQbPgHLkClILxvrBMajZW7iRl_SghZY-6jGrqwcUTnwVyLUs-NRcXP6tnxMUa8VbbBbrIhlVuHo54T-KDnHHdoDJcbPBFr8KoURu3g/s320/ceremony.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>After offering a short, heartfelt prayer, Byron proudly presented the young Mr. and Mrs. O.</p><p>While we waited for family pictures for several agonizing minutes, I enjoyed talking with Ethan's Nana (Linda) and Papa Ronnie, his Aunt Dawn, and his cousins, who had also turned into grown-ups in the blink of an eye. I parted with my coat long enough to pose for a few pictures with Ethan, Sumer, Allyson, and Byron, and then I hurried to the reception hall.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnu4mZWN5-5wBlNZvYzSqhlsSBk1jlldg_J6IPSPgimagT18RzAzOsLlwttx-sC2fp_5ENrzB71hVVjnZ2awJTAcMixnBQ1z5OCJuA4YJX-O9sZCe3awdjp0a5EPfGtUkmPX6w1hPm3dZcQpWFEMfJqBwA2l90SEtLU9sBgM_DoqVPu4rr1WPs9Q1uWw/s995/bridesmaids.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="995" data-original-width="920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnu4mZWN5-5wBlNZvYzSqhlsSBk1jlldg_J6IPSPgimagT18RzAzOsLlwttx-sC2fp_5ENrzB71hVVjnZ2awJTAcMixnBQ1z5OCJuA4YJX-O9sZCe3awdjp0a5EPfGtUkmPX6w1hPm3dZcQpWFEMfJqBwA2l90SEtLU9sBgM_DoqVPu4rr1WPs9Q1uWw/s320/bridesmaids.jpg" width="296" /></a></div><br /><p>While I waited in line for tacos and some sort of soup, I caught up with Sandi, Allyson's grandmother on her dad's side and Ethan's former step grandmother. I teared up as I told her how much it meant that she would fly down from Vancouver to share Ethan's special day. She smiled and told me not to make her cry. </p><p>I shared a table with Sandi, my two ex husbands, Byron's wife, and my sister Amy; Allyson ate with the bridal party. Just behind me was my other ex mother-in-law (Linda), her husband, and my former stepsister-in-law Rhonda. Again, I reveled in the love all of us shared for Ethan and his new wife.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOoY6WBd7bO27ehQ6y153_o3ySViIYlow88fHk5SIJcrptHSayreWZFpK6R0n8s09V983bTKsa8AeF_wli-so1h5nG5QFi_g0xWZAMN8dVzohzElbZ-v2docpygdVATdZPtCyt7TWy7pb-z-IszvljOF7kjqRdfMHb3scLmM5_Nx--US8mM8a02YBRGw/s2048/First%20dance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOoY6WBd7bO27ehQ6y153_o3ySViIYlow88fHk5SIJcrptHSayreWZFpK6R0n8s09V983bTKsa8AeF_wli-so1h5nG5QFi_g0xWZAMN8dVzohzElbZ-v2docpygdVATdZPtCyt7TWy7pb-z-IszvljOF7kjqRdfMHb3scLmM5_Nx--US8mM8a02YBRGw/s320/First%20dance.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Dance</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Those warm feelings ebbed a bit during Sumer's sweet dance with her father, who seemed to know how to dance. I'm thankful that a guest captured their dance on video because I couldn't properly enjoy their smiles and laughter in the moment, nor the way he spun her gracefully. My mouth was too dry and my palms too sweaty to feel anything except anxiety bordering on panic. </p><p>All to soon, the music ended, and Ethan gave me an empathetic look from across the dance floor. He smiled resolutely and beckoned me with a barely perceptible nod.</p><p>I walked on wooden, stilted feet to the center of the floor and took his hand. "I chose "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oddo4MVeeBY">Simple Man</a>," by Lynyrd Skynyrd for our dance," he said. "It's a mother's advice to her son about life. I told the DJ it might be a little cheesy, but he said it was perfect." </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMSZGiMUCnVlQ_Fft1NQjGTcQs_YrCnso_1H5v0ragvoC3ZVzJIKHv22C86Z2hCUYtI6SZjb78sR39Bw2Sloa7HDpzvWcdqzZNYiSVlGwr0w99OhfiLjsUl6VLqTtoPod1Sy2-xgDq11FANfaDSwn7UgjgnkTkpQpZ4-BR3j6zLNyy3gWoM2ejndZ1hw/s2048/mom%20and%20son%20dance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMSZGiMUCnVlQ_Fft1NQjGTcQs_YrCnso_1H5v0ragvoC3ZVzJIKHv22C86Z2hCUYtI6SZjb78sR39Bw2Sloa7HDpzvWcdqzZNYiSVlGwr0w99OhfiLjsUl6VLqTtoPod1Sy2-xgDq11FANfaDSwn7UgjgnkTkpQpZ4-BR3j6zLNyy3gWoM2ejndZ1hw/s320/mom%20and%20son%20dance.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p>"Then I will be sure to listen to the words," I said. But I didn't. Not until he sent me the link the next day. </p><p>The next thing Ethan said, while looking into my eyes, was "I really love you." Now I was <i>really </i>crying; those tears when Sumer came down the aisle had just been a warmup. I hugged Ethan tightly and buried my head in his shoulder for a moment. </p><p>"I'm so proud of you," I said as soon as I could speak. "You're going to be a great husband."</p><p>We swayed back and forth like kids at a junior-high dance. "I'm such a bad dancer," Ethan said.</p><p>"Yeah, me too," I replied, and we burst out laughing. "It's actually very nice," I said. "I can't believe this is our very first dance."</p><p>"It is? You mean, we didn't even dance when I was a little boy?"</p><p>"No, I don't think so. But we should do this again sometime."</p><p>"Yes," he agreed. </p><p>"Are you ready to be a grandma?" he asked.</p><p>I smiled. "I'm ready if you guys are ready. No rush, but whenever you're ready, I'm ready." <i>One milestone at a time</i>, I thought. <i>I just now became a mother-in-law!</i></p><p>Although I wanted to savor every moment, the song still seemed endless. About three minutes in, Ethan said, "Man, this is a long song! Usually they use a shorter version of songs for these dances, but this feels like the extended version." </p><p>"Yeah," I agreed. "Oh, I am such a bad dancer." </p><p>We laughed some more, and I decided I didn't care if we were awkward and stiff and everyone was watching us. I would do it again, even if I had the choice. </p><p>Still, I can't put into words just how relieved I was to sink back into my seat when the song finally ended. </p><p>A few minutes later, snuggled under a blanket, I watched Allyson smiling and dancing with her dear cousin Halle and thought it would be very nice to dance with her, too. A moment later, she motioned me over with a wave of her hand. I set my blanket aside and met her on the floor.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-y5G9H_FyPwyc3BAFul6_Mo1QrVJeumcWX6kPE52_-OxNnfAiY0Hnh0S4OVuhcnsT6SODjWHkl3xrZgRCqKEeAkEeUD2l1nkl8Zj1stQWfCTGhLBBPvLKDoiN6jx7xjVILeSSAxGJdmruHiJtfZfRgRpYl5LJ8UVOvELVQ_z2dxKCPbS8sE8qtQ5oA/s206/Allyson%20and%20Mom%20closeup.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho-y5G9H_FyPwyc3BAFul6_Mo1QrVJeumcWX6kPE52_-OxNnfAiY0Hnh0S4OVuhcnsT6SODjWHkl3xrZgRCqKEeAkEeUD2l1nkl8Zj1stQWfCTGhLBBPvLKDoiN6jx7xjVILeSSAxGJdmruHiJtfZfRgRpYl5LJ8UVOvELVQ_z2dxKCPbS8sE8qtQ5oA/s1600/Allyson%20and%20Mom%20closeup.jpg" width="155" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson and Me</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The first thing <b>she </b>said while we danced was, "My dad was telling me that we really need to teach Ethan some moves. You guys looked really stiff out there."</p><p>I sighed. "I thought we didn't do so bad," I said. </p><p>"Yeah, it was fine," she said.</p><p>"You look beautiful," I said. </p><p>"So do you. Now, take two steps left... and two steps back.... You know, it's easier if you kind of lead with your hip instead of your foot."</p><p>"I guess that makes sense," I said. "But I think it's pretty hopeless. Did I ever tell you about the time your dad and I took ballroom dancing lessons? We went once a week for four weeks, or maybe six. And we were supposed to practice at home, but..." </p><p>"You didn't practice?"</p><p>"Well, we tried, but we just couldn't get it. Your dad laughed so hard because it was the first time he ever heard me say the <i>F</i> word. I think we were trying to do the tango." </p><p>She laughed. </p><p>"Are you having fun?" I asked. </p><p>"Yes, lots!" </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-lXs_KZcTwnFET59zrBq2IPG1tHwAlKpxrr77KiJLN27IXrrJ3_b3Ud_PWeRU_av8SsobsyKcfdtinlj7aDmfZUGAJZTkKn0OQI0wgmR_8IuFMlTE9G7LEw-oS1v_YjOLcJHshwaMTp28QVVNmmlVdaClX2t1Hq4DZOAR35fStCDYJ8T6vFIpiEMSw/s206/Allyson%20Ethan%20and%20Mom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1-lXs_KZcTwnFET59zrBq2IPG1tHwAlKpxrr77KiJLN27IXrrJ3_b3Ud_PWeRU_av8SsobsyKcfdtinlj7aDmfZUGAJZTkKn0OQI0wgmR_8IuFMlTE9G7LEw-oS1v_YjOLcJHshwaMTp28QVVNmmlVdaClX2t1Hq4DZOAR35fStCDYJ8T6vFIpiEMSw/s1600/Allyson%20Ethan%20and%20Mom.jpg" width="155" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joy!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>I decided to focus on that rather than wallow in embarrassment over my public failure as a dancer. I was surrounded with family, including my dear Aunt Judy who traveled all the way from Indiana and two talented seven-year-old nephews having the time of their lives on the dance floor (Miles and Kyle). A lovely new daughter had been added to my family, and my usually reserved son was circulating among all the guests, his face lit up with the most joyous smile. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxQZK952PcmuYfB9eHbP8cQc3aHDHHXx0Z75r9Rr7B33d76e-IkDDVCL_AAEVOE5jq88id3Pis8iwk0X7llO5Uv-1i2f7tJuLeUK5LKkjlzNcd3leZXbAmnHxMsk5Npt-WJDkGHY8gKI6L740Cvts9jqvlOMfvSxx48rqf2Msg5b5ycdCV9nJ4RmTIg/s2048/Ethan%20and%20Paige.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxQZK952PcmuYfB9eHbP8cQc3aHDHHXx0Z75r9Rr7B33d76e-IkDDVCL_AAEVOE5jq88id3Pis8iwk0X7llO5Uv-1i2f7tJuLeUK5LKkjlzNcd3leZXbAmnHxMsk5Npt-WJDkGHY8gKI6L740Cvts9jqvlOMfvSxx48rqf2Msg5b5ycdCV9nJ4RmTIg/s320/Ethan%20and%20Paige.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan and Paige, a Bridesmaid and Friend <br />See That Expression of Pure Contentment?</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This beautiful moment that I admired with Ethan's new mother-in-law Lisa is a memory that I never want to forget:</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtWzBguSYgYt-rHlNV1ZMitRHNdzVNCp7GDdtcU40gZ34jI3m2UWLV2ndz-NgS8AKsBBFwitAPaQ5K6iOGxpSwBhBqkb6dpvej7SaNABIyWELcfHJ_MuhmvK0j68FaiHMxpn-0YHW0n619ayLA9h9GotDVRicJDF1R12ozJETc3C-hKllxcbdDRvVFA/s1288/Last%20dance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1288" data-original-width="920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZtWzBguSYgYt-rHlNV1ZMitRHNdzVNCp7GDdtcU40gZ34jI3m2UWLV2ndz-NgS8AKsBBFwitAPaQ5K6iOGxpSwBhBqkb6dpvej7SaNABIyWELcfHJ_MuhmvK0j68FaiHMxpn-0YHW0n619ayLA9h9GotDVRicJDF1R12ozJETc3C-hKllxcbdDRvVFA/s320/Last%20dance.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last Dance</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>My impeccably painted toes may have been frozen, but my heart was toasty. A day couldn't get any better than this. </p><p><b>One More Milestone</b></p><p>By the time the happy couple had run out under an archway of long sparklers that made my heart pound with anxiety, it was only a little after 8. We were an hour's drive from home, but Amy and I decided to join our parents and my oldest sister Melody's family at a Waffle House that was sort of on the way home. </p><p>As we walked up the ramp to the restaurant, Allyson drove up with Halle. "Oh, Mama! I didn't know you were coming," she called out. "I'm glad you're here."</p><p>I smiled broadly at this warm welcome. "I'm glad you're-"</p><p>"...because I left my debit card at home," she went on. </p><p>"You're glad I'm here so I can pay for your food?" I asked.</p><p>"Well... I am glad you're here, but... yeah." </p><p>Crammed into a booth next to her and Halle, I told this little story to Halle's father, my nephew Stephen, who has three teenagers. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKPK9oOgwwJcLrjNOZfLurGJVCC-3FwhFPnENwakrm5APTRX7is10lpLVSMjaX-dit_QiwBGoxeJ_xi1nG8AOe8nRyrbdhJptSxDcDIWQ34onxzHYv7lrKFzgMIhMizGl8I8tjH3BPX5uRRFHiWNySYF8Myxh1r42_0cjFHkQgClyOHlnQ5s_8NgPNA/s206/Simon.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="155" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNKPK9oOgwwJcLrjNOZfLurGJVCC-3FwhFPnENwakrm5APTRX7is10lpLVSMjaX-dit_QiwBGoxeJ_xi1nG8AOe8nRyrbdhJptSxDcDIWQ34onxzHYv7lrKFzgMIhMizGl8I8tjH3BPX5uRRFHiWNySYF8Myxh1r42_0cjFHkQgClyOHlnQ5s_8NgPNA/s1600/Simon.jpg" width="155" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me with One of Stephen's Teenagers, My Great Nephew Simon</td></tr></tbody></table><p>"I understand," he said with a laugh. </p><p>While we waited for the waitress to take our order, I asked Allyson how to take off my false lashes. "They won't pull my eyelashes out, will they?"</p><p>"No, they're glued on right above your lash line. Here, let me do it." I flinched as she briskly pulled the lashes off, but it didn't hurt. Back in my worn blue jeans and my own rather worn coat, I felt a little like Superman must have felt when he turned back into Clark Kent. </p><p>I folded the lashes into a napkin and surveyed the menu for the least unhealthy option. "I'll have a side of hash browns and some decaf coffee," I said to the waitress. </p><p>"You should just get the senior plate, hon'," she advised. "You get the hash browns, an egg, and coffee. It'll be cheaper."</p><p><i>The senior plate! But I'm only... 52 and a half,</i> I thought<i>. </i>Technically, I guess I am almost a senior citizen. I did get my AARP card (without asking for it) two years ago. </p><p>"Okay, sure. I'll take the senior plate." </p><p>As soon as she'd walked away, I said, "I can't believe she offered me the senior plate. I guess that's two milestones in one day." </p><p><b>A Simple Man</b></p><p>The next day, I listened to the song Ethan had chosen for our dance. "Come sit beside me, my only son, and listen closely to what I say.... Troubles will come, and they will pass.... Baby, be a simple kind of man... something you love and understand." (Lynyrd Skynyrd, "Simple Man," 1973 Geffen Records)</p><p>As I relived every part of Ethan's wedding day, I realized that he had followed this advice exactly. He and Sumer had chosen to keep some traditions and ignore others. They had chosen the music, food, and clothing that they loved. They didn't worry about impressing anyone, just made sure to create an environment where they could enjoy time with family and friends that they loved. </p><p>It was a simply wonderful wedding, perfectly fitting for a simple man who is content with the things that really matter. I couldn't be prouder.</p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-41703121311348142912022-11-26T22:28:00.004-06:002022-11-27T21:57:16.087-06:00Procrastination, Preparation, and Anticipation<p>Last Saturday my boy became a husband! Although Ethan and Sumer were engaged for over a year, it still sort of crept up on me. I found myself scrambling at the last minute, as I do for most important events in my life... and the unimportant ones, too.</p><p>It began with Sumer's bridal shower, the first I'd ever hosted. I was nervous about all of it—the games, the decorations, the food—so I procrastinated about planning it until I'd nearly run out of time. But thanks to Pinterest and some advice from my boss and a coworker, it all came together nicely! I made way too much baked potatoes, grilled chicken, vegetable soup, and salad, but that was okay because we sent quite a lot home with my mom, who has been unable to cook since a fall on Labor Day weekend. </p><p>For dessert we ate pumpkin-spice Nothing Bundt cake with thick cream-cheese frosting and my sister Emily's pineapple-sherbet punch, which she graciously made for me when she arrived, after picking up both the cake and our mother.</p><p>Allyson was in charge of decorations, and she made the party beautiful with a cute little marquis, a big banner, giant balloons, three little bouquets that doubled as prizes for the games, and a pink sparkly sash for the bride-to-be.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXS9QSYv-M-qQnXsW8rJYMzc5lGh1mwO2rfUyibZT8Bp6s-dYABxRPczmaqO0UdrX3VCL03TVtfsZEs93elnUUet5IrxTgAqstVqUbGF6KgTYEUCc7VOAXc_6WehtLrYl1cJ4IWOXZNZf_rWfFlEJffqyLh6RKpw1RHbawv5kzpRrmVSlMcQM_q7PM5w/s3872/dsc01618.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXS9QSYv-M-qQnXsW8rJYMzc5lGh1mwO2rfUyibZT8Bp6s-dYABxRPczmaqO0UdrX3VCL03TVtfsZEs93elnUUet5IrxTgAqstVqUbGF6KgTYEUCc7VOAXc_6WehtLrYl1cJ4IWOXZNZf_rWfFlEJffqyLh6RKpw1RHbawv5kzpRrmVSlMcQM_q7PM5w/s320/dsc01618.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_LOI5e7y7oiG2d4QBxaU1lhnfa8QtHojZxmG_erFPZ1iUrom6S3rXAwzaP4zvWJH-6dsO1r4Z2mLzY4H6n7e9TVMYmc4YCJ6f2SSxYkUomkSb99b1lFJsBF0OuszuVmpO3wViVv2JsDgHMYdHAvzHdGZrdyUMsmWasKxP3COtbJifKXN1cgo6J3Zig/s3872/dsc01628.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_LOI5e7y7oiG2d4QBxaU1lhnfa8QtHojZxmG_erFPZ1iUrom6S3rXAwzaP4zvWJH-6dsO1r4Z2mLzY4H6n7e9TVMYmc4YCJ6f2SSxYkUomkSb99b1lFJsBF0OuszuVmpO3wViVv2JsDgHMYdHAvzHdGZrdyUMsmWasKxP3COtbJifKXN1cgo6J3Zig/s320/dsc01628.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEZYn4q01EJC9q0OVUKKlGIaqnFZI2BF0cJ2D1bXe2oOk7s69-AfTcZx3hVvend6uq1afaN8I4FHXsKKSrbDrsPmMfT6lcGDhXC_C04gqcYs0S29R-xmeBOpyHcBJ-90yqLS4lgehX4-v7ELr2ZF0FtGUsIjHP3uFHeJaKXSXiDqBR2jU5RRAMcoyWw/s3872/dsc01626.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhEZYn4q01EJC9q0OVUKKlGIaqnFZI2BF0cJ2D1bXe2oOk7s69-AfTcZx3hVvend6uq1afaN8I4FHXsKKSrbDrsPmMfT6lcGDhXC_C04gqcYs0S29R-xmeBOpyHcBJ-90yqLS4lgehX4-v7ELr2ZF0FtGUsIjHP3uFHeJaKXSXiDqBR2jU5RRAMcoyWw/s320/dsc01626.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson and Sumer</td></tr></tbody></table><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>Allyson was dubious about my choice of games, but we all had so much fun. First we paired off and did wedding-vow <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mad_Libs">Mad Libs</a>. There was a bit of grumbling at first as I refreshed everyone's memories on nouns, verbs, and adjectives, but when the couples said their silly vows to each other, there wasn't a straight face in the room. The one that made me laugh the hardest was written by my sister Emily and read by our sister Amy. Amy promised to be united in "greasy marriage" and to "jump you on the couch." <p></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lE5dMfijDmu7CYCUDVNkPcmaZvc714DRV-zQlzuktrEKdkEywyjk6lyx4iQp7WaAXQhfADUy4btHaARd4WAHaEnRvHRp7qHuAelTLPjSW_wIeqkw6VR27TTk-XUJQQiRkSwxt8iV8SwA_2kiss9MKtFUbDxPA9Vo7kuG5HuxPfYrY9CsJo7Mv_zRVg/s3872/dsc01630.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_lE5dMfijDmu7CYCUDVNkPcmaZvc714DRV-zQlzuktrEKdkEywyjk6lyx4iQp7WaAXQhfADUy4btHaARd4WAHaEnRvHRp7qHuAelTLPjSW_wIeqkw6VR27TTk-XUJQQiRkSwxt8iV8SwA_2kiss9MKtFUbDxPA9Vo7kuG5HuxPfYrY9CsJo7Mv_zRVg/s320/dsc01630.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sumer and Amy<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Sumer promised to give her "spouse" (her mother) a skyscraper as a token of her love. My mom could scarcely finish reading her vows to my sister-in-law Diane because she was laughing too hard to speak. "Oh, I needed to laugh!" she gasped as we all laughed with her. I imagined this might have been her first belly laugh since she fell and chipped her pelvis in September.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJkYGhYP-NiICOeC1uqlJNJaK8P3wXddD26Ld1LAfRsZBZArroP8EcW8VKVK765dlN_b16iPJXE8goFANZBqAkNV0wk-z6PqZj-_zq-IdumBUYKlJ7NefxJom_lihFXJZX22mQ7hNVKDc_v7hyOmuYL7pUUKJLsvCdl_FaKho7l_Zj9XRbT11VQme6A/s3872/dsc01617.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJkYGhYP-NiICOeC1uqlJNJaK8P3wXddD26Ld1LAfRsZBZArroP8EcW8VKVK765dlN_b16iPJXE8goFANZBqAkNV0wk-z6PqZj-_zq-IdumBUYKlJ7NefxJom_lihFXJZX22mQ7hNVKDc_v7hyOmuYL7pUUKJLsvCdl_FaKho7l_Zj9XRbT11VQme6A/s320/dsc01617.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom and Diane</td></tr></tbody></table><p>After the Mad Libs, we put some leftover chart paper and markers from my <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/search/label/teaching">classroom days</a> to good use playing wedding Pictionary. Allyson had a strong start, but Emily kicked our butts in the end. She laughed out loud when she drew out her strip on her turn to draw: "cut the cake." How fitting, since she would be making the cakes for the wedding one week later!</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcp-_D7FX1qIdpf_ZbDLuHWXBrNPWWDvMsEws5HTZEDw83ofYNvPE5X34JYXd1J5PPsnu24ImzpYLtHxMjD8nDTGP3gW1SCuWE8MFnux-_on_xCpxdprVSGSrWpgf8CGZ82MdGKKKk54oQk4l4WcaY851bfCU0LaE5BohIpf8SU_pkYVU2_9epZ0c0VQ/s3872/dsc01622.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcp-_D7FX1qIdpf_ZbDLuHWXBrNPWWDvMsEws5HTZEDw83ofYNvPE5X34JYXd1J5PPsnu24ImzpYLtHxMjD8nDTGP3gW1SCuWE8MFnux-_on_xCpxdprVSGSrWpgf8CGZ82MdGKKKk54oQk4l4WcaY851bfCU0LaE5BohIpf8SU_pkYVU2_9epZ0c0VQ/s320/dsc01622.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Emily and Sumer<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The best part came last. We took turns recalling our favorite dates, and I wrote them down to make a date-night bucket list for Sumer and Ethan. Mom reminisced about living out her dream of riding in a hot air balloon in Utah. Diane described being picked up in a rented Jaguar when Rick extended one of his work trips to San Francisco. Allyson and I showed off the portraits we'd painted of our cats on a mother-daughter date night at Painting with a Twist. Sumer's mom, Lisa, told us about a helicopter ride into the Grand Canyon with a picnic of wine and cheese. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dMVjgjHJlzmS3w7TLOkNy6A6WPSeTrAuFrtln60iBs5B8mVve_2e4uX66_BKwpRoLh50qeyGDGFCUEj0uWpBcTfopGZeBOZHvPKfTUU6gISpQyoj8eUWiotex_r1-Sl7FRt_F22hlDSkc3sAyAE7KZwtYt3Rmf3gLth2u9h5ZM60FRzyLm4Xgg0sIA/s3872/dsc01616.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7dMVjgjHJlzmS3w7TLOkNy6A6WPSeTrAuFrtln60iBs5B8mVve_2e4uX66_BKwpRoLh50qeyGDGFCUEj0uWpBcTfopGZeBOZHvPKfTUU6gISpQyoj8eUWiotex_r1-Sl7FRt_F22hlDSkc3sAyAE7KZwtYt3Rmf3gLth2u9h5ZM60FRzyLm4Xgg0sIA/s320/dsc01616.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lisa and Sumer<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>At last I suggested that we recommend some low-cost date ideas that wouldn't break the bank for Ethan and Sumer. I shared one of my favorite low-budget dates: attending school plays. "Just stick with the high-school plays," Diane clarified. We laughed over the idea of attending an elementary play on a date night. No, thank you! A suggestion from Lisa made me wish I could try it out: indoor "drive-in movie night" with a blow-up bed on the living room floor and popcorn in front of the big-screen TV. Of course, in order to do that, I'd need to... buy a big-screen TV.</p><p>Sumer received a nice mix of sexy and comfy lingerie, a spa date with her mom, a rose-gold bracelet, and a decorative box to store wedding cards in. When she hugged me goodbye, she said, "Thank you so much! I <b>loved </b>it." I smiled over that moment all the next morning as I cleaned and put the house back in order. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOdzSUiQZpZtmbH23H7f_IQbzTnhA7IXmStnHUchQPsIXmWsNg9kr55C1mka1neWnvDqWcchh3Gg4488OFRnbcFeLmfTMU6vOBRf07ucWrst4-wUTRB7EEi6aGequwQxZ2t1L0riuM5ebJdZlWqt6ZLSas0rW_LXgizZCxwgPGJwbYgJ1zvCBYt1QTQ/s3872/dsc01620.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2176" data-original-width="3872" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEOdzSUiQZpZtmbH23H7f_IQbzTnhA7IXmStnHUchQPsIXmWsNg9kr55C1mka1neWnvDqWcchh3Gg4488OFRnbcFeLmfTMU6vOBRf07ucWrst4-wUTRB7EEi6aGequwQxZ2t1L0riuM5ebJdZlWqt6ZLSas0rW_LXgizZCxwgPGJwbYgJ1zvCBYt1QTQ/s320/dsc01620.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sumer and I</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The other thing I procrastinated about was getting my dress. On the Monday before the wedding, I met Emily at Dillard's, where she had a dressing room waiting for me with about 10 dresses in various shades of maroon and burgundy. Before we headed back, though, I followed her around the astonishingly large formal wear section as we chose perhaps 10 more! </p><p>It felt like a scene from a low-budget version of <i>Pretty Woman</i>, only without the snooty store clerk. I remarked that I hadn't tried on this many dresses for either of my own two weddings. Emily just smiled. </p><p>She zipped and unzipped every one of those dresses and hung them all back up. It was a tough choice, but the one we chose was the perfect fit, the perfect color, and the perfect style, especially because it had long sleeves; it would be an outdoor wedding, and the forecast wasn't looking too balmy.</p><p>When we were wrapping up and hour and a half later, and I was starting to think about grabbing some fast food on the way home, Emily asked about shoes. "I guess I might need to buy some," I said ruefully, both for the sake of my pocketbook and my grumbling belly. </p><p>"You're buying shoes," she answered firmly. </p><p>So we drove to a nearby shoe store where I followed her around as she chose six or eight pairs of heels in various nude shades. I chose the pair that seemed the most comfortable, but they were pretty, too. And on sale. </p><p>"I guess I'll need to get my toenails painted," I said as I peered at my feet in the low mirror. <i>And shave my legs,</i> I added mentally. </p><p>Four days later, I had a date for manicures and pedicures with Allyson. When the nail technician asked me to pick out a nail color, I felt unaccountably panicked. Every time I get my nails done—which is only every few years these days—I end up regretting my color choice. And never before did I need to match my nail color to anything particular. Allyson calmly examined a picture of the dress on my phone and immediately pointed to a burgundy bottle. "Try that one, on the third row... and that other one to the right of it." </p><p>I brought the two bottles over to where she was sitting on a massage chair soaking her feet. "I don't know," I dithered. "I think it's more of a–"</p><p>"Okay, try that one," Allyson cut in. "See, on the top shelf?" </p><p>"Yes, it's perfect," I replied, though I still secretly feared having ugly hands in the wedding pictures. </p><p>When I plunged my feet into the hot water, my worries melted away as quickly as the knots in my shoulders under the gentle pressure of the massage chair.</p><p>The next morning, I woke early and drove with my sister Amy out to my niece Savannah's house for a makeover. She had volunteered to do makeup for both me and her mother, Emily. Sitting on a low stool while she applied foundation, eyeliner, and my very first set of false lashes, I told Savannah how her mother used to fix me up for high-school dances and school reunions. </p><p>Amy and I arrived at the venue about five hours before the ceremony, but too late to help with the decorations. I probably would have been in the way anyway, I reasoned. Thankfully, Allyson had arrived an hour earlier to help in my stead. Ethan guided us to the bridal suite, but Amy took one look at the full flight of wooden stairs and said there was no way she could get up there. Since her stroke six years ago, she has had to walk with a quad cane and can manage three or four steps at most. </p><p>The reception area currently had no heaters running, and it was too cold to wait there. At around 40 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius), it was unseasonably cool for Texas, though not as cold as I'd feared. "I guess you can hang out with the groomsmen, then," Ethan said after a moment's hesitation. "It's not nearly as nice as the rooms upstairs, but it's warm."</p><p>I apologized to Ethan's friends for intruding in their man cave, but they welcomed us warmly into the small sitting area and kitchenette with cement floors. The two of us watched quietly as they threw darts and played video games that were probably older than Ethan, including some of Amy's favorite Mario Brothers games. Now and then, she offered advice on beating the various levels.</p><p>I made myself useful by ironing five shirts on the creaky ironing board I'd wedged into my backseat at Ethan's request. It, too was older than Ethan, maybe even as old as me. Amy and I reminisced over using it at our house when we were growing up, and Ethan told the story of how his Uncle Chris used to terrorize him with it when he was a toddler with <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2009/02/bizarre-comfort-objects-wacky-phobias.html">many bizarre phobias</a>. </p><p>I was happy to see that Ethan seemed remarkably calm now that the big day had arrived; at the shower the week before, Sumer had told us how stressed he'd been over the last-minute preparations. I felt pretty calm, too, until Ethan casually mentioned his song selection for the mother-son dance. </p><p>I froze and almost burned the shirt I was working on. "We're doing a dance?" I sputtered. "But... I don't know how to dance. Shouldn't we have practiced or something?"</p><p>"I'm sure it'll be fine," he said, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as me. He made his arms into a C around waist level. "Do want me to put my arms around your waist like this? Or should we do this instead?" He crooked one arm and held the other hand at shoulder height.<br /></p><p>"I guess the second way," I said. "I'm really, really nervous."</p><p>"Yeah, me too," he admitted.</p><p>I spent the next hour or two going back and forth between the bridal suite and the man cave. No matter where I was, I felt guilty, either for not being with Sumer or for leaving Amy alone with all those guys. But finally, I just decided to relax and enjoy the anticipation. </p><p>Upstairs, Sumer and Allyson chatted and laughed animatedly on the couch, and I smiled as I savored their warm relationship despite the nine-year disparity in their ages. I knew Allyson was thrilled to be gaining a sister, and I hoped that Sumer was happy to be gaining a mother-in-law. I felt about as confident being a mother-in-law as I did about dancing in front of all the wedding guests. Then again, I'd worried for years about whether I'd have any maternal instincts, but when the time came, all those instincts had kicked in. I figured being a mother-in-law shouldn't be much different.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2dOD0LvYj2nQSOgqTBHue_pVGMWj-4QVyRHQpuvyyLpjkFLtyt4b6s9sr3G8WIqkmnC3G9sM6XUFUNAIWVbusa7UA9Zv05kuMO5RUfqN2NUM8dQeU82iFrxdeQiNN2BwvGBDlWz_bYtccFQLuzOb9WU4maAUatyJNkjIrPtcCLRiYabo560RvhZfgw/s275/Allyson%20and%20Sumer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe2dOD0LvYj2nQSOgqTBHue_pVGMWj-4QVyRHQpuvyyLpjkFLtyt4b6s9sr3G8WIqkmnC3G9sM6XUFUNAIWVbusa7UA9Zv05kuMO5RUfqN2NUM8dQeU82iFrxdeQiNN2BwvGBDlWz_bYtccFQLuzOb9WU4maAUatyJNkjIrPtcCLRiYabo560RvhZfgw/s1600/Allyson%20and%20Sumer.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><p>Watching Allyson's makeover was almost as fun as getting my own. Though she doesn't need makeup to look beautiful, the skillful makeup accentuated her porcelain skin and vibrant blue eyes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0fqC15uw1qPpgKY1wSiELAFWzHqBdyF9D7M7CbdmvOg486XIdbtVSnvLXeOj_bZBYCv_KVvMQrYjzGaYVqsgcJkuUYk3UGTTTImW_PAA3LRZ8b2cjB7ajhXBXyeTfFOpE6NZcxet0PnbT97zY03DlmD49XNF7jWdbo-er4f1MvPN-tr3BWQrFQ4O0NQ/s275/Makeover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="275" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0fqC15uw1qPpgKY1wSiELAFWzHqBdyF9D7M7CbdmvOg486XIdbtVSnvLXeOj_bZBYCv_KVvMQrYjzGaYVqsgcJkuUYk3UGTTTImW_PAA3LRZ8b2cjB7ajhXBXyeTfFOpE6NZcxet0PnbT97zY03DlmD49XNF7jWdbo-er4f1MvPN-tr3BWQrFQ4O0NQ/s1600/Makeover.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><p>After Sumer slipped into her dress, she and the bridesmaids posed for a few more pictures, and then she took one with her mom. I was touched when I was invited to take a picture with her too. "Give her a kiss on the forehead," Ethan's stepmom, Erica, suggested. </p><p>I hesitated, not wanting to mar her flawless makeup. "It's okay," Sumer reassured me. "Everyone's been kissing me." </p><p>I gingerly pressed my lips close to her forehead, trying to fake a kiss without getting my lipstick on her skin, but the hug was real. "I'm so happy for you guys," I whispered. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7BcRWMILTuevkhSeDUifqReyNdJxf-Cr5Sys9OjUCJn13VYHml_rbgWqJJOn4BitWusKLGF-xtL7RDuvFh2MA9WnQpmDwqabYlhCxY4ItqUojSC8-EEI-_1riEsa14Q0zPoviYuRjYOkY_xgvcGkbRLZdZoDHfSDieXzNxhurXl_QWRS7PHEDKkm4Q/s2048/mother%20in%20law%20kiss.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK7BcRWMILTuevkhSeDUifqReyNdJxf-Cr5Sys9OjUCJn13VYHml_rbgWqJJOn4BitWusKLGF-xtL7RDuvFh2MA9WnQpmDwqabYlhCxY4ItqUojSC8-EEI-_1riEsa14Q0zPoviYuRjYOkY_xgvcGkbRLZdZoDHfSDieXzNxhurXl_QWRS7PHEDKkm4Q/s320/mother%20in%20law%20kiss.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Despite my caution, I did smear a bit of color on her forehead, but it wiped off without leaving a mark. Whew!</p><p>I tried to make myself useful again by carrying Sumer's train as she descended the steep, wooden steps. The last thing I wanted was for her to tear her dress or even to trip on it. I could feel her nerves, and her mother's nerves. "I'm sorry I'm so stressed," Lisa said.</p><p>"I'm <b>so </b>scared," Sumer said.</p><p>"It's normal," I said. "I'd be worried if you weren't a little nervous. But it's going to be wonderful."</p><p>And it was. But that's <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2022/11/simply-wonderful.html" target="_blank">another story</a>... </p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-88432722957110433062022-02-09T22:47:00.003-06:002022-02-09T23:17:28.099-06:00Precious in Our Sight<p>On Monday morning, I started my day the way I usually do, with prayers for my children. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgndMo-nT-JruN-jljVRDb8IVI5_EQjt2wpBAdG8BODDwEIaevPdlTN7nJkhjTvb5Ck67njZglWGThzvan6ncJlrK87Bj6ams_Ka0MUwvkqzs8M0XbQyTfABVG0KjzvqDPP3xh413bs13iPCPGMks3enh20XbO1YVlpYMxlZtI-B6gO9jz5ZZ_43Teh7w=s720" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgndMo-nT-JruN-jljVRDb8IVI5_EQjt2wpBAdG8BODDwEIaevPdlTN7nJkhjTvb5Ck67njZglWGThzvan6ncJlrK87Bj6ams_Ka0MUwvkqzs8M0XbQyTfABVG0KjzvqDPP3xh413bs13iPCPGMks3enh20XbO1YVlpYMxlZtI-B6gO9jz5ZZ_43Teh7w=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ethan and His Fiancée, Sumer</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIPMIEjQbO8ohmveHx8me-QC_wWJIGotS8Ay1EuSbDhXRu-QmcHytDFu64G87ULq3TqMLyOq_AVQiYGQr4uuRMc1Lp-PHK6UMpUDZ4vxShgKs0p0sl9cPX-PpMtyhIF9k7yPKQMygoNIF8xWF-faSLcAP3_i0ZHULKucyxx1nBtHwj9pM426HGsMOiVg=s2048" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIPMIEjQbO8ohmveHx8me-QC_wWJIGotS8Ay1EuSbDhXRu-QmcHytDFu64G87ULq3TqMLyOq_AVQiYGQr4uuRMc1Lp-PHK6UMpUDZ4vxShgKs0p0sl9cPX-PpMtyhIF9k7yPKQMygoNIF8xWF-faSLcAP3_i0ZHULKucyxx1nBtHwj9pM426HGsMOiVg=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Allyson - Dec 2021</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>In the last minutes between my daily mini trampoline workout and logging on to my laptop, I continued the prayer I'd been saying aloud for Allyson. "Help me love her like You do," I concluded. "I know you love her even more than I do. She is precious in your sight."<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>After a moment, I added, "She's precious in my sight too." </p><p>The answer that flitted through my mind surprised and delighted me. "She's precious in <b>our </b>sight." </p><p>Within moments, tears flowed down my cheeks, and I couldn't tell if they were happy or sad tears. I remembered how I'd felt when Bill and I sat together, admiring baby Allyson, basking in a shared love that was bigger than the sum of the love that we felt for her individually. Although it had been months or even years since I'd felt the acute pain of loss, I mourned my divorce one more time. "I'm so tired of being a single mom," I said aloud, half talking to myself and half continuing my prayer. </p><p>Oh, I knew that Bill loved Allyson as much as ever, and so did I, but there is a difference between loving her individually and loving her together. How I missed our shared affection, pride, and delight. In that moment, I realized that I had been perceiving God's love for Allyson in the same way: as related to my love, yet separate. </p><p>I closed my eyes and relished the wonderful truth that I am not really a single mom. I'm not shouldering the weight of responsibility and worry and decisions all alone because God is always with me, and His Spirit comforts me, strengthens me, and leads me with a discernment beyond my understanding. I wrapped my arms around myself and let the tears fall even as my lips curved into a smile. "We are loving her together," I whispered. "Thank you, Father." </p><p>When I started work, my thoughts were soon pulled in other directions, but I didn't lose the feeling of connection with my Beloved. As I pondered the experience over lunch, I thought back to the sermon on love from the day before. My heart beat faster as I perceived the connections and applied the message to my struggles as a parent.</p><p><a href="https://www.thewellchurchkeller.org/" target="_blank">Pastor Trey</a> had shared several points that surprised me and challenged my beliefs about love:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Love is not just words. </li></ul>"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal," he quoted, punctuating his words by striking a cymbal (1 Corinthians 13:1). <br /><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Love is not knowledge. </li></ul>He went on to quote verse 2, "If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing" (1 Corinthians 13:2).<p></p><p>In order to understand what Paul is saying about love, he explained, we need to look at the previous chapter. He then read the verses in chapter 12 about the church being members of one body, each with different gifts, and about all the members suffering when one suffers, and rejoicing together when one is honored. He reminded us that we all need each other. "The eye cannot say to the hand, 'I don't need you!'" he read.... "Are all apostles? Are all prophets? Are all teachers?... Now eagerly desire the greater gifts" (1 Corinthians 12:21, 29).</p><p>All of us have different gifts, he explained, but those gifts come from the same Spirit within us. We are different, and we are all needed in order for the body to function properly. It's good for us to desire the gifts of the Spirit, he said, but there's something even better to long for. He read the last part of 12:29 and then went back to 13:1: "And yet I will show you the <b>most excellent </b>way. If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal..." (emphasis added). </p><p>With Pastor Trey's help, I could clearly see how verses 1-3 of chapter 13 mirror the gifts listed at the end of chapter 12. Although all the gifts are to be desired, what good are they if they are practiced outside of the context of love?</p><p>Next, he continued the list of things that love is not: </p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Love is not actions, nor is love a choice.</li></ul>I raised my eyebrows as I thought back to the "Choose Love" signs that used to hang on my classroom wall when I was a teacher. I thought about <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2018/05/choose-love.html#more" target="_blank">how I had chosen loving actions</a> when I wanted to throttle some of my students. <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHdHlA_syqb2avy0fyb84CHnNrtMZBPFSjz4Zm6cTMpKn0j2fVKWXxSsy8sSJmYEnAiWi_4dx_QnM3OO7db-0UGVl5mGxTftI3vOF9kmacxiiJTWC0bWZyrsSdxj53hhwgRK15Kdp36QnM_pI8Mnj8gye85vi_G7cr8JjOhVsfP2jMTOqMa_U7laWsSw=s320" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="192" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgHdHlA_syqb2avy0fyb84CHnNrtMZBPFSjz4Zm6cTMpKn0j2fVKWXxSsy8sSJmYEnAiWi_4dx_QnM3OO7db-0UGVl5mGxTftI3vOF9kmacxiiJTWC0bWZyrsSdxj53hhwgRK15Kdp36QnM_pI8Mnj8gye85vi_G7cr8JjOhVsfP2jMTOqMa_U7laWsSw" width="192" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4KAkbEWzzBcm9Vw0mXXPl_HtezJ49_bfC1RqXXBzo65WZTSEz-_tH_Yi9ksOrVWbEk9ZjKL09tCPd8SbrYWVN0tWNEjKajd58kpVPdwkRUxql2lCGcEYeiZmlznsdaElPdaZMehHBd32BsPmpg5qRyeenMeJROqvwZZapz_dlf2rLlgjqemyMFAWMSw=s320" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="320" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4KAkbEWzzBcm9Vw0mXXPl_HtezJ49_bfC1RqXXBzo65WZTSEz-_tH_Yi9ksOrVWbEk9ZjKL09tCPd8SbrYWVN0tWNEjKajd58kpVPdwkRUxql2lCGcEYeiZmlznsdaElPdaZMehHBd32BsPmpg5qRyeenMeJROqvwZZapz_dlf2rLlgjqemyMFAWMSw" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Pastor Trey confessed that he had counseled many people over the years to choose love. "When someone told me he didn't think he loved his wife any more, I'd tell him, love is a choice. You have to choose to honor your commitment." </p><p>"But now I realize that love is <b>not </b>a choice," he said. He talked about all the reasons why we can't trust ourselves to choose who we will love. When we choose, we often love the people who are most like us, the ones who look like us or act like us or have the same orientation as us. If we are going to love like Jesus, we can't pick and choose who we will love.</p><p><i>But <b>how </b>can we love like Him?</i> I wondered. I thought back to all my prayers over the last few years for my children, how I've asked Jesus so many times to help me love them with His perfect love--but I can't. No matter how hard I try, my love is... not enough.</p><p>Pastor Trey must have anticipated my question, because he went on to explain something so profound that I still haven't stopped thinking about it. "You can't chase after loving actions," he said. "The answer isn't your actions, it's... trusting Jesus." </p><p>I furrowed my brow, searching for the connection. </p><p>He described, at last, what love <b>is</b>:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Love is an attitude of the soul.</li></ul><p></p><p>He explained that when we seek Jesus instead of pursuing love, we get close to Him and become more like Him. As His Spirit fills us up, the love of God naturally flows out of us, and we love whoever He loves--not just the people like us. Love becomes who we are, and what we do. </p><p>This idea of pursuing Jesus instead of striving to make myself love better was so freeing. For the last six months or so, I've been deliberately choosing to demonstrate my love for my children through my actions. I don't think that's a bad thing, and I want to continue showing my love. But I don't need to put so much pressure on myself to do it right. If I love Jesus with all my heart and nurture that relationship, I will have so much more love to give. </p><p>A verse in one of my devotionals on Monday morning tied everything together for me: "My little children, let us not love in word or in tongue, but in deed and in truth" (1 John 3:19).</p><p>Loving does involve actions; it isn't just words. But those loving actions have to be done in truth, the truth of who Jesus is and how He loves us. </p><p>An hour after I read that verse and thought about how connecting with Jesus can help me love others, that flash of understanding came to me about loving Allyson together with God. I look forward to loving my children together with my Beloved for the rest of my life. They are precious in our sight! </p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-35093019902994502392022-02-04T22:25:00.002-06:002022-02-04T22:27:02.038-06:00Mi casa tica / My Costa Rican House<p><b>EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO</b></p><p>In November, I visited Costa Rica for the third time. I had planned to share many stories, but time got away from me. Here are a couple of stories that I've been working on here and there for weeks, and I hope to find time for more soon. As usual, I will write my stories in Spanish and then translate them to English so you can see my progress. Note that all grammar errors in the dialogue are mine. If you speak Spanish, you may also notice that I use the informal verb forms when I talk with Zeidy even though I call her <i>usted </i>(the formal word for <i>you</i>). This is the custom in Costa Rica. Everyone there is <i>usted</i>, even spouses, babies, and dogs. This is seen as a sign of respect. Yet most people use the verb forms and pronouns for <i>tú</i> in conversation, probably for clarity because the subjects of sentences are almost always omitted. This mixing of <i>usted </i>and <i>tú </i>used to drive me crazy and keep me confused, but I've learned to just go with it. (Honestly, I make so many other errors that this doesn't matter anyway.)</p><p><b>ENGLISH TRANSLATION AT BOTTOM</b></p><p>En noviembre visité Costa Rica por tercera vez. Tenía planeado compartir muchas historias, pero el tiempo se me escapó. Aquí hay unas historias en las que he estado trabajando durante unas pocas semanas, y espero encontrar tiempo para más pronto. Como de costumbre, voy a escribir mis historias en español y luego las traducir al inglés para que las personas que no hablan español puedan ver mi progreso. Si hablas español, probablemente puedes notar que uso las formas verbales informales cuando hablo con Zeidy aunque la llamo <i>usted</i>. Esta es la costumbre en Costa Rica. Todos allí son ustedes, incluso esposos, bebés y perros. Esto se ve como una señal de respeto. Sin embargo, la mayoría de la gente usa las formas verbales y los pronombres para <i>tú</i> en una conversación, probablemente para mayor claridad porque casi siempre se omiten los sujetos de las oraciones. En el pasado, esta mezcla de <i>tú</i> y <i>usted</i> me volvía loca y me confundía, pero he aprendido a dejar de seguir las reglas gramaticales. (En verdad, cometo tantos otros errores que esto no importa.)</p><p>[Todos errores gramatical en el diágolo son mios.]</p><p>Durante este viaje, no asistí la escuela de español, pero ciertamente aprendía a través de la inmersión. Me quedé por dos semanas con mi amiga Zeidy, la hija de Doña Macha, con quien me había quedado durante mis otros viajes. Aunque dos años habían pasado, inmediatamente este lugar me sentí como mi hogar. Que extraño, porque toda allá es tan diferente, un mundo separado. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuyc6i8p9tT6i0rZgXNXD56fIk7fdhowQ0txErqytGR1LnlG4OX3qWwVU_B-oV1s4FzUsJx2TnJmvU8C6ZOikBFOCQrnC1s6ia71KQKcD7fTQDHHutZMrIjEsTOLIH3XCnOATZc2uYRMCeDi8k_WoDZSrisD2msK2jcqoI56mr5BRy3fdlNyoCjaG1EA=s1600" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuyc6i8p9tT6i0rZgXNXD56fIk7fdhowQ0txErqytGR1LnlG4OX3qWwVU_B-oV1s4FzUsJx2TnJmvU8C6ZOikBFOCQrnC1s6ia71KQKcD7fTQDHHutZMrIjEsTOLIH3XCnOATZc2uYRMCeDi8k_WoDZSrisD2msK2jcqoI56mr5BRy3fdlNyoCjaG1EA=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doña Macha, yo, Zeidy</td></tr></tbody></table><p>La casa de Zeidy está un poco grande en comparación con otras, con tres habitaciones, una grande sala, una cocina pequeña y dos baños. Cada cuarto tiene ventanas con pequeños rectángulos de vidrio que giran en bisagras como una persiana veneciana, y estas ventanas están siempre abiertas, aún cuando hay lluvia. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhXuoLBWkkzYZgmxLL2Hn8wSIUesjbxosVcvtStyaqZIfhz4GMspREgO99Wsq8ZzDEd0COqDZnvi3UOgBx_LN_Fl2fCHSyRJwOSCtCYxqzHKgCPjPll1VyXqTFYDFehjkXe9N6qeaniz5oYifp1-nDd4qjS75qCcGMfqPI8bTLG0alrVNsJfMAaNRPBw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhXuoLBWkkzYZgmxLL2Hn8wSIUesjbxosVcvtStyaqZIfhz4GMspREgO99Wsq8ZzDEd0COqDZnvi3UOgBx_LN_Fl2fCHSyRJwOSCtCYxqzHKgCPjPll1VyXqTFYDFehjkXe9N6qeaniz5oYifp1-nDd4qjS75qCcGMfqPI8bTLG0alrVNsJfMAaNRPBw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>No hay mosquiteros, y los bichos y las iguanas entran libremente. A veces, también entran los gatos pequeños como esta dulce gatita que se llama Cat (el apodo para Katerina). </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwohGpUapJk29xLg2Mo6dQHwPeni33gP4IR6ohB0yLTnVpVSxo3dFphRDTYkqsAH_Sci9MG4-tH74tCVZfKOkylPKw3uOp5tF8QCSQ78uZDxEQtDzT7SHgvRAUxOjkcMARBUrH1r_M1oJ031-EMbVdA7dYuWK_gzc4hyCqtEwPwyoMG2BbdFK_S7vykw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4640" data-original-width="3480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwohGpUapJk29xLg2Mo6dQHwPeni33gP4IR6ohB0yLTnVpVSxo3dFphRDTYkqsAH_Sci9MG4-tH74tCVZfKOkylPKw3uOp5tF8QCSQ78uZDxEQtDzT7SHgvRAUxOjkcMARBUrH1r_M1oJ031-EMbVdA7dYuWK_gzc4hyCqtEwPwyoMG2BbdFK_S7vykw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Casi todas las noches, Cat salió a través de la ventana de Zeidy y entró a través de mi ventana. Se sentó en mi pecho o envolvió alrededor de mi cuello y durmió conmigo hasta la mañana. Aunque usualmente prefiero no dormir con mascotas, me sentí tan cómoda con ella. Me recordé de mis gatas Arwen y CiCi, y me hizo que sentir como en casa. En verdad, Cat era casi tan traviesa que CiCi: a ella le gusta que comer las flores artificiales y que cavar en el suelo de las muchas plantas verdes alrededor de la casa.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>El modo de cocinar allá es muy diferente. Zeidy no tiene máquinas para cocinar como yo. Solo tiene una estufa de gas y una olla eléctrica para cocinar arroz. En este espacio tan pequeño, ella hace comidas muy deliciosas. Aún el café se hace sin una máquina, así: <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijKDdQitPk-ZROW7JAUe0vnWzgEEY5em1zHs55HMyWMYlljXDp_wKci7l2Hh-1eHMWd35j7xNoSUm_Xui2BlxHW_MSlRwwtka16sGO8Nvfj7IIdbBubdUmiDXycc55wAOvkSMxN0JxXgJr1q2-CarqzM4m-dRbS4_Vl9zEk97Tct4LdEfoNFeAb0Cwlg=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4640" data-original-width="3480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijKDdQitPk-ZROW7JAUe0vnWzgEEY5em1zHs55HMyWMYlljXDp_wKci7l2Hh-1eHMWd35j7xNoSUm_Xui2BlxHW_MSlRwwtka16sGO8Nvfj7IIdbBubdUmiDXycc55wAOvkSMxN0JxXgJr1q2-CarqzM4m-dRbS4_Vl9zEk97Tct4LdEfoNFeAb0Cwlg=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Zeidy hierve el agua y lo pone a través de esta bolsita dos o tres veces. El sabor es maravilloso con un poquitito de azúcar y leche, y también algo extra: las hormigas pequeñas que siempre comen el azúcar. Aunque la caja tiene una tapa apretada, el hijo de Zeidy a veces se olvida que cerrarla. “Josué”, dice Zeidy, “no queremos proteína con nuestro café.” </p><p>Pero, no importa. Es fácil que sacarlas con una cuchara. He notado que estas hormigas viven en todas de las cocinas allá, y no molesta a los nativos. Yo también he aprendido que vivir con ellas, en el mismo modo que debo que empujar mis gatas fuera de la mesa todos los días en mi casa. </p><p>Una noche después de la cena, quedó unas orejas, mi postre favorito. ¿Le pregunté a Zeidy, “Como podemos evitar que las hormigas las coman?” Ella señaló a una canasta que colgaba del techo.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDIlKZT_9hh3KBueZL5HQMZOlaOKpFgaDqufoXy2rtxnlzzxrCL8weWfigeRc1spf3CUCu-zcxUFhouV4azWG6zlNrsuRIpsZ2C139N2DFisGeN_85gsXJYHX5jvE1NiZD9gf4k3ecqai80-s4N7AezcSYQawfAc08s-Q0AOHEDPPkTifuqeZv91zTtw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4640" data-original-width="3480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDIlKZT_9hh3KBueZL5HQMZOlaOKpFgaDqufoXy2rtxnlzzxrCL8weWfigeRc1spf3CUCu-zcxUFhouV4azWG6zlNrsuRIpsZ2C139N2DFisGeN_85gsXJYHX5jvE1NiZD9gf4k3ecqai80-s4N7AezcSYQawfAc08s-Q0AOHEDPPkTifuqeZv91zTtw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>“¡Qué sabia!” exclamé. De nuevo, estaba fascinada con el ingenio de la gente allá. Por ejemplo, cuando me recogió, Zeidy ha envuelto mi cena con algo grande y verde que protegió la comida del agua. A mi pareció posible que usar esta maravillosa cosa otra vez; ¡que bueno para conservar el planeta! </p><p>“¿Podría comprar estos?” le pregunté. “Quiero usarlos en mi casa. No me gustan las bolsas plásticas.” </p><p>Se rió. “No, Sarita. No puedes comprarla. Es una hoja de banano. Tengo estas atrás de mi casa. ”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgF9RDOjtNPchSRErDcUMC4q_kdC4-vtZeiTSsaBLrHm-FwPdcQ7dtxCrvV6ADUcJSkeyMLwBHAkTlgKpZJsEyRARSNr4XqZZi-5cix--tqfNXdO86QqtrJ8sP2YvH9XAvDTF3haQHpgG-Jq5C2L7saX_T-iyMzmWase-0DV9kOKLNGVgCGMIjTudswxQ=s4640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgF9RDOjtNPchSRErDcUMC4q_kdC4-vtZeiTSsaBLrHm-FwPdcQ7dtxCrvV6ADUcJSkeyMLwBHAkTlgKpZJsEyRARSNr4XqZZi-5cix--tqfNXdO86QqtrJ8sP2YvH9XAvDTF3haQHpgG-Jq5C2L7saX_T-iyMzmWase-0DV9kOKLNGVgCGMIjTudswxQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mi almuerzo para el aeropuerto</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>Limpiando la casa</b></p><p>Otra cosa muy interesante es los métodos que Zeidy usa para limpiar la casa. Porque ella no me permite que hacer alguno trabajo, tuve abundante tiempo que mirar a ella trabajando. “No te preocupes”, me dijo. “Es tus vacaciones.” </p><p>Por supuesto, no tiene lavaplatos. Siempre lava los platos rápidamente con una esponja y jabón solido en un tazón y los pone en la parte del fregadero diseñado para secarlos. Allá los fregaderos tienen este diseño porque casi nadie tiene lavaplatos. Zeidy dice que usan demasiada electricidad, y la electricidad es caro. (En realidad, le convencí de que permitirme que lavar los platos. Simplemente le dije la verdad: siempre he sido mi sueño que lavar los platos con una vista de las montañas.)</p><p>No pude ayudarla con la ropa porque no entendí la lavadora. Tiene dos partes, una para lavar y una para quitar el jabón y sacar la mayoría del agua. Debes girar varios interruptores en los momentos correctos para poner agua en la parte que tiene la ropa. </p><p>Cuando la lavadora acaba, Zeidy trae la ropa a una línea atrás de la casa, y todo esperan que no llueva. Si llueve, cualquier persona que está en casa corre afuera para sacar la ropa de la línea. Algunos días, es necesario que poner la ropa afuera dos o tres veces, y algunos días, permanece mojada hasta el próximo día. Sin embargo, Zeidy opina que tener una secadora es un desperdicio de la electricidad. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJH1v2Cy0U4bCIbKLkXB7thZnBzKQCktppOetpmGvzlSNq5RMmqyil5wl2XpEyOn0gK2g0LKhAf6zDG6I7Fr4wkH5vT7v3t8bb0BVEI8lcYrGncyzrJHbR--cmjBYlLzT3xmik2Wu8nTg4c_NzUXHlpx5IuQUIVXLuH9xdn1V5Q4gQ8ZK_im5RmqWykw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJH1v2Cy0U4bCIbKLkXB7thZnBzKQCktppOetpmGvzlSNq5RMmqyil5wl2XpEyOn0gK2g0LKhAf6zDG6I7Fr4wkH5vT7v3t8bb0BVEI8lcYrGncyzrJHbR--cmjBYlLzT3xmik2Wu8nTg4c_NzUXHlpx5IuQUIVXLuH9xdn1V5Q4gQ8ZK_im5RmqWykw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>Me sentí una poca defensiva durante esta discusión. Le expliqué, “En mi ciudad, el aire no es tan limpio como acá. Si secamos la ropa afuera, huele a tierra.”</p><p>Todos los pisos en la casa de Zeidy, y en todas las casas que he visto allá, son de baldosas. Con las ventanas siempre abiertas, muchísimo polvo entra la casa. Por eso, Zeidy barre casi todos los días. </p><p>Las paredes del baño son de baldosas también. Cuando Zeidy limpia, lava la ducha, el piso, el inodoro, las paredes y el lavamanos con un cepillo grande que tiene un mango largo. Usa mucho jabón, y entonces usa el grifo de la ducha para rociar agua sobre cada superficie.</p><p>La primera vez que vi el lago en el piso, le pregunté, “¿Cómo vas a sacarlo?” </p><p>Se rió. “Así.” Empujó el agua por la puerta hacia el pasillo donde yo estaba. Salté hacia atrás. Miré con curiosidad mientras ella empujaba el agua por la cocina y al porche, y luego al césped. </p><p>¡Que sabia! En un solo paso, ella había limpiado el baño y fregado el piso.</p><p>“Pienso que usted disfruta que limpiar, como su mamá”, le dije. </p><p>“Sí, mucho.” Ella sonrió. </p><p>“Cuando tengo bastante tiempo, a mi me gusta limpiar también.” <i>Pero casi nunca tengo tiempo</i>, pensé. </p><p><b>Las noches </b></p><p>Fue difícil dormir por causa de muchas razones. La más importante fue mi miedo de los bichos y otros criaturas afuera de la ventana abierta. Una noche, la cerré para protegerme, pero pronto la humedad fue insoportable. Incluso con la ventana abierta, me sentí pegajoso—por la primera mitad de la noche. En las primeras horas de la mañana, sentí mucho frío.</p><p>La segunda razón fue la variedad de los sonidos. Muchos perros ladraban durante la primera parte de la noche, y por fines de semanas, podía escuchar música ruidosa del otro lado de la carretera. No me molestaba la música, per me hizo que querer escuchar y no dormir. </p><p>En las últimas horas de la oscuridad, los gallos comenzaron a cantar, y grandes camiones pasaban por la carretera. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQBIy80CaHCCeSJs9Ka9pyYzaBT3Wl_few2XSRUbYBuX3nkGySv8py3oU4fRZdBw7prKWOvLxutpL26R0J8X5wQXhGWbGbriTCszWHwy3wZlSTlMXPNq2LUk10H0yDsQTmOJnQfF3cXwqtT4SQ_d4-w1YPg0WNTdjCXNt3Vxi5f8faDcuUQNlQu-ohWA=s4640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQBIy80CaHCCeSJs9Ka9pyYzaBT3Wl_few2XSRUbYBuX3nkGySv8py3oU4fRZdBw7prKWOvLxutpL26R0J8X5wQXhGWbGbriTCszWHwy3wZlSTlMXPNq2LUk10H0yDsQTmOJnQfF3cXwqtT4SQ_d4-w1YPg0WNTdjCXNt3Vxi5f8faDcuUQNlQu-ohWA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">La vista de la carretera del porche</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Sin embargo, siempre me sentí descansada. Quizás era el aire fresco, o la vista bonita, o la risa de dos amigas. En cualquier caso, no quería regresar a mi ciudad. </p><p>Tengo muchas más cosas que decirte sobre mi viaje, pero mi mente está cansada. Escribir en mi propio idioma requiere mucho esfuerzo, pero escribir en español es mucho <b>más </b>difícil. Espero que estas historias te muestren un pedacito del hermoso mundo de Costa Rica. </p><p>=======================================</p><p><b>ENGLISH TRANSLATION</b></p><p>During this trip, I did not attend Spanish school, but I certainly learned through immersion. I stayed for two weeks with my friend Zeidy, the daughter of Doña Macha, with whom I had stayed during my other trips. Even though two years had passed, this place immediately felt like home. How strange, because everything there is so different, a separate world.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuyc6i8p9tT6i0rZgXNXD56fIk7fdhowQ0txErqytGR1LnlG4OX3qWwVU_B-oV1s4FzUsJx2TnJmvU8C6ZOikBFOCQrnC1s6ia71KQKcD7fTQDHHutZMrIjEsTOLIH3XCnOATZc2uYRMCeDi8k_WoDZSrisD2msK2jcqoI56mr5BRy3fdlNyoCjaG1EA=s1600" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhuyc6i8p9tT6i0rZgXNXD56fIk7fdhowQ0txErqytGR1LnlG4OX3qWwVU_B-oV1s4FzUsJx2TnJmvU8C6ZOikBFOCQrnC1s6ia71KQKcD7fTQDHHutZMrIjEsTOLIH3XCnOATZc2uYRMCeDi8k_WoDZSrisD2msK2jcqoI56mr5BRy3fdlNyoCjaG1EA=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doña Macha, Me, Zeidy<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>Zeidy's house is a bit big compared to others, with three bedrooms, a large living room, a small kitchen, and two bathrooms. Each room has windows with small rectangles of glass that rotate on hinges like a Venetian blind, and these windows are always open, even when it rains. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhXuoLBWkkzYZgmxLL2Hn8wSIUesjbxosVcvtStyaqZIfhz4GMspREgO99Wsq8ZzDEd0COqDZnvi3UOgBx_LN_Fl2fCHSyRJwOSCtCYxqzHKgCPjPll1VyXqTFYDFehjkXe9N6qeaniz5oYifp1-nDd4qjS75qCcGMfqPI8bTLG0alrVNsJfMAaNRPBw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjhXuoLBWkkzYZgmxLL2Hn8wSIUesjbxosVcvtStyaqZIfhz4GMspREgO99Wsq8ZzDEd0COqDZnvi3UOgBx_LN_Fl2fCHSyRJwOSCtCYxqzHKgCPjPll1VyXqTFYDFehjkXe9N6qeaniz5oYifp1-nDd4qjS75qCcGMfqPI8bTLG0alrVNsJfMAaNRPBw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /><p>There are no screens, and bugs and iguanas enter freely. Sometimes small cats also come in, like this sweet kitty named Cat (the nickname for Katerina).</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwohGpUapJk29xLg2Mo6dQHwPeni33gP4IR6ohB0yLTnVpVSxo3dFphRDTYkqsAH_Sci9MG4-tH74tCVZfKOkylPKw3uOp5tF8QCSQ78uZDxEQtDzT7SHgvRAUxOjkcMARBUrH1r_M1oJ031-EMbVdA7dYuWK_gzc4hyCqtEwPwyoMG2BbdFK_S7vykw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4640" data-original-width="3480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjwohGpUapJk29xLg2Mo6dQHwPeni33gP4IR6ohB0yLTnVpVSxo3dFphRDTYkqsAH_Sci9MG4-tH74tCVZfKOkylPKw3uOp5tF8QCSQ78uZDxEQtDzT7SHgvRAUxOjkcMARBUrH1r_M1oJ031-EMbVdA7dYuWK_gzc4hyCqtEwPwyoMG2BbdFK_S7vykw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Almost every night, Cat came out through Zeidy's window and came in through my window. She sat on my chest or wrapped around my neck and slept with me until morning. Although I usually prefer not to sleep with pets, I felt so comfortable with her. It reminded me of my cats Arwen and CiCi, and made me feel right at home. In truth, Cat was almost as mischievous as CiCi: she likes to eat the artificial flowers and dig in the soil of the many green plants around the house.</p><p>The way of cooking there is very different. Zeidy doesn't have cooking machines like me. She only has a gas stove and an electric pot to cook rice. In this small space, she makes very delicious meals. Even coffee is made without a machine, like this:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijKDdQitPk-ZROW7JAUe0vnWzgEEY5em1zHs55HMyWMYlljXDp_wKci7l2Hh-1eHMWd35j7xNoSUm_Xui2BlxHW_MSlRwwtka16sGO8Nvfj7IIdbBubdUmiDXycc55wAOvkSMxN0JxXgJr1q2-CarqzM4m-dRbS4_Vl9zEk97Tct4LdEfoNFeAb0Cwlg=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4640" data-original-width="3480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEijKDdQitPk-ZROW7JAUe0vnWzgEEY5em1zHs55HMyWMYlljXDp_wKci7l2Hh-1eHMWd35j7xNoSUm_Xui2BlxHW_MSlRwwtka16sGO8Nvfj7IIdbBubdUmiDXycc55wAOvkSMxN0JxXgJr1q2-CarqzM4m-dRbS4_Vl9zEk97Tct4LdEfoNFeAb0Cwlg=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Zeidy boils the water and puts it through this bag two or three times. The taste is wonderful with a little bit of sugar and milk, and also something extra: the little ants that always eat the sugar. Although the box has a tight lid, Zeidy’s son sometimes forgets to close it. “Josué,” says Zeidy, “we don't want protein with our coffee.”</p><p>But it does not matter. It's easy to scoop them out with a spoon. I have noticed that these ants live in all the kitchens there, and they don’t bother the natives. I too have learned to live with them, in the same way that I have to push my cats off the table every day at home.</p><p>One night after dinner, there were some ears left, my favorite dessert [a giant, crispy pastry shaped like an elephant's ear]. I asked Zeidy, "How can we stop the ants from eating them?" She pointed to a basket hanging from the ceiling.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDIlKZT_9hh3KBueZL5HQMZOlaOKpFgaDqufoXy2rtxnlzzxrCL8weWfigeRc1spf3CUCu-zcxUFhouV4azWG6zlNrsuRIpsZ2C139N2DFisGeN_85gsXJYHX5jvE1NiZD9gf4k3ecqai80-s4N7AezcSYQawfAc08s-Q0AOHEDPPkTifuqeZv91zTtw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4640" data-original-width="3480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDIlKZT_9hh3KBueZL5HQMZOlaOKpFgaDqufoXy2rtxnlzzxrCL8weWfigeRc1spf3CUCu-zcxUFhouV4azWG6zlNrsuRIpsZ2C139N2DFisGeN_85gsXJYHX5jvE1NiZD9gf4k3ecqai80-s4N7AezcSYQawfAc08s-Q0AOHEDPPkTifuqeZv91zTtw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>“How wise!” I exclaimed. Again, I was fascinated by the ingenuity of the people there. For example, when she picked me up, Zeidy wrapped my dinner in something big and green that protected the food from the water. It seemed possible to me to use this wonderful thing again; How good to conserve the planet!</p><p>“Could I buy these?” asked. “I want to use them in my house. I don't like plastic bags."</p><p>She laughed. "No, Sarah. You can't buy it. It's a banana leaf. I have these behind my house. ”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgF9RDOjtNPchSRErDcUMC4q_kdC4-vtZeiTSsaBLrHm-FwPdcQ7dtxCrvV6ADUcJSkeyMLwBHAkTlgKpZJsEyRARSNr4XqZZi-5cix--tqfNXdO86QqtrJ8sP2YvH9XAvDTF3haQHpgG-Jq5C2L7saX_T-iyMzmWase-0DV9kOKLNGVgCGMIjTudswxQ=s4640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgF9RDOjtNPchSRErDcUMC4q_kdC4-vtZeiTSsaBLrHm-FwPdcQ7dtxCrvV6ADUcJSkeyMLwBHAkTlgKpZJsEyRARSNr4XqZZi-5cix--tqfNXdO86QqtrJ8sP2YvH9XAvDTF3haQHpgG-Jq5C2L7saX_T-iyMzmWase-0DV9kOKLNGVgCGMIjTudswxQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mi almuerzo para el aeropuerto<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>Cleaning The House</b></p><p>Another very interesting thing is the methods that Zeidy uses to clean the house. Because she doesn’t allow me to do any work, I had plenty of time to watch her work. “Don't worry,” she told me. “It’s your vacation.”</p><p>Of course, she doesn’t have a dishwasher. She always washes dishes quickly with a sponge and solid soap in a bowl and puts them in the part of the sink designed to dry them [an integrated stainless steel draining board]. There, sinks have this design because hardly anyone has a dishwasher. Zeidy says they use too much electricity, and electricity is expensive. (Actually, I convinced her to let me do the dishes. I just told her the truth: it’s always been my dream to do the dishes with a view of the mountains.)</p><p>I couldn’t help her with the laundry because I didn’t understand the washing machine. It has two parts, one for washing and one for removing soap and getting most of the water out. You have to turn various switches at the right times to put water in the part with the clothes in it.</p><p>When the washing is done, Zeidy brings the clothes to a line behind the house, and everyone hopes it doesn’t rain. If it rains, whoever is home runs outside to get the clothes off the line. Some days, you need to put your clothes out two or three times, and some days, they stay wet until the next day. However, Zeidy believes that having a dryer is a waste of electricity.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJH1v2Cy0U4bCIbKLkXB7thZnBzKQCktppOetpmGvzlSNq5RMmqyil5wl2XpEyOn0gK2g0LKhAf6zDG6I7Fr4wkH5vT7v3t8bb0BVEI8lcYrGncyzrJHbR--cmjBYlLzT3xmik2Wu8nTg4c_NzUXHlpx5IuQUIVXLuH9xdn1V5Q4gQ8ZK_im5RmqWykw=s4640" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJH1v2Cy0U4bCIbKLkXB7thZnBzKQCktppOetpmGvzlSNq5RMmqyil5wl2XpEyOn0gK2g0LKhAf6zDG6I7Fr4wkH5vT7v3t8bb0BVEI8lcYrGncyzrJHbR--cmjBYlLzT3xmik2Wu8nTg4c_NzUXHlpx5IuQUIVXLuH9xdn1V5Q4gQ8ZK_im5RmqWykw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I felt a bit defensive during this discussion. I explained, “In my city, the air is not as clean as it is here. If we dry our clothes outside, they smell like dirt.”</p><p>All the floors in Zeidy’s house, and in all the houses I’ve seen there, are tiled. With the windows always open, a lot of dust enters the house. That’s why Zeidy sweeps almost every day.</p><p>The bathroom walls are tiled as well. When Zeidy cleans, she washes the shower, the floor, the toilet, the walls, and the sink with a large brush that has a long handle [a push broom]. She uses lots of soap, and then she uses the shower faucet to spray water on every surface.</p><p>The first time I saw the lake on the floor, I asked, “How are you going to get it out?”</p><p>She laughed. “Like this.” She pushed the water out the door and into the hallway where I was. I jumped back. I watched curiously as she pushed the water through the kitchen and onto the porch, then onto the lawn.</p><p>How wise! In one step, she had cleaned the bathroom and scrubbed the floor.</p><p>“I think you enjoy cleaning, like your mom,” I told her.</p><p>“Yes, a lot.” She smiled.</p><p>“When I have enough time, I like to clean too.” <i>But I hardly ever have time</i>, I thought.</p><p><b>The Nights</b></p><p>It was difficult to sleep for many reasons. The most important was my fear of bugs and other creatures outside the open window. One night, I closed it to protect myself, but soon the humidity became unbearable. Even with the window open, I felt sticky—for the first half of the night. In the early hours of the morning, I felt very cold.</p><p>The second reason was the variety of sounds. Lots of dogs barked during the early part of the night, and on weekends, I could hear loud music from the bar across the two-lane highway. The music didn't bother me, but it made me want to listen and not sleep.</p><p>In the last hours of darkness, the roosters began to crow, and large trucks passed by on the highway.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQBIy80CaHCCeSJs9Ka9pyYzaBT3Wl_few2XSRUbYBuX3nkGySv8py3oU4fRZdBw7prKWOvLxutpL26R0J8X5wQXhGWbGbriTCszWHwy3wZlSTlMXPNq2LUk10H0yDsQTmOJnQfF3cXwqtT4SQ_d4-w1YPg0WNTdjCXNt3Vxi5f8faDcuUQNlQu-ohWA=s4640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3480" data-original-width="4640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiQBIy80CaHCCeSJs9Ka9pyYzaBT3Wl_few2XSRUbYBuX3nkGySv8py3oU4fRZdBw7prKWOvLxutpL26R0J8X5wQXhGWbGbriTCszWHwy3wZlSTlMXPNq2LUk10H0yDsQTmOJnQfF3cXwqtT4SQ_d4-w1YPg0WNTdjCXNt3Vxi5f8faDcuUQNlQu-ohWA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The View of the Highway from the Porch<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>However, I always felt rested. Perhaps it was the fresh air, or the beautiful view, or the laughter of two friends. In any case, I did not want to return to my city.</p><p>I have many more things to tell you about my trip, but my mind is tired. Writing in my own language requires much effort, but writing in Spanish is much more difficult. I hope that these stories show you a little piece of the beautiful world of Costa Rica.</p><div><br /></div><p><br /></p></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-49436767432011954202021-07-29T22:48:00.006-05:002021-07-30T20:02:36.360-05:00We're In Safe Hands with Allyson<p>In the weeks ahead of Allyson's 15th birthday, she started filling out job applications online, mainly for minimum-wage restaurant jobs that she might not have enjoyed much. She did want to work at Braum's Ice Cream and Dairy, most likely for the employee discount, but they never even acknowledged her application even though their sign said they were hiring. Despite the labor shortage that's been all over the news, she didn't get a single interview call during weeks of searching. I figured the problem might be her limited availability due to a very full soccer schedule. Or maybe it was her young age, but many of her friends had been working for months by then.</p><p>Although I didn't say it out loud, I was skeptical that she could find a job that would work with her erratic schedule. Due to the aforementioned soccer, she'd have to be out for up to a week at a time for tournaments and would be available only mornings some days and only evenings on others due to games and practices. Still, I felt sure she would nail the interview if she could just land one; Allyson is mature for her age and very articulate, as well as responsible and teachable.</p><p>The start of summer vacation came, and she was still jobless, but she made good use of her idle time by volunteering at the Botanic Garden. A few weeks earlier, she had searched for volunteer opportunities that fit with her prospective field of environmental science. She found the site, filled out the paperwork, and signed up for a virtual orientation all on her own. </p><p>Although Allyson had never done any planting except for helping with a few family gardens when she was a very small girl, she was a natural. On her first day, she was planting bulbs in little pots. On other shifts, she transplanted plants, pruned trees, and trimmed topiary sculptures (bushes shaped like giraffes, elephants, etc.). When she came home from her shifts, it was much different than coming home from school, where most of her days are simply "fine." She told me all about not only the plants she'd cared for, but also about the interesting characters she met, such as a botanist from Russia. The majority of the volunteers are retirees, but Allyson felt comfortable conversing with them from the start. At the annual appreciation luncheon, she and the friend she brought along were the only people under 60, but she still had a great time. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J1BtzHg9sqY/YQNxrE7d0kI/AAAAAAAAG3U/CDchlRNPWPwRYFD69xS2ZzDqhoKlJpLFQCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/gardens.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J1BtzHg9sqY/YQNxrE7d0kI/AAAAAAAAG3U/CDchlRNPWPwRYFD69xS2ZzDqhoKlJpLFQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/gardens.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">First Day on the Job</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Despite the fun of learning a new hobby and meeting lots of people, Allyson still wanted gainful employment, yet she was almost too busy to apply for jobs, let alone work them. She continued to keep her eyes open for opportunities, but it was her father who found the right one. At their neighborhood pool one Friday, he struck up a conversation with the teenage lifeguard and learned two things: (1) the job was fun and easy; and (2) like everyone else around the country, they desperately needed new employees.</p><p>The timing was perfect, if a bit tight; a lifeguard training class was starting that Monday. All Allyson had to do was take about 15 hours of online training over the weekend and show up for the training. She had the option to have the training fee deducted from her future paychecks or to pay in advance. Either way, she would owe the money regardless of whether she could pass the rigorous physical requirements and the written exam. </p><p>Of course, I knew that Allyson could swim because she'd learned at the age of three, when we got our pool at the old house. But I'd never thought of her as a particularly strong swimmer capable of rescuing a drowning person. "What do you have to do to pass?" I asked dubiously.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>"I have to swim 300 yards, doing the breaststroke and freestyle. I have to tread water for three minutes without using my arms."<p></p><p>"Wow! That's really hard," I said, frowning. </p><p>"And I have to dive down 12 feet and bring up a 10-pound brick," she concluded.</p><p>"Do you think you can do all that?"</p><p>"Well, I think so. Can I go to the pool tomorrow to practice?"</p><p>"Yes, but don't wear yourself out. Save some energy for Monday," I advised.</p><p>Allyson spent most of the weekend doing her online training and watching a few YouTube videos for pointers, but she found time for a couple of hours at the pool on Sunday. When she came out, she reported that treading water without her hands was no big deal, but she admitted that she'd been unable to swim the 300 yards.</p><p>"What did you say would happen to the training fee if you don't pass?" I asked. She and her dad had opted to pay the money upfront, and I'd offered to pay half.</p><p>"Mama! Don't speak that. I'm going to pass."</p><p>"Yes, I'm sure you can do it," I agreed, but my tone lacked conviction, even to my own ears. "You've always been able to accomplish whatever you set your mind to," I added truthfully.</p><p>I needn't have worried about the training fee. Allyson came home that first afternoon flushed with triumph. She'd managed to do all three of the required tasks and was quickly picking up the life-saving skills. </p><p>"How did you <b>do </b>it?" I asked. "Yesterday it was too hard." </p><p>"I told myself I <b>had </b>to do it," she said. "When I dove down to the bottom, I felt afraid, but I just told myself, 'You're not going to drown.' "</p><p>"I'm so proud of you!" I exclaimed over and over.</p><p>"I still have to learn all the saves and pass the written test," she said.</p><p>"You'll be able to do it," I said, confidently this time.</p><p>The next day she had even more stories. She described in detail how to do shallow-water active saves (with a conscious, possibly thrashing victim) and underwater passive saves (with an unconscious victim). Interestingly, she found it almost as difficult--and much more scary--to play the part of the victim. She had to hold her breath and fight her fear of drowning as she waited for her rescuer, who was equally inexperienced, to reach her and figure out the correct way to carry her to the surface. She said that looking up to the surface of the water helped calm her fears. </p><p>Another task that Allyson needed to learn was CPR. I watched in amusement as she role-played the full scenario using an oversized stuffed frog that she'd charmed me into buying on a late-night Walmart trip a few months back.</p><p>She laid the frog on the living room floor and took several steps back. Then she rushed to the motionless frog and fell to her knees. "Sir! Sir!" she said loudly, her tone both urgent and calm as she lightly tapped the frog's shoulder. "Are you okay?"</p><p>The frog remained still and silent. "Sorry, cats," Allyson muttered as she lifted her whistle to her lips. Both cats started violently at the clipped, shrill sound of the whistle, and I winced reflexively even though Allyson had actually blown it quite softly.</p><p>She extended an arm and pointed at me. "You! Call 9-1-1," she ordered. Moving quickly but deliberately, she unzipped the red lifeguard fanny pack on her waist and pulled out a pair of gloves. </p><p>"Are you actually going to put those on?" I asked, interrupting the scene.</p><p>She lowered her brows and frowned at me for making her break character. "I need to practice that part. It's tricky." Indeed, it took her perhaps 20 agonizing seconds to tug the gloves onto her fingers.</p><p>Meanwhile, I pressed my luck by asking another question. "But won't you have to throw those gloves away now?"</p><p>"No, the gloves are only for <b>my </b>protection," she explained. "I can use them more than once." </p><p>Next, she pulled a rescue breathing mask from her fanny pack and carefully positioned it over the frog's mouth and nose. She exhaled audibly into the mask. </p><p>"Don't you have to check the airway?" I asked.</p><p>"No, only if the air won't go in. If that happens, you feel resistance when you try to breathe into the mask. Then you have to tilt the head back and sweep out their mouth, like this..." She tilted the frog's head back as far as his miniscule neck would permit and put the tips of her fingers into his tiny cloth mouth. Then she repositioned the mask. </p><p>After two breaths, she paused and watched the frog's chest to see if it rose. Nothing. </p><p>Next, she measured the correct position on the frog's sternum with her fingers and then counted out 30 chest compressions. After that, she delivered two more breaths before resuming compressions.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rcnpy84-DEg/YQN0U1VWHjI/AAAAAAAAG3k/NLrF7bLOmgQs02V8Ina49_fjF_NbfpGMwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210615_184151.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rcnpy84-DEg/YQN0U1VWHjI/AAAAAAAAG3k/NLrF7bLOmgQs02V8Ina49_fjF_NbfpGMwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210615_184151.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>"I would have to keep doing that until the victim recovered consciousness, or until the paramedics took over," she explained. "But they almost never start breathing before the ambulance gets there. That usually only happens in the movies."</p><p>"Still, you can save a life," I said. "Without CPR, they wouldn't have much of a chance."</p><p>"Definitely," she agreed. "So now I need to take off my gloves the right way so the germs won't contaminate me." Slowly, she turned one glove inside out and peeled it off her fingers with her other gloved hand.</p><p>"Won't you have to clean your mask now?" I asked.</p><p>"No. It's only for my protection," she repeated. </p><p>"That was very impressive, Allyson," I said. "I'm glad you're taking this so seriously. I'm sure if you ever have to do this on the job, you'll be able to keep calm and remember the steps."</p><p>"Yeah, I hope so." </p><p>"But let's pray you never have to use those skills," I said. "If you do, I know God will help you." </p><p>After that, I had to go back to my room to work for another hour or two, but I heard Allyson going through the whole role-play again over the phone with Bill.</p><p>From what I could hear, his reaction mirrored mine: amusement mixed with pride. "If anything ever happens to me, you'll be able to help me," he said with a little laugh.</p><p>"Yeah. If you or Mama drop over, I can save you." </p><p>"I guess we're in good hands," he replied. </p><p>All of Allyson's practice paid off. She mastered all the skills, even the dreaded passive deep-water save with a spinal injury, which made the regular passive deep-water save seem easy in comparison. With some studying and a bit of prayer, she handily passed the challenging written exam as well. </p><p>And just like that, my girl was a certified, professional lifeguard! </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aCl_26zVg5c/YQN0CU1dKTI/AAAAAAAAG3c/-E6dLN-4qY0UJNP4D7DpoSxqHC_D6A_DACLcBGAsYHQ/s2608/Facetune_.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2608" data-original-width="1205" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aCl_26zVg5c/YQN0CU1dKTI/AAAAAAAAG3c/-E6dLN-4qY0UJNP4D7DpoSxqHC_D6A_DACLcBGAsYHQ/w185-h400/Facetune_.jpg" width="185" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just Like the Lifeguards I Was in Awe of at Her Age</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>The job has been perfect for her schedule. She works for an agency that staffs several local pools, and she simply marks her availability in the scheduling app. Any day or time that she wants to work, she can pick up a shift. The work is very easy. She either alternates between working at the top and bottom of a waterslide, or she sits in a lifeguard stand and watches the pool. </p><p>When she's on waterslide duty and there are no riders, she and her coworker sit at a table in the shade. They entertain themselves by conversing and weaving bracelets. Allyson had to persevere in learning to make the bracelets, but she had hours of practice, and within a week or so she could create a bracelet within minutes. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VvVuqx9t8Yk/YQN1p8ZxqnI/AAAAAAAAG3w/Yx4c9xBiqF8V1JRgmwicgwslerDp2VHlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210729_224133.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VvVuqx9t8Yk/YQN1p8ZxqnI/AAAAAAAAG3w/Yx4c9xBiqF8V1JRgmwicgwslerDp2VHlQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210729_224133.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She Gave Me One of Her Early Attempts</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>She's only made one official save, and it wasn't at all dramatic. She simply pulled a kid out of the water at the base of a waterslide. </p><p>That's not to say there has been no drama. Allyson has encountered many kids who refuse to follow the rules, and parents who think they shouldn't have to. The other day, a woman told her she wasn't going to take orders from a f__ing 16-year-old and reminded her that, as a member of the homeowner's association that runs the pool, she pays Allyson's salary. Allyson didn't inform her that she is actually only 15, nor did she get drawn into an argument. She calmly called over her manager, who reinforced the rule that the toddler could <b>not </b>go down the slide head-first on his stomach. To this, the woman repeated that she wasn't going to listen to a 16-year-old. The manager, who is actually in her early twenties, made her leave. </p><p>Allyson's ability to stay professional with rude customers has gotten her managers' attention. I'm sure they have noticed her dependability as well. She always insists on leaving a good ten minutes early, and she is almost always the first one to arrive. Next summer, she will probably be a manager herself. </p><p>As you've likely surmised, I'm very proud of my girl. She works hard, she's intelligent, and she can learn anything that she sets her mind to, <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2010/09/is-there-anything-that-man-cant-do.html" target="_blank">just like her father</a>. It's not that she doesn't struggle. She just doesn't give up. I'm excited to see what she will accomplish as she discovers the path God has chosen for her. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-85525830393243305042021-07-16T23:18:00.003-05:002021-07-16T23:49:59.774-05:00Dogs Change Everything<p><i>I've been working on two other, more important, blog stories for the last few days, but I just had to stop and tell you this story while it's still fresh, so to speak....</i></p><p>In the 19 years (!) that I've been walking in the park across the street from my house, I've learned some fairly reliable protocols about social interactions. I find these conventions fascinating, and I rarely deviate from them since I'm a rule-following sort of girl. Here's how it works, at least in my park:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The first time you pass someone on the large circle around the soccer field, you may make eye contact and smile. If they also make eye contact, you may mutter, "Good morning" or "Hello." If they pretend they don't see you, you just smile self-consciously and stay silent.*</li><li>On the second and perhaps the third passes with the friendly people, you smile at each other without speaking. After that, it isn't rude to avoid eye contact if the smiles become tiresome. </li><li>If you pass the person who ignored you last time, you feign an intense interest in the soccer practice, the basketball game, or the sunset. </li><li>If you pass the same person on three or four different days, and they seem to recognize you, you may smile and also nod. </li><li>If you pass the same person on ten or more different days, you may pause next to them and say, "Good morning, how are you?" in a voice loud enough to actually be heard. They will say, "Fine, thank you." </li><li>If you see one of these familiar people after a long absence, you may say, "Good to see you again." And that will be true. There's something so comforting about the seeing the same familiar faces each morning and evening.</li><li>After the 20th time or so of nodding and smiling or exchanging pleasantries, you may ask the person's name. It's okay if you don't remember their name the next time, because they probably won't remember yours either. </li><li>If you've greeted each other by name a few times, you may even fall into step with them for a ways and start a real conversation.</li></ul><div>*It may be only me who feels self-conscious. Yes, probably. </div><div><br /></div><div>All of these rules work very well to help create just the right combination of solitude and human connection. BUT... </div><div><br /></div><div>A dog changes everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've noted that if you walk a dog, people will stop and talk to you. Children will ask to pet your dog. Adults will ask you about the breed, the age, the weight. Just like that, you will find yourself having a real conversation with someone you've never seen before.</div><div><br /></div><div>If both parties have dogs, the conversation can go much deeper while the dogs play, especially if the dogs are well-behaved enough to be trusted off leash. When that happens in the evening, a dog party might ensue. Dogs of all shapes and sizes will chase each other around and roll in the grass while their humans chat about dogs and who knows what else. Laughter will echo in the air over a backdrop of insects' songs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Up until recently, I'd never been able to fully join those dog parties, though I hovered wistfully around the fringes and asked about dog names and breeds. One very kind lady--whose name I've forgotten--with an amazingly obedient Dobermann named Matisse always welcomes me in. She teases me about getting a dog, but when others ask why I don't have one, she explains, "She's a cat person." </div><div><br /></div><div>As you can imagine, when I got to watch Allyson's Husky, Archer, the week before last, I was quite eager to take him to the park on my nightly walks. I was <b>not </b>keen on picking up poop, so even though he would only be with me for a week, I bought an ingenious poop scooper that is totally contactless. It clicks onto the leash and comes with a compartment for dispensing the bags.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8X5I2yUKUfg/YPJMg9dk4tI/AAAAAAAAG2A/TzHGbSu7c-ELxaEfw7LDs_dS3Y9NIZZbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/635298252%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8X5I2yUKUfg/YPJMg9dk4tI/AAAAAAAAG2A/TzHGbSu7c-ELxaEfw7LDs_dS3Y9NIZZbgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/635298252%2B%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archer on his first stay back in February</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>If you've been reading a very long time, you may recall <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2013/02/my-new-favorite-gadget.html" target="_blank">how excited I can get over poop scoopers</a>. After about eight years, I haven't changed a bit, at least in that regard. I must admit that I was rather disappointed when I had no occasion to use the scooper, night after night. I was even more disappointed that there was no sign of a dog party, although several kids did ask to pet my dog and one father admired his beautiful blue eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>On his last night with me, I got to join the dog party. Matisse's owner was thrilled to see me with a dog, but Matisse shocked me by snarling at Archer. Up until then he'd seemed to have an affinity for dogs of every size and type. Archer didn't react strongly, but I thought it wise to leave the party early.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps that encounter had scared the crap out of Archer, because a couple of minutes later, I got to use the new poop scooper for the first time. It was amazing! I unfurled a little bag, opened it wide, and stuffed it into the jaws of the scoop, wrapping the rest of the bag around the outside. Then I just scooped that turd right up, Pacman style. There was no warmth, no squish, and best of all, no smell. At the nearest trashcan, I tied up the ends of the bag, pinched the scoop open, and dropped the bag in.</div><div><br /></div><div>It worked so well that I even contemplated getting a dog of my own. But then, Archer almost yanked my arm out of socket as he drug me into the brambles chasing something, probably a rabbit. "No!" I shrieked, pulling back on the leash with all my weight as I cast my eyes about for snakes and poison ivy. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Despite these misadventures, and the piles of hair that he shed around the house, I readily agreed to watch Archer again this week. </div><div><br /></div><div>On our first walk last night, I noticed that he was far less reticent about pooping away from home. We'd scarcely reached the circle when he assumed the stance. "Oh, you're all about pooping in the park now, aren't you?" I said, but I wasn't worried since I'd remembered to clip the poop scooper to his leash. I soon found, however, that squishy poop isn't so easily retrieved. The novelty had already worn off.</div><div><br /></div><div>On tonight's walk, he had other plans for livening up my evening. As we crossed the bridge over the babbling brook that leads to the park circle, I admired a sweet family. The mom held onto a stroller and looked down on her husband and two young children who were throwing rocks into the water from the bank. Absorbed in this heartwarming scene, I forgot to take up the slack on Archer's leash on our approach. </div><div><br /></div><div>At the last moment I recognized his intent to sniff the lady and tugged on the leash, but I was too slow. The woman stood with her back to us, in a partial crouch, probably checking on her baby. Without hesitation, Archer plunged his wet nose right up... where the sun don't shine!!</div><div><br /></div><div>The woman let out a little shriek and stumbled backward--away from the edge of the bridge, thank God. She whirled around to see who had goosed her just as I yanked Archer away.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our eyes locked on each other, both of our jaws lowered in horror and shock. Time seemed to stand still for a few moments. </div><div><br /></div><div>"I-I'm sorry!" I squeaked at last.</div><div><br /></div><div>She just stood there, still speechless. And then we both burst out laughing. Her husband, who was climbing up to the bridge, joined in. The three of us shared a belly laugh, gasping and snorting. "I'm so sorry," I managed to splutter.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Cute dog," she replied. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I walked away, I kept laughing, so hard that tears were rolling down my cheeks as I passed a man coming from the circle. This was only the second time I'd ever seen him, and we were not even at the head-nodding stage, but I forgot all about the protocol. </div><div><br /></div><div>I could see his curiosity over my maniacal laughter, so I stopped next to him and said, "I just have to share the laughter. See that lady over there?" I gestured with my head toward the family, who were still laughing behind me. "My dog just sniffed her butt. He just put his nose right up there," I said, forming a crack between my thumb and fingers and pressing the fingers of the other hand forcefully into it. "Oh my gosh," I said, shaking my head in disbelief and breaking into fresh giggles. </div><div><br /></div><div>He smiled and laughed, and went on his way. I felt decidedly self-conscious and rather wished I'd stuck to the protocol. Surely he must think I was crazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>One minute later I forgot my embarrassment when Archer crouched in the same spot along the circle from the night before. This time, he shuffled around and made three squishy piles. "Archer!" I groaned. "Stop moving around." </div><div><br /></div><div>As he danced around, pulling against the leash looped around my wrist, I wrestled out a bag with one hand and clumsily wrapped it around the scooper, wrinkling my nose at the noxious fumes rising into the hot air of the summer evening. As I crouched to scrape up the first pile, I felt him lunge behind me and realized he must be sniffing another hapless stranger. "No!" I yelled as my phone dropped into the grass dangerously close to the poop and I fought to keep my balance.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'm sorry," I said to the person behind me. But then I heard familiar laughter. It was Allyson, coming out to meet her friends Morgan and Jacob. I sighed with relief. "Will you take Archer while I..." I gestured to the remaining piles. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Sure," she said, taking the leash.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Unless you want to pick it up."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Nope," she said decisively. </div><div><br /></div><div>"But he's your dog." </div><div><br /></div><div>She just shook her head. </div><div><br /></div><div>The job took two bags, and there was a lot of smeared residue on the grass that I just had to leave there. "I did my best," I said ruefully as I took back the leash. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was just thinking how happy I'd be to give Archer back to Bill when I passed someone familiar: the man I'd told the butt-sniffing story to. He nodded and smiled at me, chuckling audibly.</div><div><br /></div><div>The second time he passed me, he smiled and asked, "How many more do you have?" </div><div><br /></div><div>I figured he must mean how many laps. "This is my last," I replied. "Have a good evening."</div><div><br /></div><div>"You too," he said warmly. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I walked the short distance to the house, I admired the gorgeous sunset and beamed over the memory of the laughter I'd shared with three strangers, and over the way a dog can accelerate you past days or weeks of polite encounters, straight into connections that make you smile and forget your cares. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe I do need a dog... or at least I should borrow one now and then.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5YpEQebLAYM/YPJWsfFSB0I/AAAAAAAAG2M/F2vr70W0pzEVlmdluGav0ESSb2DqP7Y5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210715_200556.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5YpEQebLAYM/YPJWsfFSB0I/AAAAAAAAG2M/F2vr70W0pzEVlmdluGav0ESSb2DqP7Y5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210715_200556.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archer and Arwen last night, breaking the ice with a salesperson who came to sell me solar panels</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LVa9U3TRmOw/YPJbZx041yI/AAAAAAAAG2U/WLEy7AGoEwYtY8LqLPCVbjp2RsKhOfcaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210716_232148.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LVa9U3TRmOw/YPJbZx041yI/AAAAAAAAG2U/WLEy7AGoEwYtY8LqLPCVbjp2RsKhOfcaQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210716_232148.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doesn't he look angelic? </td></tr></tbody></table><br />Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-75496740419598472992021-04-08T22:42:00.007-05:002021-04-08T22:52:34.306-05:00Treasures from Snowmageddon 2021<p>By now this is old news, but I've been saving up a story since the second week of February, when Texas endured an arctic blast that knocked out power to about 4.5 million homes for several days. Although my brother Rick had no electricity for about three days, and my parents had no water for even longer, at our house we were blessed to have both electricity and water the whole time. </p><p>Due to my thyroid condition, I have abnormally low body temperature and a severe intolerance to cold, so I was doubly grateful to have heat. Even so, I shivered for days because I'd lowered the thermostat to 68 degrees at the request of local utilities in order to conserve power and prevent further blackouts. It's amazing what a difference just 3 degrees can make to your comfort. </p><p>Since nothing dramatic happened at our house, my memories of this historic catastrophe will be very different from that of many of my Texas neighbors. Mostly, it is a list of blessings--treasures brought to us by "Snowmageddon." </p><p><b>Family Time</b></p><p>Allyson's dad had gone out of town the prior weekend to Houston, and he was stuck down there for five more days in an Air B&B with neither water nor electricity. Due to the first major snowfall Houston had seen since the 80s, the interstate was impassable. </p><p>For me, that meant extra time with Allyson, especially since the schools were also closed, and they didn't even have online classes due to major Internet outages. Since the roads were dangerous and nothing was open anyway, we had nowhere to go and nothing to do except hang out together.</p><p>Allyson did enjoy playing in the snow for the first couple of days with some friends who live a couple of blocks away. I was worried she'd get frostbite in frigid air--as low as -2 degrees Fahrenheit! But she was just fine, returning rosy-cheeked and breathless with stories.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AsmrVtpYIMI/YG-6aQaAsRI/AAAAAAAAGvg/ZFyCc_W9z28wedw1rTNd_5uRa705NW-BQCLcBGAsYHQ/s960/FB_IMG_1613326940443.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="514" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AsmrVtpYIMI/YG-6aQaAsRI/AAAAAAAAGvg/ZFyCc_W9z28wedw1rTNd_5uRa705NW-BQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/FB_IMG_1613326940443.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a>She tried to entice me out for some sledding on our kitchen trashcan lid, but I stayed in the house and drank hot tea. Had I gone outside, even wearing my thickest gloves, my fingers would have turned white, and then blue, and they would have hurt me for hours. <p></p><p>Allyson didn't give the cats a choice. She figured this might be the only time they would ever see snow, and she didn't want them to miss out on this fascinating new experience. </p><p>They were not impressed. The moment she set them down in the snow, they darted back through the open door. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gXWBHcrlsPo/YG-7WMXSxcI/AAAAAAAAGvo/mWg_vqgfcpwfRjN1ExsKoVZG76qdOmLNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210214_223758.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gXWBHcrlsPo/YG-7WMXSxcI/AAAAAAAAGvo/mWg_vqgfcpwfRjN1ExsKoVZG76qdOmLNwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210214_223758.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">CiCi</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qpCmg2u5JBY/YG-7WAy8hGI/AAAAAAAAGvs/4tkA4KyCm4kTr4aensdjNHdjoQ6Wa5ncQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210214_224023.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qpCmg2u5JBY/YG-7WAy8hGI/AAAAAAAAGvs/4tkA4KyCm4kTr4aensdjNHdjoQ6Wa5ncQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210214_224023.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arwen</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QSBQPT4Ydu0/YG-71X_PMUI/AAAAAAAAGv4/7h8oDro97xYdJWwJDWlBSYgJAuqjjuTJgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210214_223817.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QSBQPT4Ydu0/YG-71X_PMUI/AAAAAAAAGv4/7h8oDro97xYdJWwJDWlBSYgJAuqjjuTJgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210214_223817.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitty Prints</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>Dog Days</b></p><p>On our second day of being snow-bound, Allyson started to worry about her dog Archer, an Alaskan Husky that lives with her at her dad's house. (When our neighbor gave her to Allyson a few years back, I said there was no way were we adding that giant, rambunctious puppy to our menagerie. Bill is definitely the dog person in Allyson's family.) </p><p>When Allyson first asked if we could pick up Archer from the boarding place, I said, "No, we don't have room for a big dog in this house, and the cats won't like it." </p><p>"But my dad could be gone for days. Archer needs to be with me. And I want to make sure he gets to play in the snow. He's never seen snow. He's a Husky. He needs to experience snow."</p><p>"I'm sure he's going outside at the boarder's," I argued. "He's probably playing in the snow right now."</p><p>"Yes, but I want to <b>see </b>him in the snow," she pleaded. </p><p>Within a few hours, I'd reluctantly consented to keeping the dog here, no matter what the cats might think of the plan. But when we got in the car, we found that the engine wouldn't turn over. Even in the garage, it must have been in the teens, and turning the key only elicited a faint clicking sound. I breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm afraid we're not going anywhere," I informed Allyson.</p><p>"But, can't we-?" </p><p>"There's nothing we can do," I said, and returned to my bedroom to get back to work.</p><p>I should have known Allyson wouldn't give up so easily. Within 15 minutes, she asked, "What if Morgan's dad picked him up? Could we keep him then?"</p><p>I heaved a sigh. "I suppose." </p><p>Meanwhile, I'd talked with a neighbor about my car, and she and her husband brought over an electric battery charger that they'd borrowed from another neighbor who used to live way up north. It was very old, and we weren't sure it would work, but we plugged it in and let it charge for a few hours. </p><p>Archer arrived within the hour, and witnessing Allyson's joyful reunion with him outweighed my nervousness about having a dog in the house again. I was surprised at how quickly he won me over. He's a big, clumsy oaf who steps on your feet and trips you up, but he's also very sweet and well-behaved. </p><p>Unlike Allyson's other dog Olive, whom we kept for a few days a while back, Archer trusted me immediately. It made me feel good to win a dog's confidence because Olive had found me so threatening that she'd felt the need to protect Allyson from me. You know how they say that dogs are a good judge of character? For the first time in my life, a dog didn't like me, and I had to wonder what she saw in me that was so menacing.</p><p>In contrast, Archer absolutely adored me. He followed me all over the house. </p><p>He lay on his mat by my desk in the mornings while Allyson slept and I worked. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vsCEnBQNZjA/YG_AF2ON5VI/AAAAAAAAGwA/4VvlTYZxkOY4_I33LeQXRfi1b7JPymvAACLcBGAsYHQ/s800/IMG_0262.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vsCEnBQNZjA/YG_AF2ON5VI/AAAAAAAAGwA/4VvlTYZxkOY4_I33LeQXRfi1b7JPymvAACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/IMG_0262.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See CiCi hiding under my chair? </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>He sat in the cats' favorite chairs in the evenings, looking adorable and utterly oblivious to their resentment. He also claimed CiCi's spot in Allyson's room at night. Even though CiCi could have kept her place on the bed, there was no way she was spending that much time in close proximity to this giant creature. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H58OMie1tnY/YG_AbIQZ2sI/AAAAAAAAGwI/DZuZR_O8Z-g4CNWnDNEXzQ_0xIjC41PJwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1024/635298252.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-H58OMie1tnY/YG_AbIQZ2sI/AAAAAAAAGwI/DZuZR_O8Z-g4CNWnDNEXzQ_0xIjC41PJwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/635298252.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>Archer shadowed me all around the kitchen while I cooked, watching in fascination each time I opened the refrigerator. When I sat at the table, he nudged his snout under my armpit to sniff at my food, but unlike our naughty cats, he never tried to snatch even a morsel off my plate. </p><p>To Allyson's delight, Archer thoroughly enjoyed the snow, even rubbing his face in it. He stayed in the backyard for hours, terrorizing squirrels and birds in the trees. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wyc0Xa7_oOg/YG_B5lzouQI/AAAAAAAAGwQ/annhFnFFICAiCf3O-8XEVpwfQvZZxwB4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s800/635282780%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wyc0Xa7_oOg/YG_B5lzouQI/AAAAAAAAGwQ/annhFnFFICAiCf3O-8XEVpwfQvZZxwB4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/635282780%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>He even went on short car trips with us, at Allyson's insistence. Thankfully, the battery charger worked, and it never got cold enough to sap my battery again. </p><p><b>Foraging for Food</b></p><p>We made our first trip on Tuesday night, when we both had a mad craving for pizza. Allyson had looked online, and according to their website, her favorite pizza place was open. Even though I virtually never drive when the roads freeze, I made an exception because my neighbors had said the snow wasn't slippery at all, and I'd be fine if I went slow. Also, my mouth was just watering for that pizza. </p><p>The roads were empty, and I drove so slowly that I only lost traction twice, and only for a moment each time. To our chagrin, the parking lot at Mod's Pizza was empty, too. Obviously, we should have called. Even the McDonald's was closed! </p><p>"We'll just get a frozen pizza from Wal-Mart," I said, hoping they'd have one with a cauliflower crust as I am still gluten-free due to my autoimmune-protocol diet. </p><p>We were shocked to find that Wal-Mart's entire freezer section was roped off, and the refrigerated section was completely bare except for a bit of milk and some yogurts. Apparently the frozen food had spoiled due to power outages, and there had been a run on everything else. For the second time in a year, I had a surreal sensation as I surveyed the empty shelves. It was most unsettling. </p><p>Back at home, I made baked potatoes and topped them with tasty homemade pizza sauce, but all we had was cheddar cheese, and I had to agree with Allyson that it was not a nice combination. </p><p>The next day I called around to find an open grocery story store. Sprout's Farmer's Market said they were open "as long as the power holds out," so I rushed over--at perhaps 10 miles per hour. I picked my way carefully over the snowy parking lot, only to be waved away by a customer who'd been turned away at the door. The power had just gone back out again. </p><p>The Target a block away had power, but they had nothing perishable left, and all the shelves were virtually bare. I did find a few organic soups and some granola bars that I could eat. Looking around at the handful of masked customers, and then at the cavernous empty parking lot, I had that apocalyptic sensation that has often plagued me ever since last March. For the hundredth time, I wondered if the world would ever be normal again. </p><p>But back at the house, snuggled up with an oversized dog and a teenager while two jealous cats looked on, all felt right with the world again. For just a moment, I thought it might be nice to have a dog all the time. </p><p>Then again, after Allyson and Archer had gone home with Bill that Saturday, I thought it felt pretty nice to return to our normal routine. I rather enjoyed mopping up all the snowy prints left by boots and paws. That in itself was a treasure, because it was the first time since my Covid-19 infection that I'd felt up to mopping both the kitchen and all the wood floors. </p><p>All in all, I believe I will remember Snowmageddon 2021 fondly for the rest of my life. </p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-18226172703453108662021-02-21T22:01:00.003-06:002021-02-21T22:28:51.251-06:00Coronavirus Day 19 - Stronger Each Day and Very Grateful<p>It's now been nearly three weeks since my Covid-19 infection, and a few of you have asked for an update. </p><p>The day of my last update, Wednesday 2/10/21, was my first half day back at work. I'd been feeling really bored and mildly anxious over missing so much work given our tight deadlines. I started with 4 hours in the morning, and although the time went too quickly, I found myself watching the clock for the last few minutes because I was ready for a nap. </p><p>I was a little concerned that sitting at my desk for four hours could make me so tired, but I reminded myself that this was only day 7, and many Covid-19 patients miss two to three weeks of work. So I listened to my body and took a lovely nap with sweet Arwen.</p><p>The next day, the time went even more quickly because I had so much work to do. I could have worked longer, but I logged off after four hours. Again, I took a nap, but this time I slept alone. For some reason CiCi had come in at the start of my nap and shoved Arwen off onto the floor, but then she left too. "What? You just don't want Arwen to sleep with me?" I called after her. She didn't look back. When I woke up, however, both cats were curled up on either side of my legs. </p><p>On Friday 2/12, I started my morning with some belly laughter during our daily check-in via Zoom. I can't remember what we all laughed about, but I remember thinking about the healing power of laughter and feeling very thankful. The next thing I noticed during that meeting was that an annoying chemical smell was emanating from the bathroom, just to the left of my desk. It was a perfume-y odor, the kind that makes my nose itch and my eyes water. </p><p>When the meeting ended, I opened the door to investigate, and the smell assaulted my nostrils. It took a moment for the significance to register. I could smell! I surveyed the messy counter; Allyson had taken over the master bedroom and bathroom ever since I'd moved to the cats' room to sleep on the adjustable bed. Allyson had colored her hair a few days earlier, and I was smelling a concoction she'd made from baking soda and hair conditioner. I wondered how I could possibly have missed this overpowering aroma for the last two days when I'd been working at the same desk. </p><p>I coughed and carried the offending items to the kitchen. While I was there, I opened the refrigerator for a snack and immediately wrinkled my nose in disgust. Obviously, something was spoiled. How long had the refrigerator smelled like this? I resolved to clean the fridge over the weekend.</p><p>After peeling and eating a clementine, I returned to my desk and inhaled the orange scent that lingered on my fingers. It smelled so lovely that happy tears sprang to my eyes. I'd been fearing that my loss of smell would last weeks or months as it does for some Covid-19 patients. </p><p>How odd that my sense of smell had returned as abruptly as it had vanished, almost like flipping a switch. Again I wondered at the cause of this, the most common Covid-19 symptom. My understanding is that it is a neurologic issue. In any case, I figured the restoration of my olfactory function had to be a good sign. </p><p>Another good sign was that I accidently worked five hours instead of four, and I didn't feel the need for a nap afterward. </p><p><b>A Cleaning Frenzy</b></p><p>On Saturday 2/13, I woke up in the mood to clean. The house was even dirtier than usual because I'd been unable to clean for the duration of my sickness, and the clutter had really piled up. Between 10 and 5:30, I joyfully did laundry, straightened messes, swept my bedroom and bathroom, mopped the bathroom, cleaned the vanity, did the dishes, and cleaned the refrigerator. I remarked to my friend Laura in a text that I felt like that iconic muscle woman on the World War II poster (Rosie the Riveter).</p><p>Last week, during the arctic blast that nearly took down Texas's power grid, I continued to recover more of my strength each day. I had no trouble waking up each morning, nor putting in my full eight hours of work. (Thank the Lord, I did not lose electricity nor Internet service.) At some point, the mild nausea that had plagued me for two weeks faded away, and my digestion returned to normal.</p><p>The only symptom that remained was moderate nasal congestion and mild shortness of breath. Now I seemed to be suffering from a cold, and it followed the usual course, from very runny to very stuffy. At the worst, my nose was both running and completely stopped up, so that blowing brought me no relief whatsoever and my nose was raw. That evening, I tried irrigating my sinuses with saline, and that did seem to help a bit.</p><p>Meanwhile, I'd been working my way up to longer trampoline workouts each day. At first, one to two minutes left me breathless, but after a week, I can now handle 10-12 minutes of gentle bouncing. On Thursday and Friday, I did special workouts for lymphatic drainage, and my congestion improved dramatically.</p><p>Yesterday and today, my sinuses have been draining so much that I continually need to clear my throat. It's annoying, but much better than being stopped up. In a few more days, I hope that I will be breathing freely and will be able to exert myself without becoming short of breath. </p><p>Today I became winded while singing during church, but afterward I was able to walk and talk for a couple of miles with a friend without feeling tired. The weather was glorious today, up in the 60s! How odd to see people in shorts alongside snow drifts in the store parking lots, which were packed. </p><p>I could tell from all the smiles I observed that everyone else shared my joy in soaking up the sunshine. My own joy was compounded by feeling strong again after those five days in bed just a couple of weeks ago. </p><p>This will most likely be my last coronavirus update, but I will be sure to write again when I am able to report that my shortness of breath is gone. Please continue to pray for my full recovery.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdEowGrtu2A/YDMqD9j4VUI/AAAAAAAAGt0/EmcxstmSCXAN5kHlc7K6E0EeLegHodAwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/20210221_134827_HDR.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xdEowGrtu2A/YDMqD9j4VUI/AAAAAAAAGt0/EmcxstmSCXAN5kHlc7K6E0EeLegHodAwwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/20210221_134827_HDR.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Today</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>===========================</p><p>Vitals: 96/68, 78 beats per minute. (The lower heart rate most likely means that my body is no longer fighting germs. Having a resting heart rate in the 90s was a sign that my immune system was still at war even after most of my symptoms had subsided.)</p><p>Symptoms: mild nasal congestion, improving; mild shortness of breath with exertion. </p><p>I've had a break from my usual allergy symptoms ever since the Covid symptoms started. The allergies had been quite severe starting in January. I wonder if my immune system decided to attack the bigger enemy and stop worrying about the mountain cedar pollen for a while. I hope the allergies don't return because I'm really tired of being congested. </p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-61211885595597416732021-02-10T21:41:00.004-06:002021-02-10T22:26:19.060-06:00Coronavirus Day 7 - He Takes Good Care of Me<p><i>I wrote most of this entry yesterday but finished it tonight, Wednesday.</i></p><p>Waking up at 7 this morning was rough; for the last week I've become accustomed to sleeping as late as 10:00. But Allyson had to get up for school this morning, and therefore so did I. When the alarm went off, I walked across the house to my room, where she was sleeping. </p><p>"Time to get up," I said with all the cheerfulness I could muster.</p><p>"Nnnh," she replied. </p><p>I crawled in next to her and pulled the electric blanket up over my shoulders. "What time do you really have to be up?" I mumbled.</p><p>"7:20." </p><p>I fumbled with my phone alarm and then snuggled up to her and CiCi.</p><p>When the alarm went off again, Allyson said in a voice that reminded me of the little girl she was yesterday, "It's your fault I'm still in bed."</p><p>"My fault?"</p><p>"Yes. I was about to get up but you made me stay in bed."</p><p>"I made you?"</p><p>"Yes. You laid down with me and made me fall back asleep." </p><p>I grinned at this admission that I am not the only one who still enjoys cuddling. "Well, you gotta get up. You're going to school today." </p><p>I, on the other hand, went back to sleep until Allyson woke <b>me </b>up at 8. After I'd dropped her at school, I climbed back into bed. CiCi curled up beside me, but for some reason, she slept with her behind in my face. I could still hear her soft snores, and they made me smile as I drifted back off for a few more minutes of sweet morning sleep.</p><p>When I got up around 9:30, I was craving pancakes. I whipped up a batch of oatmeal flour batter with ginger and freshly grated nutmeg and sat down at the kitchen table to fry them on the electric griddle. They turned out so fluffy, for being gluten-free!</p><p>I still felt short of breath, but I decided not to focus on that. Today I'd woken up feeling determined to believe that I am getting better and to act like it, too. There's no reason to believe I have to be a statistic, and every reason to confess that I am going to regain all of my strength.</p><p>When Danny Gokey's "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9ZMPbLoePk" target="_blank">New Day</a>" came on the radio, I got up and started dancing. It was a little more subdued than my usual kitchen dances, but it felt good. Yes, this was a new day, and I was going to enjoy every minute of it. </p><p>I was still catching my breath when I suddenly noticed an unfamiliar white SUV in my driveway. At first I thought it must belong to my friend Pam, who lives right down the road and often brings me goodies such as her famous, nourishing chicken stock. But then I realized it was a Kia. Pam drives... not a Kia. </p><p>I watched the car curiously. Perhaps someone had come to visit my new neighbors--a sweet family, yay!--and they had the wrong house. </p><p>Just as I was phoning Pam to make sure it wasn't her, a text message came through from my friend and coworker Melodie. She'd come to drop off a care package of comfort food!</p><p>I couldn't hide the happy tears when I greeted her through the storm door.</p><p>"Are you okay?" she asked.</p><p>"I'm just touched!" I sniffled, holding one hand to my heart. </p><p>We gave each other air hugs, and then she was gone.</p><p>As I sat at the table unearthing my treasures, "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15PH7qGvs9k" target="_blank">Sparrows</a>" by Cory Asbury came on the radio. I grinned in amazement when I pulled out a warm rotisserie chicken; I'd just been wishing that I could thaw a whole chicken and cook it in the Instant Pot. "You take good care of me," sang Cory. </p><p>"You <b>do </b>take good care of me," I said aloud around a bite of hot soup. "Thank you for being so good to me!" </p><p>I don't recall napping at all, but I did take it easy all day because I was rather tired despite not being sleepy. I didn't do much beyond a load of sheets and washing the dishes. I felt even more proud of myself than usual when I surveyed my kitchen, completely clean for the first time in well over a week. </p><p>My plans to turn in early were thwarted by an upcoming geometry test for Allyson. She didn't start studying until after 9 because she'd had a soccer game. (She wasn't allowed to play in it because of her recent Covid-19 infection, but she still had to be there with her team.) </p><p>The test included some simple trig word problems that she didn't understand. For example, she needed to figure out Juliet's angle of descent in her sight line to Romeo based on his distance from the balcony. She'd asked for help the week before, but I'd been busy with work. Now, I wasn't sure I'd have the brain power to help her, even if I could remember anything about trig. All I remembered was that I'd hated every minute of it in high school.</p><p>Amazingly, it all came back to me when she showed me the formulas for finding missing angles and side lengths using sines, tangents, and cosines. </p><p>"Now you just cross multiply," I said, tracing an x with my fingers on her Chromebook screen.</p><p>"How?" The fact that the equations included square roots had her stumped.</p><p>"Same as you always do."</p><p>"So it's x times square root of 2 on this side?"</p><p>"Yes. So you need to divide by..."</p><p>"Square root of two?"</p><p>"On both sides.... So now you have to get that radical out of the denominator. What could you multiply by to do that?"</p><p>She had no clue, and it was too late for guessing games.</p><p>"Square root of 2," I said.</p><p>"How?"</p><p>I grabbed the pencil and wrote it out for her. "So what is the square root of two times the square root of two?"</p><p>She stared at me blankly. I waited.</p><p>"Square root of... four?"</p><p>"Yes. And what is the square root of four?" </p><p>"Two."</p><p>"Exactly!" </p><p>She took it from there, and I held my breath as she typed her answer into the online math program. A moment later, a big green checkmark appeared. Yes!!</p><p>When I fell into bed at 11:30, I was utterly worn out in mind and body, but I was smiling. This 50-year-old has still got it! And man, do I love teaching!</p><p>I wasn't smiling when the alarm went off at 8 this morning, but I would do it again because look at this transcript of a text conversation I had this afternoon: </p><p></p><blockquote><p>Allyson: i got an 88 on my geometry test</p><p>Sarah: Awesome! Yay us! ;)</p><p>Allyson: yea :) </p></blockquote><p></p><p>It was a good day.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OCCKCQtCin0/YCSmPtmhtzI/AAAAAAAAGtA/2aJJTOly1vAK7842M0CIGdOsuXPeMukIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Allyson.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OCCKCQtCin0/YCSmPtmhtzI/AAAAAAAAGtA/2aJJTOly1vAK7842M0CIGdOsuXPeMukIgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Allyson.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Geometry Partner</td></tr></tbody></table><br />P.S. For the record, Allyson is very good at math and often helps her friends with geometry. This may have been the first time I've needed to tutor her. She got confused after missing a couple classes while she was sick. She was very easy to teach!<br /><p>=========================</p><p>Vitals: Didn't bother checking</p><p>Symptoms: mild nausea, fatigue, moderate nasal congestion, loss of smell, mild shortness of breath (sore throat... gone!!)</p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-47884548058409433322021-02-09T19:17:00.005-06:002021-02-09T19:24:14.161-06:00Coronavirus Day 6 - A Day of Discouragement That Turned Out Pretty GoodOn Monday morning I woke up without a headache for the first time in six days! I was elated. For about ten minutes. And then I realized something I'd been suspecting for the last day: I was losing my sense of smell. I found that I could smell peppermint essential oil, and lavender oil too. But the frankincense, lemongrass, and myrrh blend that I rub on my thyroid daily was completely without aroma. It was the oddest thing. Nor could I smell the strong, stinky-cheese smell of kefir (raw goat milk yogurt).<div><br /></div><div>I knew that not being able to smell should be the least of my concerns, so I tried not to feel too disappointed. I also hoped that it might be a short-lived problem caused by increased nasal congestion that day. My nose was much stuffier despite the improvement in my other symptoms.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next thing I noticed was more concerning. I now also had mild shortness of breath. Ten minutes of washing dishes--yay!!--left me feeling a bit winded. I sat down with my phone and read a few articles on the long-term effects of Covid-19. What I read really alarmed me. </div><div><br /></div><div>In one study of 128 post-Covid patients with an average age of 49.5 (my age), more than 52% still reported fatigue after ten weeks, regardless of the severity of their original symptoms. The fatigue was severe enough to affect their ability to work and to complete daily tasks. Other articles reported that up to a quarter of post-Covid patients still had significant fatigue after six months. Some of those patients were even unable to return to work.</div><div><br /></div><div>I retreated to the couch to feel sorry for myself. What if my mild case ended up the same way? </div><div><br /></div><div>Arwen soon curled herself around my waist, and after a few minutes of stroking her luxurious fur, I felt better. I reminded myself to focus on gratitude; I certainly have much to be grateful for! Allyson was now well enough to return to school the next day, and I had suffered no serious symptoms. </div><div><br /></div><div>I then posted my Day 5 update and was soon overwhelmed with love, prayers, and well wishes from the many people who love me. </div><div><br /></div><div>The rest of the day was good. I managed to get the kitchen almost clean. I went for a short, slow walk with Allyson, and she chattered all the way. I felt pretty tired after our 1/3-mile stroll, but it was so wonderful to get out in the sunlight for the first time in six days.</div><div><br /></div><div>That evening, I read <i>Rebecca</i> to Allyson for about 45 minutes. It was a really dramatic part that I'd been looking forward to, and she was busy ripping up some new blue jeans with scissors and my tweezers, so she let me read a lot longer than usual. Afterward, we talked about what we had read, making "text-to-self connections." What a treat for this former English teacher!</div><div><br /></div><div>Another high point was a nice, long shower followed by clean clothes that were not pajamas. Heavenly!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RGuzvFUSX2Y/YCMsmblFezI/AAAAAAAAGsw/7QmEkcx7MUg31wSSllxiE_gl29q4B6TyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/clean%2521.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RGuzvFUSX2Y/YCMsmblFezI/AAAAAAAAGsw/7QmEkcx7MUg31wSSllxiE_gl29q4B6TyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/clean%2521.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>I went to bed smiling and spent what may have been the last night in the cat room/sickroom. Tonight I hope to return to my own bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>=============================</div><div>Vitals: 90/63, 91 bpm. Temperature: 97.8 (my normal)</div><div><br /></div><div>Symptoms: mild nausea, fatigue, moderate nasal congestion, mild sore throat, new loss of smell, mild shortness of breath</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-8935058452163831492021-02-08T17:19:00.003-06:002021-02-08T17:19:58.251-06:00Coronavirus Day 5 - Fever Free!<p>Sunday was my first full day with no fever. I was much more cautious when I climbed out of bed after 10 hours of decent sleep, but this time I did not get dizzy. </p><p>For breakfast, I took the time to steam some apples for my oatmeal. It was pretty good with kefir and maple syrup on top, but I could only choke down a little over half. </p><p>Once again, I spent most of the day in bed, but I didn't sleep as much. I felt very tired, but no longer sleepy. I felt distressed about my dirty clothes and hair, but not confident enough to risk slipping in the shower. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PrCcKQ6rSXI/YCHFKjDYV-I/AAAAAAAAGsk/OM98EOCfSuQGtMYKUPhprL-PQwbUgQMrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PrCcKQ6rSXI/YCHFKjDYV-I/AAAAAAAAGsk/OM98EOCfSuQGtMYKUPhprL-PQwbUgQMrQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/me.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p>On advice from a friend who recovered from Covid-19, I determined to start eating more food to get my energy up. I enjoyed a cherry peanut butter smoothie immensely, though it gave me chills and sent me back to bed for a while. </p><p>Allyson and I had planned a short walk--the same friend recommended getting outside--but we missed the daylight. Allyson asked if we could go for a drive instead, so we did. It was the first time I'd set foot outside the house in five days, and I really enjoyed it. I told Allyson it brought back memories of my family's occasional Sunday drives when I was young. She'd never heard of that custom. </p><p>While we drove, she placed an order for curbside pickup at BJ's Brewhouse. When we arrived, she called in our parking position and told them to set our food in the trunk. The person who delivered our order apparently had not gotten the message, though. She approached the window, but I gestured her back to the open trunk. She set the bag in the trunk but returned with Allyson's soda. </p><p>I cupped my hands around my mouth and leaned against the window. "We have Covid!" I shouted.</p><p>"Mama," Allyson groaned.</p><p>The woman shook her head in confusion.</p><p>"Covid!" I hollered, and pointed at the back of the car. </p><p>The woman whirled on her heel and disappeared behind the car. A moment later, the trunk slammed decisively.</p><p>"Do you think she's mad?" I asked.</p><p>Allyson shrugged.</p><p>"I didn't want to roll down the window," I said.</p><p>Allyson went to the trunk to retrieve our food. When she returned, I asked, "Doesn't it feel like we're in a movie? Some apocalyptic story? Like, 'Beware! We have the plague!' "</p><p>"Yeah, maybe," she said.</p><p>We ate our dinner on my bed, which she has taken over in my absence, while we watched <i>50 First Dates</i>. I'd forgotten how sweet Drew Barrymore is in that movie. Laughter is great medicine!</p><p>My salmon and mashed potatoes were so delicious! I'd have to say the potatoes were the highlight of my day. That, and watching a movie with Allyson.</p><p>I also felt a sense of accomplishment when I cleaned the litter on my own, but I was happy for Allyson's help with taking out the trash.</p><p>========================</p><p>Vitals: 97/56 (my normal), 93 bpm. Temperature: 98.0</p><p>Symptoms: headache, mild nausea, fatigue, mild nasal congestion, mild sore throat</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-44889787363946951582021-02-08T11:03:00.000-06:002021-02-08T11:03:55.184-06:00Coronavirus Day 4 - Dehydration is No Joke<p>On Saturday morning, I slept until the light was streaming through the windows of my sick room. I'd woken up many times due to sliding down my steeply elevated bed until my feet were dangling off the edge. Each time, I squinted against the light and remembered my friend Pam's admonition to stay hydrated. "I should drink some water," I'd think. But then I'd climb back to the top of the bed and sink back into sleep. </p><p>I finally opened my eyes a little after 10, more than 14 hours since I'd gone to bed. When I sat up, I was overwhelmed with weakness. I finished off the last five swallows in my stainless steel cup and breathed deeply for a minute or two, legs dangling off the side of the bed. </p><p>At last I stepped into my slippers and shuffled across the house to my bathroom. Sitting on the toilet, I was seized with vertigo, and my heart thumped in alarm. I'd forgotten to bring my phone with me, and I didn't want to end up like the poor old woman in the Life Alert commercial who says, "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up." </p><p>As I leaned against the wall and waited for it to pass, I realized what must be wrong with me. I'd gone too long without drinking anything, especially since I'd had a fever when I went to sleep. I just needed to make it to the kitchen and drink some coconut water.</p><p>I slowly rose to my feet, only to collapse onto my hands and knees. Uninjured, I knelt with my forehead on the tile for a couple of minutes, then pulled my pants up and stumbled to the sink to wash my hands. </p><p>I made it as far as the living room before I started to see stars. Literally blind, I shuffled to where I knew the chair must be and fell into it. Now I was wondering if I'd need to go to the ER for an IV, like my friend Pam's brother-in-law when he had Covid and forgot to drink fluids.</p><p>I figured all I needed was to get some water down. Aside from the weakness and vertigo, my symptoms actually seemed better than the day before. After resting a few minutes on the chair, I was able to walk to the kitchen without incident. I sat at the table for a couple more minutes and then poured myself some water and some cold cereal with homemade cashew milk.</p><p>I was too nauseated to eat much, but I felt a little stronger after my meager breakfast. My blood pressure was terribly low at 65/48, so I carefully returned to bed. There, I sipped water and napped through the day, along with both of my cats. Arwen seemed content to nest between my calves, while CiCi was a comforting, squishy weight on my belly. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4nYmZmPlkXg/YCFtFpp-KPI/AAAAAAAAGsU/Jj_qjYrrNyAqigZNj9nA1LC9StalXRUbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/two%2Bcats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4nYmZmPlkXg/YCFtFpp-KPI/AAAAAAAAGsU/Jj_qjYrrNyAqigZNj9nA1LC9StalXRUbQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/two%2Bcats.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>In the afternoon, Ethan picked up some food for us at Panera Bread, plus some Puffs Plus tissues. The chicken soup was salty and very delicious. This was the first meal I'd enjoyed in four days. I was also blessed by my friend Pam's husband, who picked up a new charger cable for my phone after CiCi chewed the old one up. I was so grateful not to be out of communication.</p><p>By 6 p.m., my blood pressure was 88/61, not too far off my usual normal. (Due to my hypothyroidism, my blood pressure is usually 90-something over 60-something.)</p><p>That evening, I had enough energy to feed the cats and clean the litter boxes with some help from Allyson. After that, we watched a movie together. That was a nice break from the boredom. </p><p>All in all, it wasn't a bad day.</p><p>P.S. Please learn from my mistake. If you get sick with Covid-19 or the flu, don't let yourself sleep too long without drinking any fluids.</p><p>=============================</p><p>Vitals: 65/48, 77 beats per minute; 88/61, 86 bpm. Temperature: 99.3 to 99.5</p><p>Symptoms: low-grade fever, headache, mild nausea, vertigo, fatigue, mild nasal congestion, mild sore throat</p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-70798827164490167602021-02-07T16:19:00.000-06:002021-02-08T11:04:11.480-06:00Coronavirus Day 3 - A Surly Nurse<p>When I woke up around 8 on Friday morning, my fever was nearly gone (around 99.5) and my joint pain had resolved. I still felt nauseated but was able to prepare and eat hot buckwheat cereal with bananas, peanut butter, and kefir (drinkable goat yogurt). I was grateful that I enjoyed the flavor; unlike 86% of Covid-19 patients, I had <b>not</b> lost my sense of taste or smell. That bit of food eased the nausea, but I needed a two-hour nap after all that effort.</p><p>I slept off and on all through the day. While I was awake, I enjoyed the pleasant surroundings of my designated sick room, Allyson's old room which contains a bed with an adjustable base. If you've been reading a very long time, you might remember how much fun we had redecorating that room. She has since outgrown the ocean theme, but I haven't. The many shades of blue and green are quite relaxing, and the shells, painted dresser, and orca wallpaper border all remind me of <a href="https://basketcase-adventures.blogspot.com/2013/11/thanksgiving-tour.html" target="_blank">the many loved ones who helped us transform the room</a>. </p><p>The other great comfort was the cats, who worked rotating shifts to keep me calm and quiet. Each time Arwen's shift was over, CiCi gave her a forceful shove off the bed before taking her place on my lap. If you ever saw Garfield knock Odie off a table, you know exactly how that looked. Arwen responded with a pitiful shriek and then meekly left the room. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-acruvq7mtYM/YCBiZjYFNzI/AAAAAAAAGsI/770Js0N5Q7Qsy20Dmc8YGKRnlqF7p67qACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/cici.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-acruvq7mtYM/YCBiZjYFNzI/AAAAAAAAGsI/770Js0N5Q7Qsy20Dmc8YGKRnlqF7p67qACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/cici.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Although I wish CiCi would treat Arwen, her onetime surrogate mother, with the kindness she deserves, I couldn't resist giving Naughty Cat her turn. I reveled in her unusual affection for an hour or more, but finally I got cocky and petted her a bit too long. Without a warning, she whirled around and bit my hand with the rapidity of a rattlesnake strike. This little nurse definitely has room for improvement in her bedside manner!</p><p>The rest of my day was unremarkable aside from receiving notice of my positive test result that evening. </p><p>At bedtime, after spending the entire day in bed and many hours napping, I was disappointed to find that my temperature was now higher than the previous day, at 101.1. I also found myself unable to clean the litter boxes; just feeding the cats left me exhausted. I turned in at 8 and hoped, once more, that I could sleep this off. </p><p>====================</p><p>Vitals: 96/61, 96 beats per minute. Temperature: from 99.5 to 101.1.</p><p>Symptoms: fever, chills, headache, mild nausea, dizziness, fatigue, mild nasal congestion, mild sore throat</p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-40691445877488326282021-02-06T16:28:00.001-06:002021-02-08T11:04:24.751-06:00Coronavirus Day 2 - A Sweet Nurse<p>When I woke up Thursday morning, I stumbled to the bathroom feeling a little nauseated and rather dizzy. I noticed that my thighs felt quite warm.</p><p>I went to Allyson's room and asked for the thermometer; she'd been battling cold symptoms since the prior Saturday, but she never had any fever.</p><p>My temperature was 100.3 degrees, quite elevated compared to my typical 97.5. I also had a headache and a mild sore throat. I felt too nauseated to eat, but I made myself drink as much water as I could force down. Then I called myself in sick.</p><p>I called Allyson in sick as well; this was the first day she had not felt up to attending online classes. Shortly after this, we learned that her Covid-19 test had come back positive. </p><p>I couldn't sleep in my bed because lying flat made me too nauseated. So I spent the entire day propped up on the couch, wrapped up in fluffy pajama pants, fluffy socks, and a blanket. Most of the time, this sweet nurse kept me company.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OIeDswysbFk/YB8R1WWkadI/AAAAAAAAGr4/G_0VygynpLIc69fSjCNgglQUHZ3rRfqPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/arwen.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OIeDswysbFk/YB8R1WWkadI/AAAAAAAAGr4/G_0VygynpLIc69fSjCNgglQUHZ3rRfqPgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/arwen.jpg" /></a></div><p>I ordered some canned soup, coconut water, and toilet paper online. When it arrived, I didn't feel up to eating yet, so I just drank some of the coconut water and heated Allyson's soup in the microwave.</p><p>At 2:00 I had a virtual visit with my doctor, who warned me to watch for diarrhea, vomiting, or shortness of breath. He said I should get tested and assume that I had Covid-19 in the meantime. "There's nothing we can do for you at this point. Just drink plenty of fluids and get lots of rest. Call if you get worse," he said.</p><p>I drove 15 minutes to the drive-through testing site run by the county for a free mouth-swab test. There was no line, and I was thankful to get in an out within 10 minutes because the sun beaming on me made me feel even more sick and dizzy on this unseasonably warm winter day. </p><p>As hot as I'd been in the car, by the time I climbed back onto the couch, I was freezing. My temperature was now 100.8. </p><p>By now, Allyson had gone to her dad's house. I didn't like being alone in the house because I'd read too many horror stories about cases suddenly turned deadly in adults who are single like me. I called my mom, and she prayed for me. That made me feel better.</p><p>My neck was stiff from my awkward position on the couch, so I decided to sleep in what is now the cats' room, on a lovely bed with an adjustable base that is usually covered with a clear plastic table cloth to protect it from the cats' claws. The only obstacle between me and my comfy bed was two dirty litter boxes and two hungry cats. I rallied my strength and fed the cats, then sat down to catch my breath before dumping the boxes into their sifting pans and dumping the mess into the Litter Genie. I sat down again and then carried the large plastic pans and the litter boxes into the hall and the living room, where they will remain for the duration of this illness. </p><p>My teeth chattered as I washed my hands, and I sank into bed gratefully and pulled the covers up to my chin. I raised the head of the bed so that I was halfway to a seated position; that kept the nausea at bay. I'd neglected to shut the door, so the cats were both in bed with me through the night, but they didn't bother me too much with their restlessness. I slept pretty well, considering.</p><p>===============================</p><p>Vitals: 113/69, 95 beats per minute, temp 100.3 to 100.8</p><p>Symptoms: fever, chills, joint pain, headache, mild nausea, dizziness, fatigue, mild nasal congestion, mild sore throat</p><p><br /></p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7233433241312369057.post-15053983372605240172021-02-06T15:50:00.004-06:002021-02-07T15:37:08.676-06:00Coronavirus Day 1<p>This past Wednesday, coronavirus symptoms began abruptly, just before bedtime. I'd been sneezing violently for nearly a week, but I'm pretty sure that was just allergies; this happens to me every January and February when the mountain cedar blooms.</p><p>The first thing I noticed that evening was that most of my joints were aching. My left foot hurt enough to cause a limp, and my left thumb was very sore. The skin on my left forearm was burning from the inside out. I felt a lot like I'd felt when my Hashimoto's thyroiditis had flared up in 2019. I figured I must have eaten something that bothered my immune system, such as gluten.</p><p>My plan was to get in bed early and sleep it off, but sleep was elusive because I felt more and more sore and restless through the night. The pain in my hips kept me from resting much, but I did manage to sleep fitfully until the light woke me on Thursday.</p><p>==================================</p><p>Symptoms: severe sneezing, joint pain</p>Sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09091216096297798587noreply@blogger.com0