Facing My Fears

One of the best learning experiences I ever had was battling my fear of death. Last spring (2008), I asked God to deliver me from my fear, and he gave me an amazing dream that I believe may have been a glimpse of my own death. It wasn't too long after that, though, when my newfound peace was severely tested.

In April of 2008, I was sick with a stomach bug and fever that left me so weak that my lips were blue. The fatigue lingered for nearly a week, and I started to worry a little. I suddenly realized that the shortness of breath that had plagued me during my last pregnancy had never completely resolved. I hadn't noticed it because it was subtle: I'd get out of breath from climbing the stairs or running for the phone--this despite the fact that I was in good shape and very active. Now, though, I was getting breathless from carrying Allyson, from bending over, and even from singing.

I called my ex-husband to ask him about his asthma symptoms; while I was pregnant, my doctor had suggested the possibility of exercise-induced asthma. But my symptoms were completely different than Byron's. He reminded me about my mitral valve prolapse, a typically harmless condition where the mitral valve billows and causes a heart murmur. He urged me to see my doctor.

I was reluctant to tell the doctor about my fears since I was only 38 and was obviously in good health. I figured it would be a battle to get any testing done. But then I did some research on the Internet and scared the crap out of myself. Everywhere I looked, I read that you should call your doctor right away if you developed shortness of breath with your MVP. Based on all my symptoms, I was convinced that the condition had progressed to mitral regurgitation, where the mitral valve allows blood to flow backward from the left ventricle into the atrium.

I saw the doctor on a Tuesday morning. I had been so anxious that I hadn't been able to sleep well for several nights in a row despite being utterly exhausted. On Monday night, I'd taken a Benadryl in the middle of the night, so I could barely get out of bed for my 8:00 appointment, and I was nervous and shaky.

At first, the doctor seemed nonchalant about my concerns, but the moment he put his stethoscope on my chest, he said, "Oh yes. I hear a murmur." This was alarming, because in the past my doctors could either hear nothing at all, or just a very subtle click. And usually they had to listen very carefully to hear anything. He also remarked that my pulse was very rapid, but I knew that was just the anxiety.

He ordered an echocardiogram, which he scheduled for the next day.

His Works Are Wonderful
(Excerpts From My Journal -Wednesday 4/23/08)
The echo was actually really interesting. I could clearly see my mitral valve, my ventricle, and my atrium. I also got to hear my heartbeat, and it sounded like Allyson's had during prenatal visits, only much slower. I could hear the telltale third heart sound that indicates a murmur.

I felt awed to see and hear the very essence of my life. I thought of my beloved Psalm 139: "I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Your works are wonderful; I know that full well."

Tears of wonder trickled from the corner of my eye and ran down into my hair. How amazing that this intricately made pump had been beating continuously, faithfully, for all of my life--indeed, even before I was born! I felt a surge of love for God....

I didn't feel anxious. Overall, I just felt reassured to see and hear the steady beat of my heart.... I'm trying not to be anxious because I can feel how the anxiety worsens my symptoms. I'm trying to let God teach me patience and trust yet again. I just wonder what my future holds?

-Thursday 4/24/08
Today has been extremely emotional. The problem is that I don't know whether I am battling anxiety, or whether my symptoms are just part of my heart problem. What I mean is that my thoughts don't feel anxious; only my body feels it. I've been meditating on all my memory passages and praying, and my mind feels at peace. Yet my heart continues to race intermittently.

Today I emailed out a prayer request to all my friends, asking them to pray for God to guard my mind and heart with his peace, and also that he would teach me the lesson he has for me--and of course that he would heal my heart.

I didn't know Mom's new email address, so I called her. She was amazing. I'd caught her dozing, so she had no time to think up a flowery prayer. She proceeded to pray for me using the words from the memory passages I'd been studying. She prayed for peace that transcends understanding (Philippians 4). She said that God has me in his hand, that he knows me inside and out, knows all about me. She asked him to help me trust his plan, to know that he planned all my days before I was even born (Psalm 139).

With tears rolling down my cheeks, I told her that her words were the same ones that God had been using to comfort me. She said it had to be God speaking through her because she hadn't known these were my memory passages.

She prayed for my physical symptoms to line up with what I'm believing in my mind. That's exactly what I need. I've been having such peaceful, contented thoughts--in total contrast with the anxious feelings. My body needs to come in line. And I believe it is doing that. I can feel the prayers of the people who love me....

Contentment
My overwhelming emotion is thankfulness. I told Bill last night in bed that I could die right now and still say I've had a very fulfilling and meaningful life. I have a loving husband and two precious children. I have the love of friends and family. I have learned to experience God's love in a new way, and to share it with others. I have been so richly blessed, and at this moment I have no regrets. I never expected to feel this content at age 38. God has done so much in my heart these last few months. The things I had so much insecurity about--financial security, physical beauty, Bill's attention--seem so insignificant now.

I realize that--whatever the outcome (and I know I'm being overly dramatic)--this is a battle I need to fight. I thought insecurity/jealousy was the biggest battle, but I realize now it's anxiety and worry. I know God is going to work all of this for my good (Romans 8:28).

After I'd poured out all this emotion to Bill, I asked him to pray for me, and he said, "I've been praying for you." It still surprises me to know that Bill prays. It's just that he's so private about his faith. It seems his faith has been quietly growing.

I asked what he'd prayed for me, and he said that I'd feel contented. I found that an odd choice of words at the time. I'd expected him to pray for healing or peace. But now, as I write this all out, I realize that God has been answering his prayer. Contentment is the best way to describe the way I'm feeling about my life, and it's just what I need to combat my fears.

Thank you, Father, for the love and support of my husband, friends, and family. Thank you for allowing my faith to grow through this struggle. Thank you for the perfect love that casts out fear.
********************************

I never did find out what was causing the shortness of breath. The mitral valve prolapse was evident on the echocardiogram, but there was no significant regurgitation. I had a full workup with a cardiologist, had my thyroid medication adjusted, and even saw a hematologist (because I have a condition called hemochromatosis, which can cause heart trouble), but no one could say definitively what was causing my symptoms. I think they suspect anxiety, but I disagree. The symptoms are definitely worse with anxiety, but I often experience shortness of breath at odd times when I am not at all stressed. Maybe I'm just a hypochondriac.

In any case, I've learned to ignore it. I'm glad to have gone through this experience because I can honestly say now that I feel comfortable with the idea of death, and--even more importantly--I appreciate my life more. I'm learning not to stress over the little things, and to literally stop and smell the flowers. God works in mysterious ways!

Crossing the Veil

Last night, according to our usual routine, Ethan and I checked the progress of Luke, a ten-year-old boy who has a brain tumor. We were delighted to learn that the surgery on his "inoperable brain tumor" was a success.

I stood on a chair next to his bunk bed after that, and before we prayed for Luke, Ethan asked some tough questions. He wanted to know why people get sick, especially children. I could sense his unspoken question: why do people have to die?

As I scratched his back, I told him about Adam and Eve in the garden, and how sin and death entered the world. Then I told him that God has ordained all of our days, and he has chosen the day of our death. No matter when it happens, it's going to be the right time. I told him we don't have to fear death because we know what's waiting for us in heaven, but that it's still very hard for us to lose a loved one.

I was thankful that these were not just platitudes. Had he asked the same questions a year ago, I could not have answered with the same peaceful assurance. Last year, I asked God to set me free from my fear of death, and the way he answered was marvelous.

I'd always been a little ashamed about my fear because of course I knew that to be absent from this world is to be present with Jesus in heaven. Still, I couldn't shake the fear of the unknown: When would I die? How would I die? Would it be a violent or painful death? What would happen after I was gone? I couldn't bear the thought of not being here. I wanted to go to heaven, but not YET!

The Dream - Excerpt From My Journal, 2/25/08
I had a dream this morning. The only part I remember is this....

I was hesitating at the threshold of a door. I wanted to go through, but I was afraid. I thought, "But I don't know what's on the other side."

I heard God answer, "Yes, you do."

I realized then, not in the dream, but as if a narrator had explained it, that this was the moment of my death. I was trembling with nervousness, but I opened the door and stepped in. What I saw was painted walls, like a bedroom, I think. It was a warm, yellow color. And I opened my arms wide and accepted God's love into my whole being. I was covered in peace.

"You have crossed the veil," God explained, a smile in his voice.

Then I woke up. "I want to cross the veil now," I answered, vaguely remembering the way I had explained to a friend recently that I felt so close to God, yet perceived a veil between us. [I wrote about this in a recent blog entry.]

This dream comforted me on two levels. For one thing, I'm tired of fearing death. I suppose I will always fear the physical pain that might accompany death, but God has assured me--especially through my latest memory passage--that he will be with me through every trial: passing through water or walking through fire. I think of how he comforted me through my labor and delivery when I had Allyson, and how it made the pain more bearable. The pain didn't go away, but God gave me the strength to endure it.

The second way the dream comforted me was the foretaste of surrendering completely to God's love. It gave me hope that I can step through that veil before I die....

Lord, my heart longs to cross the veil that hinders me from experiencing the fullness of your love. I don't know how to cross it. Please show me. Please change my heart and cast out my fear with your perfect love.

After I wrote this, I felt led to kneel on the living room floor. I knelt on a throw pillow and rested my forehead on my crossed arms. I prayed for several minutes, asking God to help me cross the veil. I poured out my longing to him and asked him to let me experience his love so I could share it with others.

I immediately thought of [several friends] and began to pray for them and their families. I cried so much that my nose was dripping....

I wanted so much to to have some definitive experience that would let me know I had "prayed through," but I felt an assurance that God would keep working on me, that it didn't have to happen all at once.

So I got up and walked to the kitchen to blow my nose. I glanced in front of me and saw yellow walls. Could it have been our kitchen that I saw in the dream?

I stood in front of the window seat and closed my eyes as the sun shone down on my face. Through my eyelids, I could see a yellow glow. As in my dream, I opened my arms and accepted God's love.

I don't know that I experienced anything new, but I know I can't base my faith on my emotions. So I'm believing that this intensified desire is God calling me, and that my obedience to his call is going to change me in his time. I choose to be obedient to whatever work God calls me to.




Preparing For Battle
On April 9, 2008, we met for our last Bible study of the semester. We did an in-depth study of heaven. It was amazing. I guess I'd never really thought about how wonderful it would be because I was too busy worrying about dying. But it really is something to look forward to, to long for.

The most important thing is to be with God and see his face clearly. I will be worshiping him face to face among other believers from every nation. God himself will wipe away every tear from my eye.

Here are just a few of the verses we studied:

• Philippians 1:23-24
• 2 Corinthians 5:8
• Isaiah 65:17-19
• Revelation 7:16-17
• Revelation 21:1-4
• Revelation 21:18-24

The Trial
God's timing was perfect. Just a couple of weeks later, I went through a big scare with my heart. I was having unexplained shortness of breath that I thought was related to my mitral valve prolapse. I went through some severe anxiety and had to confront my fear of death head on--and God was with me every step of the way. In the end, I felt truly at peace with the idea of dying. But that's another story....

Forgiven Much

In last night's home group meeting, we discussed the story of the sinful woman who washed Jesus' feet with her tears and dried them with her hair:

Luke 7:36-39, 44-47
³⁶ One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to have dinner with him, so Jesus went to his home and sat down to eat.^a]">[a] ³⁷ When a certain immoral woman from that city heard he was eating there, she brought a beautiful alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume. ³⁸ Then she knelt behind him at his feet, weeping. Her tears fell on his feet, and she wiped them off with her hair. Then she kept kissing his feet and putting perfume on them.

³⁹ When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know what kind of woman is touching him. She’s a sinner!”

...

⁴⁴ Then [Jesus] turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Look at this woman kneeling here. When I entered your home, you didn’t offer me water to wash the dust from my feet, but she has washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair. ⁴⁵ You didn’t greet me with a kiss, but from the time I first came in, she has not stopped kissing my feet. ⁴⁶ You neglected the courtesy of olive oil to anoint my head, but she has anointed my feet with rare perfume.

⁴⁷ “I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.”

As we discussed the passage, some of my friends said they could really relate to Simon, the Pharisee, because they've judged others who seem sinful. I have certainly been guilty of judging others more often than I'd care to admit, but I had to speak up and say, "I relate more to the prostitute." Then I shared this story....

Last spring, I enrolled in a Bible study on the book of Romans, called Free. At the beginning of the semester, we wrote down on a card the things we'd like God to free us from. We knelt at the foot of a wooden cross and laid our cards there. I wrote that I'd like to be free from shame, and also from my fear of death (but that's another story). Honestly, I wasn't sure even God could set me free from these burdens, but he answered both prayers in wonderful ways that I could never have predicted.

Throughout the class, I marveled at how Paul, who called himself "the chief among sinners," was not only forgiven, but was used in a powerful way. God didn't waste ANY of Paul's experiences, not the sins, not the persecution. All of it was used for God's glory, and Paul's life was transformed. I slowly began to realize that if God could forgive Paul and use his experiences for a beautiful purpose, surely he could do the same for me.

Around the end of January 2008, I felt I was ready to give my shame over to God, but I didn't know how. I won't go into details about why I felt ashamed because I know God has forgotten my sins, and I need to forget them as well. But I'll tell you that I carried a deep shame for many, many years. It went beyond simple regret. I had allowed that shame to define my character, and it was crippling me.

I knew with my brain that God had forgiven me, but my heart could not accept that forgiveness. This really prevented me from receiving God's love; I told a friend that it was as if there was a veil between me and God. I could feel that he was so very near, but I couldn't reach him. Because I couldn't experience God's love, neither could I really accept love from anyone else. I suffered excruciating insecurities in my marriage which made me jealous and fearful, and I hated myself for it. I also had a problem making friends. I always thought, "If she really knew who I was, she wouldn't love me." So I was guarded in all my relationships.

I had a friend who was in counseling at the time, and her counselor had said, "Secrets are powerful. They can build a wall between you and the people you love." He told her that sharing her secret could take away its power over her. I knew then what I had to do, but I was afraid to do it. Satan had told me for years that I must never, ever talk about my shame--that if I did, no one would love me and I'd be alone.

I prayed and asked God to show me who I should talk to, and to give me the courage to open my heart. I told my secret to one old friend and one new one.

The first time was over lunch at a favorite restaurant. My mouth was dry, my hands were clammy and trembling, and my heart was racing. I stumbled over the words, and at times I was choked by tears, but I told her absolutely everything about the sin that had haunted me for years. She listened without judgment. When I was finished, she said of course she still loved me--that sin is not who I am! She told me God had forgiven me, that it was "ancient history." Then she spoke what I believe to be a message from God: even though David committed a grievous sin with Bathsheba and even murdered her husband, God still called David a man after his own heart.

I cried profusely, probably to our waitress's chagrin. It was wonderful to have my friend there with me, hugging me as I cried, giving me a tangible way to feel God's love embracing me.

When I shared my shame with another friend a couple of days later, it was just a little easier. My second friend also was very accepting and loving. She said God didn't remember my sin, and to bring it up over and over was an insult to his grace. She shared some past guilt of her own, and we prayed together that God would help us forgive ourselves.

Like the woman who washed Jesus' feet with her tears, I had an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I had been forgiven so much, and I was positively overflowing with love. A weight had been lifted, and I found myself smiling and even laughing as I went about my daily work. Once while I was washing dishes, I heard Brandon Heath's "Don't Get Comfortable" for the first time, and I was thrilled by the lyrics. As I listened to that song, I heard God telling me, "This is not yesterday.... I am gonna love like you've never seen! You are gonna live like you used to dream! This is your new song."

As I began to really experience God's love, that love started to flow out from me in new ways. I started to speak to strangers at the grocery store. I began to make new friends, close friends. I began to feel more secure and intimate with my husband. I asked God to help me love some "difficult people," and he answered my prayers.

Since then, I have been drawn to hurting people, and I'm so thankful that I can share the love and hope that I have received from God. I have been forgiven much, and I can't help but love much!

My Mother's Strength

On Sunday, my family met for incredibly delicious brisket at my brother Rick's house. When we were too stuffed to move, we all sat around reminiscing. My mom's sisters Judy and Mary were visiting from Indiana, along with Mary's husband Dave. The stories we told were familiar, but having my aunts there provided another perspective and filled in a few more details. One story in particular moved me to tears....

My aunts and uncle got to talking about how sweet Rick (Ricky, then) was as a boy. They said he was always talking (and lisping), and he looked so cute with his little glasses. Aunt Mary recalled one thing he said when my dad was late getting home: "Was you in a hole?" Apparently my mom had remarked that she didn't know what was keeping him; he must have fallen in a hole.

Monica, Dolores (Mom), Melody

Monica, Dolores, Ricky, Melody

Mary also related a bittersweet memory about my sister Michele's homecoming. Michele was born with many severe birth defects including microcephaly (a small head and underdeveloped brain), a cleft lip, and a cleft palate. Before my parents brought her home, they tried to prepare Rick and Melody. (I wasn't born yet.) They told them that Michele didn't look like other babies, and I guess Rick took that to mean she wasn't pretty like other babies.

When Mom showed him the baby, Rick (age 6) said, "Oh, Mommy! She has such pretty eyes!" She really did have pretty eyes, and this simple appreciation for the beauty in a difficult situation brought tears to the adults' eyes. My own eyes filled with tears when Mary told the story, and when I saw tears in my dad's eyes, I almost broke into sobs. It's hard to understand how sorrow can seem so fresh after 46 years, and how I can feel grief for a sister I never knew.

Mom shared a bit about the experience. It was hard to listen, but I think even now it helps her to talk about what happened. Here's what happened....

Losing Monica
When my sister Monica Sue was five years old, she fell against a license plate and suffered a severe gash to her skull. She healed from the injury, but she later developed a brain tumor on the scar. By the time the tumor was diagnosed, she was in critical condition. My mom stayed with her at Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis (about three hours from their home) for several weeks.

Monica Sue, Age 5

On her sixth birthday--June 27, 1962--Monica underwent surgery to remove the tumor. Initially, Mom and Dad had wanted to wait until the next day, but they listened to the doctors' urging and allowed the surgery on her birthday. After that, she suffered continually until she finally lapsed into a coma and died on July 18.

Understandably, Mom fell into a profound depression. She was given strong tranquilizers to help her cope with her grief and the demands of raising two other small children. At the time, she told her family doctor that she thought she was pregnant, but he didn't listen. He told her that the delusion of pregnancy is a common reaction to dealing with the loss of a child.

More Heartaches
She really was pregnant, and the medication caused severe defects. Michele Sue was born six months after Monica died, on January 10, 1963. This was, of course, before the days of sonograms, so Michele's condition was a devastating surprise.

The doctor told Mom she shouldn't even hold her baby because she wouldn't be able to keep her. He advised placing her in an institution immediately. Mom started crying and couldn't stop. A nurse later came in and showed her how to feed Michele with a special nipple. She told Mom and Dad to take their baby home if they wanted to.

That's what they did, but life was very difficult. Due to her underdeveloped brain, Michele never slept more than an hour at a time. She also cried incessantly, and feeding was a terrible ordeal because it literally choked her.

After a couple of months, Mom just couldn't manage it any longer. She was unable to sleep, and she had no energy to care for Melody and Rick. She and Dad reluctantly admitted Michele to Riley's Children's Hospital in Indianapolis. The hospital then transferred Michele to a day care home in Noblesville.

They were able to visit her every other Sunday. She never did develop beyond a newborn state, and she was sickly. She finally died of pneumonia at the age of eight months.

A couple of years later, Melody nearly died from a ruptured appendix. Mom begged God not to take another child from her, and Melody recovered. The doctor told her afterward that he hadn't expected her to survive; she had peritonitis, and people didn't usually recover from that.

God's Grace
No matter how many times I hear these stories, I am amazed at my mother's strength. I can't imagine going through what she suffered and surviving. Mom never lost her faith. In fact, her faith grew through these trials.

She and Dad had grown up in church, but they had drifted away during their early marriage. After the loss of Monica, Mom was despondent for months. It was through the love of a friend, Louella, that Mom began to heal. Here is an excerpt from Mom and Dad's autobiography, which I am currently transcribing and editing:

In those days, they didn’t have support groups for people that were grieving. But I had a friend who came over, and she said, “I’m coming over. I’ve been praying and asking the Lord what I could do for you. He impressed on me that I need to come over and get you and take you to my house, and you can’t do anything but talk about your child while we’re there. And if you try to talk about anything else, I’m going to make you talk about your child.”

Then I felt like it was God sending her, and to this day, I know it was God sending her. She did just what she said. If I got off the subject, she’d get me right back on. That helped me heal. That did more for me than what anybody’s prayers did. It was all because she was willing as a Christian to pray and ask the Lord what she could do to help me. So I always felt a warm spot for her because she had five of her own children, but she still had time for me. It helped me to move on, or at least to deal with the grief that was inside, that I didn’t know how to get rid of.

God chose to bless Mom and Dad with three more children: Amy (1964), me (1970), and Emily (1974). At first, she was afraid that she would lose us, too, but eventually she relaxed and enjoyed mothering her five children. She had always wanted to have five children, and she got her wish.

I'm not sure why I wanted to share these stories, but I just felt I needed to. My mother is an amazing woman, and I wanted to share her with my (small) world.

I've Got My Phone...And Baby Jesus!

This morning, Allyson was getting ready to go to the babysitter. Daddy had her all dressed in her Christmas T-shirt and her Santa cap (which she wears EVERYWHERE, much to the delight of both friends and strangers).

Allyson holding tiny Baby Jesus

When I came down the stairs, she announced, "I've got my phone and Baby Jesus!"

"Huh?"

She patted her jeans pocket, which bulged with an old cell phone she likes to carry around, and she held out the tiny wooden baby from the nativity set on our console table. She is utterly fascinated with the tiny figures that look like the old Playskool Little People.

We have a more traditional nativity scene on our mantle, but I just love the humble wooden figures that Ethan received in Sunday school several years ago. Allyson won't leave them alone, though. She broke Baby Jesus' manger the other day (made of Popsicle sticks), and she's constantly carrying him around. I even caught her putting him in her mouth once, and Bill laughed when he heard me holler, "Don't eat Baby Jesus!"

Allyson was so pleased with her two treasures this morning that I couldn't resist letting her take Jesus along. But she had to leave him in the car so he wouldn't get lost.

One More Cute Quote
We were on the way home from Aunt Emily's tonight, where we'd helped make Christmas cookies, when Allyson pulled the bow off her stuffed pink cat. "Oh no!" she cried. "I broke my ti-ee tat."

"We'll fix it when we get home," Daddy reassured her.

A couple of minutes passed, and we thought she might be asleep. Suddenly she piped up, "I have a idea!... We can call Santa Claus and he can bring me a new ti-ee tat!"

"I don't know," Daddy said. "We can just fix the kitty cat you have."

"No, I need a new one. I need Santa to bring me a new ti-ee."

It's amazing how soon children learn about Santa and toys. (She's only two and a half!) I'll have to help her focus on the real meaning of Christmas. Maybe the nativity set will help.

Maybe I'm Not Suzy Homemaker After All

I've spent the better part of the month in a frenzy of baking, mainly the Amish Friendship loaves that I give out to friends and family each year. I've also baked a 7-Up cake for a Christmas party, four dozen chocolate chip cookies for Ethan's band concert, and 24 cupcakes for his school Christmas party. Of course, I didn't even consider buying any of these treats--as Bill had suggested--because I think I'm Suzy Homemaker.

Ethan and I spent some quality time on several occasions; I supervised while he mixed up the cookies and cakes. I bit my tongue when he spilled sugar on the floor and splashed vanilla on the counter. I realize that he probably won't want to bake with me in another year or so, so I've decided to enjoy these opportunities no matter how messy my kitchen might get. (To tell the truth, it gets awfully messy when I bake by myself, too.)

Ethan is so cute. He is very earnest about the responsibility of measuring the flour exactly as I've taught him: mound it up with a spoon, tap it with a knife, carefully level it off. He runs the Kitchen-Aid for precisely the prescribed length of time. In the end, he is so proud of the results, and I am equally proud of him. I imagine his future wife thanking me someday and telling me, "My heart just goes pitter-pat when I see my man working in the kitchen!"

This past Thursday, however, I wasn't having so many warm, fuzzy feelings about our baking project. Ethan wanted to take cupcakes for his 24 classmates, and I was determined to avoid a trip to the store. I found a yellow cake mix in the cabinet, but no frosting. I scoured my cookbooks for recipes, but they all called for butter, which I didn't have. I finally found a recipe online for a fudgy frosting that called for margarine, cocoa powder, buttermilk (which I did have, amazingly), and powdered sugar. I thought I was pretty clever.

So Ethan made the cupcakes, which were amazingly fluffy. They made thick, lumpy mounds in the cupcake tins. Apparently, I should have tapped the pans on the counter to settle the batter down more evenly, but I didn't know that. They turned out to be very funny-looking cupcakes, kind of like toadstools with big, flat tops. I was a little alarmed, but I tried not to show it.

The frosting was even worse. We were supposed to boil the buttermilk with the margarine and cocoa powder, but it never did come to a boil. It just got thicker and greasier because the margarine seemed to be separating out. I finally gave up and just mixed in the powdered sugar.

I carefully scraped the cupcake tops off the pan and gently worked each cake out of the pan. I only destroyed the top on one, which gave me an excuse to sample one. (It may have looked ridiculous, but it tasted wonderful.)

It took me so long to get the cupcakes out that the frosting had thickened considerably. When I tried to spread it, of course it tore the cake up. So I dropped fat dollops of fudge on the middle of exactly nine cupcakes. And then I ran out of frosting, blast it! Bill came to the rescue by topping the rest with melted margarine and cinnamon/sugar. (I was just done, and Ethan had lost interest long before that.)

The cupcakes looked so pathetic that I half expected Ethan to "forget" them on the bus, but Bill ended up driving him to school. Nevertheless, he brought home 14 of the 23 cupcakes. They looked battered, as if they'd been bumped around a bit on the bus ride home. I felt a stab of rejection. What, were my cupcakes not pretty enough to eat? Had Ethan hidden them under his desk?

Ethan said his teacher estimated that they'd had enough food for three classes, so that was probably the reason our cupcakes were shunned. I tried to give them to his classmate Makayla, who lives across the street, but apparently they still had most of their cupcakes, too. So I guess it was nothing personal.

Well, I've decided I'm not Suzy Homemaker after all. And how it pained me to throw away the last six cupcakes tonight! They were just too stale to eat, my food-wasting phobia notwithstanding. Next year, I'm going to just buy something from the store!

Nasty Santa, Nasty Santa!

This morning I took Allyson to toddlers' story hour at the library. Every Wednesday, we listen to stories, sing songs, and make crafts with the other kids. Afterward, we turn in the previous week's books and choose five (or six, or seven) more. And Allyson grabs a video at random from the children's section.

This morning, we got to sing Jingle Bells and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer while the kids joyfully shook their little sleigh bells. (Normally they shake the bells to a quirky song about brushing your teeth at a quarter to five in the morning.)

We listened to a cute story about Santa Mouse, and then we sang an old Christmas song that was unfamiliar to most of the kids (and maybe the moms as well). It goes like this:

Who's got a beard that's long and white?
Santa's got a beard that's long and white.
Who comes around on a special night?
Santa comes along on a special night.
Special night, beard that's white
Must be Santa, must be Santa
Must be Santa, Santa Claus.

There are several cute verses about boots and a suit of red and a big red cherry nose, and each concludes with a jubilant chorus of "Must be Santa, must be Santa..."

I wasn't sure whether Allyson liked the song until a couple of hours later, when she burst into song while we were putting away groceries.

"Nasty Santa! Nasty Santa! Nasty Santa, Santa Claus!" she sang.

I swallowed my laughter and said, "Sweetie, it's 'Must be Santa, Must be Santa!'" I sang the correct chorus for her.

"It is NOT musty Santa!" she replied indignantly. Then she went on singing, "Nasty Santa! Nasty Santa!" She was having so much fun that I couldn't argue with her.

I thought back to the week before when we'd gone to the library one evening to sit on Santa's lap. Based on her grumpy expression, maybe "Nasty Santa" is an accurate description of her views on Santa. No matter how he tried, he couldn't get a smile out of her.

Still, she did manage to tell Santa that she wants him to bring her a Princess Barbie this year. Maybe when she unwraps that gift, she'll stop singing about Nasty Santa.

Even Worse Than the Emergency Outfit

Today I learned that the only thing worse than an ill-fitting, mismatched emergency outfit is... no emergency outfit at all. First thing this morning, I baked yet another six loaves of Amish Friendship bread, and consequently I was in a huge rush to get to my 9:30 Pilates class. (Okay, so I'm always in a huge rush to get there--or anywhere else for that matter.)

Anyway, that was the reason I forgot to check the diaper bag to make sure Allyson had a change of clothes. It was also the reason that I didn't take Allyson to the bathroom when we got to the gym. She never goes then, but normally I always take her just in case.

I had finished my workout and was lying on my mat, listening to soothing music and waiting for my head and shoulder massage, when a jarring voice interrupted the silence. "Sarah! You're needed in the childcare room."

Now I suppose I should have been worried that Allyson had hurt herself or gotten sick, but the first thought I had was, "Oh, please don't let it be poop." She was wearing her big-girl panties--the Dora the Explorer mermaid panties, to be exact--and I flashed back to the incident a few days before when I'd had to bring the Poop Spatula back out.

Thankfully, she was only wet. She and the sitter were standing in the bathroom, Allyson's panties and jeans in a soggy heap on the floor. The young lady was rifling through the bag. "I couldn't find any extra pants," she said.

I was so embarrassed! How could I not have brought an extra pair of pants for my potty-training toddler? I searched again for good measure. I found a pair of training pants, some big-girl panties, a Pull-Up, and a cloth diaper. I found two extra shirts and a pair of socks. I even found part of last week's craft from story hour at the library. But there were no extra pants of any kind.

I put her in the Pull-Up, though she protested that she wanted to wear the My Little Pony panties. "No, ma'am," I said. "No big girl panties when you wet your pants."

I looked at her thoughtfully. What should I do? It was still pretty cold outside, and I didn't want to take her out with bare legs. I finally decided to put her in my fleece jacket, which fit her like a potato sack. I had to roll the sleeves halfway up. She looked ridiculous, but so cute, in her evening-length jacket and socks and shoes!

Well, as far as embarrassing parenting moments go, it could have been much worse. It could have been a messy poop. It could have happened at church. She could have been 3-1/2, like Ethan was when he finally got trained.

Sixteen Tidbits About Me

My friend Melissa at Until the Jasper Walls invited her readers to share little-known facts about themselves. Let's see what I can come up with.

1) I enjoy doing laundry. Really, I do. I love creating order out of chaos, and returning every piece to its rightful place.

2) I despise mopping the floor.

3) I love making homemade cleaners from vinegar, baking soda, etc. It's a bit of an obsession.

4) I once won second place in a math team contest in junior high. But it was for calculator use, which hardly counts!

5) I still remember how to do algebra, and I love tutoring my friends and family. Let's see if I still love it when it's time to help Ethan.

6) I used to own a Chevron convenience store with my ex-husband. It was the most difficult year of my life. Being your own boss is definitely overrated.

7) By age 30, I'd held thirteen jobs! But I've been at my current job for nearly nine years.

8) I have a vague fear of swimming pool drains and those flapping filter thingys on the side of the pool. I once nearly drowned trying to avoid a filter--while I was taking swimming lessons at age 4.

9) I don't know how to dive.

10) I'm really into cloth diapers, though I didn't discover them till Allyson was nearly two. Now she only wears them at bedtime.

11) I'm not a baby person. I love my own babies, of course, but I'm not one of the girls who stand in line saying, "Let me hold the baby!"

12) I used to play the viola. I played it from fourth grade to eighth grade. Do you even know what a viola is?? It looks just like a violin, but it plays lower notes. Violas get all the boring harmony parts.

13) I know how to program in BASIC--the same language I learned in junior high. I love writing programs even more than my real job, which is training development.

14) I hated all fruit until my early thirties, when I gradually started learning to like and eventually love many different kinds of fruit. This was thanks to my mother-in-law.

15) I think I'm becoming a crappy driver. I used to be a good driver, but now I find myself making stupid mistakes. I'm too easily distracted.

16) I love breakfast. I usually fall asleep thinking about what I will eat in the morning: Banana oatmeal? Blueberry pancakes? Fiber One with pomegranate seeds? Peanut butter bagel with banana slices? Mmm!!!

No Such Luck

You may recall that Allyson and Bill suffered a stomach virus about a week ago, which is how I learned that you should NEVER leave your purse unzipped. Up until this weekend, I was feeling so, so lucky that all I got out of that experience was a valuable lesson about purses and a renewed appreciation for Bill's saintliness. No such luck!

On Saturday night, I was watching a movie with Ethan when I felt the first twinges of an upset tummy. "It's probably nothing," I thought, since I frequently have a sore stomach. It never crossed my mind that it could be a stomach virus since it had been a full week since Bill came down with it.

By midnight, I knew this was no minor case of indigestion. I was up until 2:30, when it finally hit in full force. As I was kneeling on the bathroom floor, feeling sorry for my cold, stiff knees on the hard, frigid floor, I thought about the unfairness of it all:

• I got sick AFTER I spent the entire evening making shrimp potato soup, which was to be served the next day at home group meeting at our house, for which Bill had just spent the entire day cleaning (I conveniently had other plans--a service project and a baby shower).
  
• Now the soup would almost certainly need to be thrown away, which seemed almost as awful as being sick in the first place.
• How could I get a stomach virus after a whole week? Isn't that a cruel joke?
  
• What if it was a different bug? What if Allyson gets sick again?
• How can two-year-old Allyson be so relaxed and resigned about barfing, yet no matter how hard I try to give in and not fight it, I always cry when I'm throwing up?

The worst disappointment--which isn't really related--was that I had ruined the stove making the soup that probably has to be thrown away. I used a metal simmering plate, which is supposed to distribute the heat evenly. Apparently I put it on upside down, and it transferred so much heat toward the cooking surface that it melted right through the ceramic top and made a big dent in the glass. It's utterly ruined. And we've had the stove for maybe six months. I cried the next morning when Bill took the simmering plate off and told me about it (which was pretty risky since any unnecessary movement could send me racing to the bathroom).

Oh well. At least Bill got to go to his hockey game before I got sick. It would have been really awful for him to miss two weeks in a row (since he was sick for the last one). At least I got sick on the weekend, when Bill could take care of everything without having to miss any work. At least our hardwood floor is so shiny you can see yourself in it, even if we didn't host the home group meeting. At least I was able to sleep (off and on) for over 24 hours. I'm feeling so rested today.

Now we have to decide whether to throw away that soup. If you know me at all, you know how much I hate to waste food. Either it was the shrimp that made me sick, or a stomach virus; if it was a stomach virus, I handled everything that went into the soup. But the soup did boil for quite awhile. What to do, what to do? Bill decided to take some soup for lunch and see what happened. He's OK so far (and he said the soup was fabulous), but I don't know...

What would you do? Take the poll at the top right corner of the page and/or leave a comment to let me know what you think.

Message in a Volvo Plant

I've been pretty shaken over the impending failure of GM and most of the auto industry. Of course, the consequences for our nation and even the world would likely be catastrophic. But I have a more selfish reason for concern. I have a friend whose husband works at GM. And Bill and I work for a company that serves the auto industry. If the industry should collapse, there's a very real possibility that both of us could be out of work in the near future.

Now I have a vague understanding of how all these economic problems came to roost in our country. I know that we have been greedy and irresponsible with credit. I know that some would say we are getting what we deserve. I also know that maybe our country needs to go through this calamity to help us remember what is really important in life--and to turn us to God, who has all the answers.

I know all this, and it sounds good in the hypothetical. But that doesn't mean I feel good about the prospect of personally suffering hardship. So I've been doing what I always do in situations like this: I've been worrying myself silly. But I've also been doing some praying, which is a good thing.

Last night, I fell asleep praying, and I woke up praying this morning. The first thing that came to my mind this morning was an experience I had when I was newly pregnant with Allyson. While I was on a work trip in Virginia, I was worried about all kinds of things: whether I could afford to stay home with my baby, how we would survive, whether I'd have a healthy baby, how a baby would affect our marriage, etc.

The following is an excerpt from my journal in 2005, but I think the message applies even more today....

Monday, October 17, 2005
The best thing happened at the Volvo heavy truck plant. We had a fascinating tour, and my mouth was agape at the giant "dinosaur" robots, the automated cab retrieval system, etc. I walked slowly, turning to look in all directions.

I was walking down a hallway with Angela, and we were lagging behind the group. I suddenly turned on my heel when I spotted a piece of paper on the side of a red tool bin. I wanted to read it.

Surprisingly, it was a notebook paper full of Bible verses on worry. The verses were hand written in the King James Version, which reminded me of my childhood. The first was, "Which of you by worrying can add one cubit to his stature?"

Angela and I read all the verses. I tried to remember the scripture reference, but all I could remember was "Matthew...26." I later read all of Matthew 26 and then all the 26th verses in Matthew until I found the passage:

Matthew 6:25-34
25"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life^[a]?

28"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith? So do not worry, saying, 'What shall we eat?' or 'What shall we drink?' or 'What shall we wear?' For the pagans run after all these things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. But seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well. Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.

Footnotes:

1. Matthew 6:27 Or single cubit to his height

I was so amazed to find those verses in a factory. Who wrote them? Was it a person like me, a person who struggles with worry? Did that person have any idea that those carefully copied verses would minister to a stranger?

The passage was just what I needed. I had been doing a lot of worrying about the future, wondering how long I'll stay home with the baby, and how much I'll get done before I go on leave.

I feel much more at peace now. I know God has a plan for me, and I can trust him to take care of me and my family.

Thank you for that unexpected message, Lord! Please plant it in my heart, and let your Word change me. Please bless the person who copied those verses.

Three Years Later
These scriptures bring such comfort to me today. Just reading them isn't enough. I need to meditate on them and PRAY them until the reality of those promises takes root. And I need God to change my heart to help me seek his kingdom first instead of worrying about my own little kingdom.

I think I've just found my next memory passage.

NEVER Leave Your Purse Unzipped

For years, people have been reminding me to zip my purse. The dire consequences they predicted (important stuff falling out to be lost forever, strangers grabbing my wallet while I was distracted, etc.) seemed pretty scary but failed to make a lasting impact.

About ten days ago, I had breakfast with my friend Marie, who recounted a story of throwing up into her mother's purse (as a child, of course). I laughed with her over it and thought, "Well, that's a good reason to zip up your purse!" Alas, I was still incapable of learning from someone else's experience.

What Are the Odds?
Last night, I was working on my new recipe blog when Allyson walked up beside me and mumbled something about having a headache. "A headache?" I asked absently.

"Blaahhhhh!" she answered, spewing vomit right into my open purse. I realized what was happening but was so shocked that I couldn't react quickly enough to spare it from the second onslaught.

As I was leading her toward the bathroom to clean up, she threw up all over the hall floor as well. Ethan looked on from the safety of his room and fired questions at me. "What's wrong? Is it a stomach virus? Will I catch it? Did you clean it up yet? How are you going to clean it?"

"I don't know," I replied, trying to simultaneously control my exasperation and my gag reflex while I wrapped Allyson in a towel and caught three more eruptions.

As luck would have it, Bill happened to be at the gym. "I think you should call Bill," Ethan advised forcefully. "Tell him he needs to come home. He'll know how to clean it up."

"I'm not calling Bill home early. Let him finish his workout. I can figure this out on my own," I asserted with a false bravado. Inwardly, I was pleading, "Come home, Bill! Please come home!"

Clean Up! Clean Up!
Once Allyson seemed stable and somewhat clean--at least for the moment--I wiped down my beloved leather purse and started gingerly picking out putrid objects. I rinsed everything rinseable in the sink and then sprayed it all down with Lysol. I wiped down the inside lining with a wet cloth, but the smell is still unbearable. [I really don't know what else to do besides spraying it with some Febreeze when we get some. If anyone has any suggestions, please comment!]

Next, I drug the shop vac up the stairs and vacuumed up the solid bits while monitoring Allyson for signs of imminent yakking.

Meanwhile, Allyson asked several times, "Where's my daddy? I want Daddy."

"We all want Daddy, honey."

"Hold me!" she said pitifully, and I felt so insensitive for having to be asked! I sat cross-legged on the floor and sat her on my lap, a towel draped over us. That's how we were sitting when Bill came home.

Bill Saves the Day
Bill swooped in and, in the space of ten minutes, threw the soiled towels in the washer, scrubbed the carpet with Resolve, and washed out the shop vac with the hose. Then he noticed that I was looking a little green, and he took Allyson from me and told me to "go take a drive or something."

I felt bad about handing her off to him, but he reassured me that he really doesn't get nauseated the way I do. From that point, all that was left for me to do was wash my hands compulsively and try to convince Ethan that everything would be okay, and yes he did have to go to school in the morning. I have to mention that he was pacing back and forth in his room with socks on his hands--because I'd told him that keeping your hands clean is the best way to avoid getting sick.

Bill sat on the couch with Allyson and calmly wiped up each new mess. They looked so cute that I couldn't resist snapping a picture. Seeing Bill caring for Allyson so lovingly made me melt. It reminded me of another time when he tenderly cared for a vomiting toddler. But that's another story.

Bill slept with Allyson on the couch in the TV room, and I went on to bed around midnight. My stomach felt a little queasy, and I slept fitfully.

Allyson woke up several times during the night, and I could hear her pleading, "I need water! In my sippy cup! In my sippy cup!" She repeated this over and over, and I knew Bill must be offering her ice chips.

Thankfully, by morning she was feeling dramatically better. Bill went on to work--on perhaps five hours of interrupted sleep. Allyson and I have had a wonderful time reading and playing games together.

Final Reminder
So, as I remonstrated at the beginning of this post, NEVER leave your purse unzipped! I'm really hoping I can remember this lesson myself.

Enjoying Halloween Traditions

Honestly, I've never much liked Halloween, other than the scads of candy. I guess it's the scary costumes and haunted houses that bother me. What I do love about Halloween--at least since Bill has been in my life--is our Halloween traditions. Every year, we visit a pumpkin patch, carve pumpkins, go trick-or-treating, and hand out candy to neighborhood kids.

Playing at the Pumpkin Patch
This year, we drove quite a ways to a different pumpkin patch out in the country. It took so long to get there that we only had 20 minutes or so before darkness fell. Still, we had fun on the hayride, bounce houses, bouncy slide, mini Ferris wheel, and Allyson's pony ride.

It was funny taking a hay ride with only one other family, but the kids still loved it.
































Although it's hard to tell due to the cheap throwaway camera we used, Allyson wore a huge grin for the entire three minutes of her pony ride. She wasn't at all afraid, even when the pony jumped because of the camera flash.



Allyson wanted to take all the pumpkins, especially the smallest ones. At home, she carried the two tiny pumpkins we bought everywhere. (Last year she even took a bath with one.) She proudly decorated her mini pumpkin with a dry erase marker.

The kids patiently posed for a lengthy photo shoot with the pumpkins. These were our favorites.





























Carving the Jack-O-Lanterns
Both kids thoroughly enjoyed the pumpkin carving, though Allyson wished she could wield the knife. Allyson got to help design the face for the smaller pumpkin, and Ethan designed and cut the larger one (with a bit of help from Bill).





























Superheros and Villains
As soon as we saw this year's Party City flyer, Allyson set her heart on being Spider-Man, whom she calls Syer-Man. She kept saying, "Take me to Halloween!" We couldn't make her understand that Halloween is a time, not a place!

We looked but couldn't find a costume in her size. So we got her the next best thing, Super Girl. She was skeptical until she tried it on, and then she loved it. She saw another, older girl in the same costume, and she was delighted. "Just like me!" she crowed.



Ethan chose the ghost from Scream, complete with fake blood that cycled through the mask. I wasn't overly fond of the somewhat scary costume, but now that he's 11, he refuses to wear superhero costumes any longer.



Allyson wasn't afraid of the costume, surprisingly, though she was terrified of a teenager in a gorilla suit when he came to our door for candy. She jumped back and climbed onto a chair, and the boy felt really bad for scaring her.

Enjoying Allyson's Candy
It was a lot of fun this year. My only regret is that we have already eaten all of Allyson's good candies. Now she's down to Sweet Tarts and Starburst. (Ethan left his candy at his dad's house.) Well, there's always next year.

The Least of These

I've been troubled for several days over something that happened last weekend in Chicago. When Angela and I were waiting for the subway, a man approached us and asked if we could help him (i.e. give him some money).

This is not the first time such a thing has happened to me, but there was something different about this man. He had a genteel, respectful manner. He stood a few feet away and, in a soft-spoken voice, told us that he had fallen on hard times and had been living in the subway a few weeks.

He said something like, "I know I look dirty and I probably smell, but I haven't had a way to take a shower down here. I don't want to make you feel threatened, so I'll stand back here away from you. You look like nice ladies, and I can see that you are traveling. If there's any way that you could help me, I'd be really grateful."

I hesitated for a moment. I really, really wanted to help him, but I looked sorrowfully in his eyes and said, "I had a dollar bill, but I just gave it to that man playing the guitar." That was true in a sense, but really it was a lie. The truth is, I also had a five dollar bill that I could have easily spared. So it wasn't the money. It also wasn't that I thought he was lying and didn't need the money; maybe he was lying, but he really seemed genuine. Besides, whenever I've felt prompted to give money to people, I've never worried over what they would do with the money. I always feel that I'm giving the money to God, and once I've been obedient, it really doesn't matter what happens next.

No, in this case, the truth was that I was afraid. I remembered all the times I'd been told not to give money to people on the street--that when you open your purse or your wallet, the person might grab it and run away. Worse yet, he might grab you and hurt you. In my gut, I didn't feel he was a threat, and I really wanted to help him. But I just couldn't take the risk.

He hung his head and walked away, and in a moment we boarded the train. I asked Angela what she'd thought of his story, and she said she had not been able to hear what he was saying. With all our stress over making it to the airport on time, I quickly forgot the incident.

Two days later, at Bible study, we talked about our mission as Christians. We studied Matthew 25, in which Jesus says that when we don't help the needy, it's like we've turned our back on Jesus himself:

34"Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'

37"Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'

40"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'

I immediately thought of my encounter with the man in the subway, and my heart was pierced. Here was an opportunity to show love to a stranger, and I'd missed it! Since then, I've thought of that man often. I wish I could go back and do it again. I'd like to hand him the $5, or even the whole $25 if God so prompted me, and say, "God loves you, and so do I."

Now, all I can do is pray for him, and ask God to help me do better the next time. I want to be able to hear God's voice clearly and respond; when God tells me to do something, I know I can trust that he will take care of me.

Weekend in the Windy City

This past weekend, I did something crazy and fun. My friend Angela and I flew to Chicago on a last-minute package deal. As it turns out, we spent the majority of our weekend using various forms of mass transit, but we still had a great time.

We flew out of Love Field in Dallas on Friday evening. It was my first time flying out of that little regional airport, and I loved the local flavor. We were delighted with the thick southern accents, so much more pronounced than what you hear at the larger D/FW airport just a few miles to the west.

What we did not love was the tiny plane, little more than a puddle jumper. We shared a bit of wine to take the edge off, and we actually held hands during the bumpy landing at O'Hare. I loved it that for once I had some company in my usual hand-wringing. Despite our fear, we jabbered the entire two hours; it was great!

We stayed at a modest Holiday Inn Express right by the Midway Airport. (I do realize that it is crazy to fly into O'Hare and stay by Midway, but it was the cheapest hotel/flight deal I could find.) The room was adequate and seemed pretty quiet, at least at the time. We lay on our queen beds and talked until we couldn't keep our eyes open.

A Rude Awakening
The plan was to wake up at 8:00, have breakfast, and head into downtown, which was only 8 miles away. As it turned out, we woke up MUCH earlier. I was startled awake at 4:00 A.M. when I heard a woman's muted scream. "What was that?" I wondered. Surely it couldn't be... oh, yes. It was! I was listening to some very passionate loving. It literally sounded like the famous scene in When Harry Met Sally. But who would have sex at 4:00 in the morning? A prostitute? (It wasn't THAT cheap of a hotel!) Maybe her husband was shipping off to Iraq on an early plane, and this was their goodbye? Whatever the reason, the amorous sounds became very annoying as time drug by. At 4:20, the heater came on and masked the noise so I could fall back asleep.

At the time, I was dying to know if Angela was awake because I wanted to laugh my head off. But just in case she was lucky enough to sleep through it, I didn't want to risk waking her. Well, when the alarm went off at 8:00, the first words out of her mouth were, "Did you hear that woman??" Then we had our good laugh. We went through all the possible scenarios, and we decided that the woman and her lover must have been out all night and were just then coming to bed. We joked about the experience throughout the weekend; we just had this junior-high fascination with the whole thing. We said we would play some Barry White for her through the wall if it happened again; maybe that would speed things along!

We had a surprisingly good free breakfast featuring hot cinnamon rolls. Well, Angela just had coffee, but I ate enough for both of us. It was a good thing, because we had quite a grueling day planned: trains, buses, taxis, and LOTS of walking. I was proud of my prior experience on the Chicago Transit Authority system, but it really didn't prove all that helpful.

Angry Subway Guy
We shuttled to the Orange Line at Midway and rode the elevated train into downtown. Within five minutes of getting on the L, we witnessed a scary interchange between Angry Subway Guy and a seemingly oblivious fellow traveler. Based on the angry young man's disjointed complaints, it seems he had offered cigarettes to the other young man and had been rebuffed and accused of "pushing." We studiously kept our eyes averted and inwardly prayed. The poor man was probably harmless, but it was pretty scary!

Over all, though, we were impressed by the kindness of strangers in Chicago. The CTA employees were most helpful, and many people along the way helped point us in the right direction. It really seemed that Chicago residents are more caring and solicitous than Dallas people. But then, we've never ridden mass transit in Dallas. (It's not nearly so convenient as Chicago's.)

We got off the L at the correct stop and then ran to catch the first bus we saw--which was headed the wrong way. We caught our mistake a few blocks down and got off, and then we walked back and caught the correct bus to Navy Pier. That bus was absolutely packed, and I found it very awkward to be standing right in front of strangers and lurching back and forth and practically falling on them. Each time the bus stopped, a large group of people would force their way on. I kept thinking there was no way anyone else could fit, but I was wrong. It ended up being as crowded as those clown cars at the circus.


Navy Pier
The highlight of our visit to Navy Pier was seeing countless dogs in hilarious Halloween costumes. Our favorite was Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, complete with dreadlocks and a triangular pirate's hat. There was a chihuahua in a hot dog bun, a Shih Tzu with a pointy princess hat and flowing gown, and a terrier in a black spandex body suit with a skeleton on it. Unfortunately, we had both forgotten our cameras, or we would have taken pictures of all of them. I bought an $11 throwaway camera and then only took a handful of pictures. I was hesitant to "waste" pictures since there were only 24 shots on the roll. And I hated not being able to see if each picture turned out well.

Magnificent Mile
After a couple of hours, we hopped on the bus again to go shopping on the Magnificent Mile. I studied my crumpled CTA map and determined that we should get off at Michigan Avenue. This bus seemed even more crowded than the last, and we wondered how we would fight our way to the door. Angela was acutely uncomfortable because a rather smelly man was leaning way closer to her than seemed absolutely necessary.

Suddenly I noticed that we had passed Wabash, and that didn't seem right. How had we missed Michigan Avenue, I wondered aloud. A kind local explained that we had gone under Michigan, and we needed to get off immediately and walk back about three blocks. This was getting to be a pattern!

We did a bit of window shopping and bought some undies at Victoria's Secret. We went through a small art gallery in an old chapel, the same one we'd visited on our last Chicago trip five years ago. We just had time for a cup of hot chocolate before we hurried back to the hotel; we didn't want to violate the rule about traveling on mass transit without male protection after dark.

Pizza and Politics
I was so glad to get back to our modest, usually quiet room. I think Angela would have loved to go back downtown for dinner, but I was already starting to turn into a pumpkin. So we took a cab to nearby Giordano's and had some unbelievable deep dish pizza. We also had a glass of white wine, and that was fun. I'm not a drinker, so that one glass had me feeling a little tipsy. In fact, my legs felt sort of tingly. We ended up talking politics, a first for us, and the wine made us much more opinionated. We found ourselves pounding the table to emphasize our points! Between the two of us, we couldn't even finish half of the small pizza, though we gave it our best effort. Still, we couldn't resist ordering tiramisu to take back to the room. (We never did eat it, though.)

Angela, me at Giordano's

Two Hour, 28-Mile Commute
We started our trek back to O'Hare at 9:00 Sunday morning. We shuttled to Midway, rode the Orange Line into downtown, and wandered around until a kind woman pointed us to the Dearborn entrance to the Blue Line, which goes straight to O'Hare.

It all seemed pretty simple from that point, but what we didn't know was that the Blue Line was ending at Belmont, nine stops before O'Hare. We had to catch a shuttle to Montrose and then get back on the Blue Line to the airport. We had decided to find a cab at Belmont, but we allowed ourselves to be herded onto the waiting express bus instead. We ended up making it by 11:15, well over an hour before our flight. Then we teased each other about being so worried. I had been close to tears at one point, and I think Angela felt the same way.

I thought it was all worth it because our total cost for this commute was... (drum roll) $2.00. Yes, only $2.00. Isn't that marvelous? If we had it to do over, however, I think Angela might have splurged on a cab.

In any case, we had time for a sumptuous McDonald's lunch. After a short wait, we settled gratefully into our seats, thinking our adventure was finally coming to an end. But, as you may have guessed, there was just one more adventure in store.

One Last Adventure
Toward the end of our flight, a flight attendant handed Angela a folded sheet of note paper. It read, "To 16D... At the risk of making an a*s of myself, are you married? Do you live in Dallas? 6B." We were both astonished. We couldn't even catch a glimpse of the man because he was up in first class. I must admit that I felt just a teeny bit like chopped liver, but mostly I was proud of my gorgeous friend, who turns heads wherever we go. She was quite flattered and didn't know how to respond.

The flight attendant was so curious that he couldn't resist asking what was in the note. "I was a good mailman," he explained. "I didn't read it." Angela handed it over. "Will there be a response?" he asked. She said she needed a minute. "Should I ask if he has millions?" he asked. Angela said that would not be necessary.

She tore the sheet in half and wrote her answer in her beautiful, flowing script. "I must say I'm very flattered, and you've certainly made my day. I am not married, but am in a commited relationship. Thank you for your kind note. 16D."

Our hilarious flight attendant was waiting with bated breath. "What did you say?" he questioned. Again, Angela handed the sheet over. He smiled his approval and carried it up to 6B. We kept a watch for the rest of the flight, and he did get up once to let his adolescent daughter (we assumed she was his daughter) out of the row. It was like those tantalizing, annoying glimpses of the neighbor Wilson on Home Improvement. We saw a brief side view and a back view. I could see that his hair seemed puffy, sort of mushroomy. But he wasn't a bad-looking guy.

We had a nice, smooth landing, and Angela didn't even glance in the direction of the mysterious stranger because she was so intent on her impending reunion with Tim, who was meeting us at baggage claim, and whom she hadn't seen in nearly three weeks. I was hoping to witness a passionate airport kiss, maybe with a dip, but they just exchanged a hug and a perfunctory kiss. I think Tim is very proper, though Angela, to quote one of the Chicago cab drivers, is "the wild one." (We were mystified as to why he had characterized her as wild when both of us were wearing jeans, black jackets, and highlighted blonde bobs. She was a little offended by his remark, and so was I because it made me feel stodgy.)

Home At Last
Anyway, we enjoyed our girls' weekend (an entire weekend!) immensely, but we were so ready to be back home. I collapsed on the couch as soon as I got home and was snoozing momentarily, lulled by the soothing sounds of my family around me.

We'll have to have another girls' weekend, hopefully before another five years have passed. We're thinking a cruise might be nice--no mass transit involved! Anyone care to join us?