Bill (smiling mischievously): "Come on Allyson, let's have some Pop Weaver!"
Me: "There's NOTHING wrong with that [generic] popcorn!"
Bill: "Let's have some Pop Weaver with some Diet Ditto [generic 7-Up]."
Me (with a swat to Bill's behind): "I'll Ditto you!!... And there's NOTHING wrong with that popcorn!"
FIVE MINUTES LATER
Allyson (speaking around a mouthful of Pop Weaver): "Here, Mama, have some popcorn."
Me: I'd love some Pop Weaver, baby. Man, that's yummy!
Now I just need to pour myself an ice cold glass of Diet Ditto.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Scissors Can Cut Hair
One night last week, I was complaining to my friend Brandy about Allyson's fascination with scissors. I told her how Allyson had cut holes in the bottom of a reusable grocery bag that morning with her little craft scissors.
"You know what she's going to do next, right?" Brandy asked. I nodded as she continued. "She's going to cut her hair. You'd better keep those scissors out of her reach."
"I know," I said. "It's just that there really isn't any place that's truly out of her reach any more. But you're right. I was about her age when I cut a chunk out of my hair. Or maybe I was four."
I told her the story. My mother had been so busy taking care of baby Emily that she hadn't even noticed until I announced proudly, "Scissors can cut hair." Turning around sharply, she spotted an inch-long tuft of hair to the left of my forehead.
The first thing she did was spank me, and I think (based on the picture below) the next thing she did was cut a matching piece on the other side of my forehead. I guess she couldn't give me bangs because they would have covered too wide of a section. As you can see, it didn't look so bad....
Me, Age Four
After I'd laughed over the story with Brandy, I resolved to find a way to lock up the scissors; what I needed was something like a gun case where I could lock up all Allyson's craft supplies and my scrapbooking papers, too. That would stop her from cutting my best sheets into tatters AND protect her hair (and various household objects). Or maybe I'd just get another plastic doorknob lock and stash it all in the downstairs bathroom closet.
Despite my best intentions, I didn't get a chance to follow through. Would you believe that Allyson cut her hair the very next day?
I was on the phone with her Auntie Lisa at the time. Early in the conversation, I let Allyson have the phone, just after I'd explained to Lisa about my daily slump at 3:00, when I often melt into sleep. Allyson told Lisa she wanted to go to the park, and I could hear Lisa's reply: "Is it almost 3:00? You'd better hurry before your mama falls asleep."
"Oh, she's not sleepin'," Allyson said. "She only sleeps when I'm not busy."
"Ain't that the truth," I thought ruefully. "And if she does let me sleep, it's only so she can get really busy while I'm not looking."
Example of Some 3:00 Mischief
I had no sooner reclaimed the phone than Allyson started begging to talk again. I moved from my bedroom to the TV room, then back to my room, then to my closet. Allyson finally tired of following me around and retired to her room.
When she shut the door, little alarm bells went off in my head, but I was too engrossed in laughing with Lisa to take action. About five minutes later, we hung up, and I opened Allyson's door with trepidation.
She gave me a crooked, rather guilty smile, her craft scissors half hidden behind her back. Several six-inch strands of golden, silky hair lay in a pile at her feet.
"Oh, Allyson!" I wailed, horribly disappointed and exasperated at the same time. That very morning, two people at MOPS had commented on Allyson's gorgeous hair. Now, I was berating myself for not locking up the scissors when I had the chance. Maybe this was my punishment for being vain about my daughter's hair.
I had the same initial reaction as my own mother had; I gave Allyson a couple of swats. She wept bitterly, but I think she was more upset about my disappointment than about the mild spanking.
"Now we'll have to cut your pretty hair," I said. I held out the shortest strand, my fingers just grazing her shoulder. "This is how short it will be," I said.
Allyson was sobbing so hard she could barely speak. "I don't w-want to c-cut my hair!"
I took her to my room and pulled her into my lap on the rocking chair where I'd spent hours nursing her just a couple of years ago. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I held her close and stroked her hair. "It's going to be okay," I promised. "You'll always be beautiful. And your hair will grow back." Still she cried.
She cried all the way to the kids' hair salon where she'd had her first trim a few months back. When we got out of the car, her little body heaved one last quavering sigh, and then she put on a brave face.
As I was signing her in, one of the stylists gave Allyson a welcoming smile. "Do you need a haircut?" she asked brightly. Allyson broke into fresh tears, and the lady looked at me quizzically.
"She just gave herself a haircut," I explained. "We need you to fix it. Don't cry, sweetie," I pleaded. "It's going to be okay."
The stylist asked if she wanted to sit in the firetruck chair and watch a princess video, and a hint of a smile curved Allyson's lips when she nodded.
"Okay, let's see what we've got here." The top of Allyson's hair was still held back with an elastic band, so I took it down and smoothed her hair with my fingers.
"That's not so bad," the stylist said. "It's covered up now." Then Allyson moved her head to see the screen better, and the top hair swung to the side. "But you can definitely see it."
We talked it over and decided bangs and tapered sides would be the best way to camouflage the damage. "Would you like bangs?" she asked. Allyson stared at her blankly until she gestured to her own bangs, and then Allyson brightened.
A few minutes later, my little three-year-old looked like a young lady. I couldn't believe the transformation. "Oh, honey, you look beautiful!" I exclaimed. Allyson beamed.
Allyson's First Haircut (A Happier Occasion)
On the way home, Allyson had a sudden realization. "Now I have bangs like Olivia!" she announced. "Not Olivia the pig, Olivia my friend," she clarified. (Olivia the pig is featured in both a favorite TV program and a favorite library book.) "I wonder if Olivia got her bangs at the barber, too."
Since then, Allyson has told her story to everyone we've seen, always with a flourish of her gracefully tapered hair. "I cut my hair with scissors, and then we had to go to the barber and get some bangs," she explains.
I hope the joy of the bangs does not outweigh the memory of the initial horror. Maybe I'd better go buy that gun case.
Allyson's New 'Do
"You know what she's going to do next, right?" Brandy asked. I nodded as she continued. "She's going to cut her hair. You'd better keep those scissors out of her reach."
"I know," I said. "It's just that there really isn't any place that's truly out of her reach any more. But you're right. I was about her age when I cut a chunk out of my hair. Or maybe I was four."
I told her the story. My mother had been so busy taking care of baby Emily that she hadn't even noticed until I announced proudly, "Scissors can cut hair." Turning around sharply, she spotted an inch-long tuft of hair to the left of my forehead.
The first thing she did was spank me, and I think (based on the picture below) the next thing she did was cut a matching piece on the other side of my forehead. I guess she couldn't give me bangs because they would have covered too wide of a section. As you can see, it didn't look so bad....
Me, Age FourAfter I'd laughed over the story with Brandy, I resolved to find a way to lock up the scissors; what I needed was something like a gun case where I could lock up all Allyson's craft supplies and my scrapbooking papers, too. That would stop her from cutting my best sheets into tatters AND protect her hair (and various household objects). Or maybe I'd just get another plastic doorknob lock and stash it all in the downstairs bathroom closet.
Despite my best intentions, I didn't get a chance to follow through. Would you believe that Allyson cut her hair the very next day?
I was on the phone with her Auntie Lisa at the time. Early in the conversation, I let Allyson have the phone, just after I'd explained to Lisa about my daily slump at 3:00, when I often melt into sleep. Allyson told Lisa she wanted to go to the park, and I could hear Lisa's reply: "Is it almost 3:00? You'd better hurry before your mama falls asleep."
"Oh, she's not sleepin'," Allyson said. "She only sleeps when I'm not busy."
"Ain't that the truth," I thought ruefully. "And if she does let me sleep, it's only so she can get really busy while I'm not looking."
Example of Some 3:00 MischiefI had no sooner reclaimed the phone than Allyson started begging to talk again. I moved from my bedroom to the TV room, then back to my room, then to my closet. Allyson finally tired of following me around and retired to her room.
When she shut the door, little alarm bells went off in my head, but I was too engrossed in laughing with Lisa to take action. About five minutes later, we hung up, and I opened Allyson's door with trepidation.
She gave me a crooked, rather guilty smile, her craft scissors half hidden behind her back. Several six-inch strands of golden, silky hair lay in a pile at her feet.
"Oh, Allyson!" I wailed, horribly disappointed and exasperated at the same time. That very morning, two people at MOPS had commented on Allyson's gorgeous hair. Now, I was berating myself for not locking up the scissors when I had the chance. Maybe this was my punishment for being vain about my daughter's hair.
I had the same initial reaction as my own mother had; I gave Allyson a couple of swats. She wept bitterly, but I think she was more upset about my disappointment than about the mild spanking.
"Now we'll have to cut your pretty hair," I said. I held out the shortest strand, my fingers just grazing her shoulder. "This is how short it will be," I said.
Allyson was sobbing so hard she could barely speak. "I don't w-want to c-cut my hair!"
I took her to my room and pulled her into my lap on the rocking chair where I'd spent hours nursing her just a couple of years ago. She buried her face in my shoulder, and I held her close and stroked her hair. "It's going to be okay," I promised. "You'll always be beautiful. And your hair will grow back." Still she cried.
She cried all the way to the kids' hair salon where she'd had her first trim a few months back. When we got out of the car, her little body heaved one last quavering sigh, and then she put on a brave face.
As I was signing her in, one of the stylists gave Allyson a welcoming smile. "Do you need a haircut?" she asked brightly. Allyson broke into fresh tears, and the lady looked at me quizzically.
"She just gave herself a haircut," I explained. "We need you to fix it. Don't cry, sweetie," I pleaded. "It's going to be okay."
The stylist asked if she wanted to sit in the firetruck chair and watch a princess video, and a hint of a smile curved Allyson's lips when she nodded.
"Okay, let's see what we've got here." The top of Allyson's hair was still held back with an elastic band, so I took it down and smoothed her hair with my fingers.
"That's not so bad," the stylist said. "It's covered up now." Then Allyson moved her head to see the screen better, and the top hair swung to the side. "But you can definitely see it."
We talked it over and decided bangs and tapered sides would be the best way to camouflage the damage. "Would you like bangs?" she asked. Allyson stared at her blankly until she gestured to her own bangs, and then Allyson brightened.
A few minutes later, my little three-year-old looked like a young lady. I couldn't believe the transformation. "Oh, honey, you look beautiful!" I exclaimed. Allyson beamed.
Allyson's First Haircut (A Happier Occasion)On the way home, Allyson had a sudden realization. "Now I have bangs like Olivia!" she announced. "Not Olivia the pig, Olivia my friend," she clarified. (Olivia the pig is featured in both a favorite TV program and a favorite library book.) "I wonder if Olivia got her bangs at the barber, too."
Since then, Allyson has told her story to everyone we've seen, always with a flourish of her gracefully tapered hair. "I cut my hair with scissors, and then we had to go to the barber and get some bangs," she explains.
I hope the joy of the bangs does not outweigh the memory of the initial horror. Maybe I'd better go buy that gun case.
Allyson's New 'DoWednesday, November 18, 2009
It's Never Too Soon to Think About Wrinkles
Tonight while Bill and I were working on dishes, he got worried because it was a little quiet upstairs. He hollered, "Allyson, what are you doing up there?"
"Nuffin!" she called back.
"Why don't you come down here with me and Mama?"
"Not now!" she replied. "I'm waitin' to see what's under the eye."
"Huh?" Bill asked.
"It's a eye on TV. I want to see what's under it," she explained.
"I think she's watching Discovery," Bill surmised.
"How cute!" I said as I scraped the last bit of crusty refried beans into a Gladware container.
Technically, Allyson is only allowed to watch about 30 minutes of her preschool channel at bedtime, but we certainly didn't want to stand in the way of her education. So we left her alone while we worked on the kitchen.
Bill was washing the last two pots when I headed upstairs to check on Allyson. I was flabbergasted when I saw what she was actually watching. "You're not going to believe what Allyson's watching," I yelled.
"What?"
"It's an infomercial! For wrinkle cream!"
"That's bizarre," he said.
"Yes," I agreed, just as I realized that I, too, was now enthralled. (I have to admit that I have a weakness for informercials; generally I try to avoid them like an alcoholic steers clear of bars.)
We sat side by side on the couch and watched the same trick over and over again: each model smoothed a pea-sized drop of the Youthology wrinkle cream under one eye, and we watched the wrinkles disappear via time-lapse photography. After only 90 seconds, their smile lines, bags, and shadows were virtually eliminated. It was positively mesmerizing, but I felt a little sorry for the poor folks; now their untreated eyes looked pathetic in comparison. One of the girls was my age, or maybe younger, and I'd thought she looked perfectly fine until I saw how much better she looked with the Youthology cream.
Not One Wrinkle
"I've got to have this stuff," I thought, especially when I found out it had been marked down from $118 to just $39 for a 30-day supply--AND it was only available through this TV offer. I was tempted to go right to their website, but then I remembered the time I tried ProActiv solution after watching an infomercial. Instead of clearing up my pimples, it gave me a horrible case of hives that only went away after all my skin peeled off. "Step away from the television," I urged myself.
Just then, Bill came up to take Allyson for her bath. "Please," she wheedled, "I want to watch some more. It's a good, good show!"
"Honey, it's a commercial," Bill explained kindly. "It's time for your bath." We both tore ourselves away.
Obviously, she's inherited my weakness. I just had no idea how soon it would take effect.
"Nuffin!" she called back.
"Why don't you come down here with me and Mama?"
"Not now!" she replied. "I'm waitin' to see what's under the eye."
"Huh?" Bill asked.
"It's a eye on TV. I want to see what's under it," she explained.
"I think she's watching Discovery," Bill surmised.
"How cute!" I said as I scraped the last bit of crusty refried beans into a Gladware container.
Technically, Allyson is only allowed to watch about 30 minutes of her preschool channel at bedtime, but we certainly didn't want to stand in the way of her education. So we left her alone while we worked on the kitchen.
Bill was washing the last two pots when I headed upstairs to check on Allyson. I was flabbergasted when I saw what she was actually watching. "You're not going to believe what Allyson's watching," I yelled.
"What?"
"It's an infomercial! For wrinkle cream!"
"That's bizarre," he said.
"Yes," I agreed, just as I realized that I, too, was now enthralled. (I have to admit that I have a weakness for informercials; generally I try to avoid them like an alcoholic steers clear of bars.)
We sat side by side on the couch and watched the same trick over and over again: each model smoothed a pea-sized drop of the Youthology wrinkle cream under one eye, and we watched the wrinkles disappear via time-lapse photography. After only 90 seconds, their smile lines, bags, and shadows were virtually eliminated. It was positively mesmerizing, but I felt a little sorry for the poor folks; now their untreated eyes looked pathetic in comparison. One of the girls was my age, or maybe younger, and I'd thought she looked perfectly fine until I saw how much better she looked with the Youthology cream.
Not One Wrinkle"I've got to have this stuff," I thought, especially when I found out it had been marked down from $118 to just $39 for a 30-day supply--AND it was only available through this TV offer. I was tempted to go right to their website, but then I remembered the time I tried ProActiv solution after watching an infomercial. Instead of clearing up my pimples, it gave me a horrible case of hives that only went away after all my skin peeled off. "Step away from the television," I urged myself.
Just then, Bill came up to take Allyson for her bath. "Please," she wheedled, "I want to watch some more. It's a good, good show!"
"Honey, it's a commercial," Bill explained kindly. "It's time for your bath." We both tore ourselves away.
Obviously, she's inherited my weakness. I just had no idea how soon it would take effect.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Thank God for Hockey
Here, finally, is another chapter in my love story with Bill....
After the dubious welcome of September 11th, Bill's new life in America got off to a rather rough start. We were thrilled to be together, of course, but that didn't erase his loneliness. He'd left all of his friends, his coworkers, his hockey team, and his close-knit family behind. Here, he had... me.
He lived in a small, dark apartment about 40 miles from my house. This was what we'd planned; we wanted to avoid becoming enmeshed in each others' lives too quickly. It seemed like a good plan, but the reality was that on most days, the TV was his only company. He had a couple of friends at work, but unlike Bill, they had busy lives.
I could tell that he was depressed, though he wouldn't admit it. In Bill's mind, expressing his unhappiness equated to questioning his decision, and he hates second guessing himself. The more I asked how he was feeling, the more withdrawn he became.
I'd like to say I was a comfort to him, but the opposite was true. I was used to being treated like a princess once a month, but now I saw him every day at work, and mostly all he did was mope. My insecurities engulfed me, and we were both miserable. I continually complained about his lack of affection, questioned his love for me, and wondered aloud whether we'd made the wrong decision--which made him angry. I'd dissolve into tears, and then, pushing past his own mood, he'd pat my back helplessly. This went on for a month or so.
A Happy Coincidence?
Just as I was beginning to doubt we would make it, something wonderful happened. Maybe it was a divine appointment. Ethan and I had spent Sunday afternoon with Bill, who seemed exceptionally blue during dinner. It was hard to leave him, but I knew we had to be up early in the morning. I drove home with a heavy heart, scarcely hearing Ethan's happy chatter.
At home, I was surprised to find a message from Bill on my answering machine--it had been less than an hour since I'd talked to him. When I called back, he was positively breathless with excitement.
After I'd left, Bill walked over to the outside roller hockey rink at the recreation center. Planning to skate around a bit, he ended up joining a pick-up game instead. But that was only the good news. The great news was that these guys were forming a roller hockey team, and they wanted him to join! He couldn't believe he'd arrived just in time to catch their practice.
My own smile must have matched his own. Relief washed over me as I listened to the story; this was the old Bill, the one I fell in love with.
In no time, they were practicing a couple times a week and playing games regularly. They played in the old Big Wheel skating rink where I'd spent a few Friday nights in the 80s. Other than the plastic floor tiles that had replaced the gleaming wooden rink, the Plexiglass walls, and the metal risers, the building was just as I remembered it. I might have been caught up in memories of couple skating to Journey--okay, of longing for some boy to ask me to skate--had it not been for the smell. I've encountered that odor in only three places, and all three were roller hockey rinks. It's like... the inside of a sweaty gym sock. No matter how many games I attended, I was shocked at the stench that assaulted my nostrils, yet somehow it always dissipated during the suspense of the game.
Ethan and I attended nearly every game, and I was ALMOST Bill's biggest fan. (Ethan was more interested in running around with the other boys and sometimes throwing bottle caps onto the ice.) I remember sitting on the risers during the first game, bursting with pride when I heard some of the other spectators whispering, "That's Bill. He's from Canada! Isn't he great?"
True to stereotype, Bill really was a star. In truth, he'd only been playing a couple of years, but that was two years longer than the rest of them. Some of them could barely skate, at least at first. The goalie's mom was Bill's biggest fan, mainly because she was better at following the game than I was. She shouted Bill's name almost as often as her son Gentry's. Her favorite phrase was "That's-the-way, Bill! That's-the-way!" On the rare occasions when Bill got a penalty, she echoed my own thoughts: "No, no! Not Bill! No way." She was quite a tiny lady, but you'd never guess it when the Blazers scored a goal.
Like Pearls Before Swine
I was pretty loud myself. I leaned forward in my seat when Bill approached the goal, and when he scored, I leaped to my feet and screamed myself hoarse. I was trying to make up for my egregious lack of attention during the one disastrous game I'd watched him play up in Vancouver in 2000.
Bill At Start of Disastrous Game
On that team, Bill was probably only average, but he definitely had an above-average game that night. Knowing I was up in the stands spurred him on to one goal and a couple of assists. Fortunately, he didn't realize that I had no idea what was going on. I'd never watched hockey before, not even on TV, and I just couldn't follow the constant action; instead, I was deep in conversation with one of his teammates' girlfriends, a very personable girl named Tanya.
In the last minutes of the game, they were winning by several points, but Bill pushed for one more goal in my honor. As he rounded the back of the goal, he caught his skate on the post and wrenched his ankle. A sudden silence caught my attention, and I stopped speaking in mid sentence. "Who's that on the ice?" Tanya asked tensely.
"Someone's hurt?" I asked.
"That's Bill!" another girl said. My heart seemed to stop beating as I strained to see his limp form. I breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when two of his friends helped him up and off the ice. But his face was gray when he emerged from the locker room several minutes later.
As he limped to the car, I had to ask what had happened, and then I had to admit that I hadn't seen any of the goals. He was in too much pain to care. He said it was probably a bad sprain, but he insisted he'd be fine, and he also insisted that he could drive the two hours to the Seattle airport the next morning.
He did manage to make the drive, but I felt so bad for him--especially when we learned that he'd broken his tibia. Man, is he tough!
A Chance to Redeem Myself
Thanks in part to his teammates' slow skating, I did learn to follow hockey fairly well after Bill moved to Texas. I watched the Blazers claw their way to the top, winning the league championship in just their second season. I watched them transition to ice hockey, which was much more difficult, and I watched them move from the top of the I-league to the bottom of the D-league. Over the years, old players left and new ones took their place, and the name changed a couple of times, but Bill was always at the heart of the team.
Bill (Right) With Best Friends Troy and Ben--Circa 2007
Now, unfortunately, I don't get to watch much at all. Most of the games are very late, way too late for Allyson. But every now and then they have an early game, and Allyson gets to cheer for her daddy. SHE'S now his biggest fan. "Go-Daddy-go-Daddy-go!" she hollers. When he scores--and also when he doesn't--she shouts, "That's my daddy! Number 2-2!" Nothing makes her happier than when he skates up to the glass and gives her a wave.
They're already making plans for her future hockey career. She's even picked her jersey number: 8. Somehow we'll have to squeeze in those practices and games with her ballet lessons and recitals, not to mention the soccer. (She desperately wants to do all these things.) I wonder which sport she'll actually choose?
I guess hockey will be part of our life for a long, long time, and that's fine with me. If it weren't for hockey, Bill just might have gone back to Canada. I guess I'll never know, but either way, I love to see his passion for the game. Thank God for hockey!
After the dubious welcome of September 11th, Bill's new life in America got off to a rather rough start. We were thrilled to be together, of course, but that didn't erase his loneliness. He'd left all of his friends, his coworkers, his hockey team, and his close-knit family behind. Here, he had... me.
He lived in a small, dark apartment about 40 miles from my house. This was what we'd planned; we wanted to avoid becoming enmeshed in each others' lives too quickly. It seemed like a good plan, but the reality was that on most days, the TV was his only company. He had a couple of friends at work, but unlike Bill, they had busy lives.
I could tell that he was depressed, though he wouldn't admit it. In Bill's mind, expressing his unhappiness equated to questioning his decision, and he hates second guessing himself. The more I asked how he was feeling, the more withdrawn he became.
I'd like to say I was a comfort to him, but the opposite was true. I was used to being treated like a princess once a month, but now I saw him every day at work, and mostly all he did was mope. My insecurities engulfed me, and we were both miserable. I continually complained about his lack of affection, questioned his love for me, and wondered aloud whether we'd made the wrong decision--which made him angry. I'd dissolve into tears, and then, pushing past his own mood, he'd pat my back helplessly. This went on for a month or so.
A Happy Coincidence?
Just as I was beginning to doubt we would make it, something wonderful happened. Maybe it was a divine appointment. Ethan and I had spent Sunday afternoon with Bill, who seemed exceptionally blue during dinner. It was hard to leave him, but I knew we had to be up early in the morning. I drove home with a heavy heart, scarcely hearing Ethan's happy chatter.
At home, I was surprised to find a message from Bill on my answering machine--it had been less than an hour since I'd talked to him. When I called back, he was positively breathless with excitement.
After I'd left, Bill walked over to the outside roller hockey rink at the recreation center. Planning to skate around a bit, he ended up joining a pick-up game instead. But that was only the good news. The great news was that these guys were forming a roller hockey team, and they wanted him to join! He couldn't believe he'd arrived just in time to catch their practice.
My own smile must have matched his own. Relief washed over me as I listened to the story; this was the old Bill, the one I fell in love with.
In no time, they were practicing a couple times a week and playing games regularly. They played in the old Big Wheel skating rink where I'd spent a few Friday nights in the 80s. Other than the plastic floor tiles that had replaced the gleaming wooden rink, the Plexiglass walls, and the metal risers, the building was just as I remembered it. I might have been caught up in memories of couple skating to Journey--okay, of longing for some boy to ask me to skate--had it not been for the smell. I've encountered that odor in only three places, and all three were roller hockey rinks. It's like... the inside of a sweaty gym sock. No matter how many games I attended, I was shocked at the stench that assaulted my nostrils, yet somehow it always dissipated during the suspense of the game.
Ethan and I attended nearly every game, and I was ALMOST Bill's biggest fan. (Ethan was more interested in running around with the other boys and sometimes throwing bottle caps onto the ice.) I remember sitting on the risers during the first game, bursting with pride when I heard some of the other spectators whispering, "That's Bill. He's from Canada! Isn't he great?"
True to stereotype, Bill really was a star. In truth, he'd only been playing a couple of years, but that was two years longer than the rest of them. Some of them could barely skate, at least at first. The goalie's mom was Bill's biggest fan, mainly because she was better at following the game than I was. She shouted Bill's name almost as often as her son Gentry's. Her favorite phrase was "That's-the-way, Bill! That's-the-way!" On the rare occasions when Bill got a penalty, she echoed my own thoughts: "No, no! Not Bill! No way." She was quite a tiny lady, but you'd never guess it when the Blazers scored a goal.
Like Pearls Before Swine
I was pretty loud myself. I leaned forward in my seat when Bill approached the goal, and when he scored, I leaped to my feet and screamed myself hoarse. I was trying to make up for my egregious lack of attention during the one disastrous game I'd watched him play up in Vancouver in 2000.
Bill At Start of Disastrous GameOn that team, Bill was probably only average, but he definitely had an above-average game that night. Knowing I was up in the stands spurred him on to one goal and a couple of assists. Fortunately, he didn't realize that I had no idea what was going on. I'd never watched hockey before, not even on TV, and I just couldn't follow the constant action; instead, I was deep in conversation with one of his teammates' girlfriends, a very personable girl named Tanya.
In the last minutes of the game, they were winning by several points, but Bill pushed for one more goal in my honor. As he rounded the back of the goal, he caught his skate on the post and wrenched his ankle. A sudden silence caught my attention, and I stopped speaking in mid sentence. "Who's that on the ice?" Tanya asked tensely.
"Someone's hurt?" I asked.
"That's Bill!" another girl said. My heart seemed to stop beating as I strained to see his limp form. I breathed a sigh of relief a moment later when two of his friends helped him up and off the ice. But his face was gray when he emerged from the locker room several minutes later.
As he limped to the car, I had to ask what had happened, and then I had to admit that I hadn't seen any of the goals. He was in too much pain to care. He said it was probably a bad sprain, but he insisted he'd be fine, and he also insisted that he could drive the two hours to the Seattle airport the next morning.
He did manage to make the drive, but I felt so bad for him--especially when we learned that he'd broken his tibia. Man, is he tough!
A Chance to Redeem Myself
Thanks in part to his teammates' slow skating, I did learn to follow hockey fairly well after Bill moved to Texas. I watched the Blazers claw their way to the top, winning the league championship in just their second season. I watched them transition to ice hockey, which was much more difficult, and I watched them move from the top of the I-league to the bottom of the D-league. Over the years, old players left and new ones took their place, and the name changed a couple of times, but Bill was always at the heart of the team.
Bill (Right) With Best Friends Troy and Ben--Circa 2007Now, unfortunately, I don't get to watch much at all. Most of the games are very late, way too late for Allyson. But every now and then they have an early game, and Allyson gets to cheer for her daddy. SHE'S now his biggest fan. "Go-Daddy-go-Daddy-go!" she hollers. When he scores--and also when he doesn't--she shouts, "That's my daddy! Number 2-2!" Nothing makes her happier than when he skates up to the glass and gives her a wave.
They're already making plans for her future hockey career. She's even picked her jersey number: 8. Somehow we'll have to squeeze in those practices and games with her ballet lessons and recitals, not to mention the soccer. (She desperately wants to do all these things.) I wonder which sport she'll actually choose?
I guess hockey will be part of our life for a long, long time, and that's fine with me. If it weren't for hockey, Bill just might have gone back to Canada. I guess I'll never know, but either way, I love to see his passion for the game. Thank God for hockey!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Saturday Evening Blog Post
Elizabeth Esther started this blog carnival where bloggers gather on the first Saturday of each month to share their latest and greatest blog posts. This month we're featuring posts from October 2009!My favorite blog post this month She Has Her Mother's Hands...And Our Father's Smile. I think this story demonstrates the simple ways God shows His love for us.
If you'd like to share one of your favorite blog posts from October, here's how:
- Pick one of YOUR posts from the past month and insert a link to it in The Mister Linky form on Elizabeth Esther's blog . (Remember to provide a direct link to your specific post, not your home page).
- Compose a new post at your site encouraging your readers to come check out the other great submissions and maybe explaining why you chose to highlight a particular post.
A Few Garden Stories
Here are a few stories about our now defunct garden. I've been saving them up....
Is That a STRAWBERRY?
As you may recall, our garden has been plagued with thieves and vandals, both known and unknown. There was the time we found Lola contentedly munching a green tomato that had mysteriously fallen from its hanging basket. Then there was the time I caught Allyson picking a Roma tomato from the corner garden. And when some of the tomatoes finally did manage to reach maturity, we were dismayed that tiny beak holes had marred their crimson beauty.
Never in all that time did we dream that we'd find some EXTRA produce in our yard one Saturday morning! Around a bite of blueberry chocolate chip pancake, Ethan said, "Hey, what's that on the porch? It looks like... a strawberry!"
We all rushed out onto the porch and found that it was indeed a perfect, plump strawberry. But where could it possibly have come from? Allyson had a theory. She said a bird must have dropped it. I figured it might have been one of our little tomato thieves bringing a peace offering.
Oddly enough, Lola, the dog who literally eats rocks, disdained to eat it. She put her lips around it and tested it with her pink tongue, but instead of devouring it as I expected, she rolled it gently around the porch with her nose. Occasionally she'd give it another taste, but she never did eat it. Funny dog!
Who Ate all the Parsley?
A week or so later, on a weekday morning, I was lethargically eating oatmeal when Bill called me and Ethan out to the porch. The first thing he said was, "Look at your parsley."
I surveyed the hanging basket with bleary eyes, then did a double take when I realized the parsley was GONE! Not a leaf remained, just pathetically shorn stalks.
"What happened?" I shrieked.
Bill held out his hand, upon which rested the largest caterpillar I'd ever seen.
He offered to let me hold it, but I grimaced and shuddered violently. So he set it in the bushes to grow into a butterfly... so that it could lay its eggs in my herbs some day.
The Rotter Drawer Strikes Again
The two green bell pepper plants yielded just one perfect specimen. It was plump and unblemished, and I couldn't wait to taste its crisp juiciness, fresh off the vine.
However, I couldn't immediately think of a recipe that called for bell pepper, and I don't like them well enough to eat them alone. So I put it in the fridge, where it suffered the fate of many other vegetables before it. When we thought of it a couple of weeks later, its limp form had been ravaged by mold.
One Glorious Success
The one crop that flourished was Ethan's banana peppers. The plants blossomed several times, and the peppers were large and waxy and smooth.
There was only one problem: no one would eat them. Ethan, the only one who allegedly likes banana peppers, apparently only likes the ones they serve at Subway. The first time we harvested some peppers, he eagerly cut one up, but then he just took one tiny bite and spit it in the trash.
We figured he might like them better if they were pickled. Bill said all we needed to do was put them in a jar of pickle juice. I was pretty skeptical, but I allowed myself to be swayed by Bill's total confidence. (He seems to be a storehouse of obscure knowledge, and even if he doesn't know something, he can usually make up a very plausible explanation.) We waited a few weeks, and then Ethan got ready to try them again. This time, all he did was look at the pale, limp pepper and wrinkle up his nose.
The last six peppers were too beautiful to waste. I looked up a recipe on the Internet and pickled them myself. I boiled them in straight vinegar with onions, garlic, and a variety of spices. Then I put them in an old pickle jar, closed it, and boiled the jar until the top sealed. My kitchen positively reeked, but the pickled peppers at last resembled the ones you find in the grocery store.
A day or two later, Ethan worked up the courage to try them. He gingerly touched his tongue to a pepper and said, "Ewww." So much for the theory that kids love to eat the vegetables that they plant themselves. Now the jar is sitting on the top shelf of the refrigerator, waiting for some banana pepper lover to visit.
Oh well, even though we didn't actually eat too many of our vegetables, we sure had a lot of fun with The Family Garden. We definitely plan to do it again. And I'm sure you'll hear about it when we do.
Is That a STRAWBERRY?
As you may recall, our garden has been plagued with thieves and vandals, both known and unknown. There was the time we found Lola contentedly munching a green tomato that had mysteriously fallen from its hanging basket. Then there was the time I caught Allyson picking a Roma tomato from the corner garden. And when some of the tomatoes finally did manage to reach maturity, we were dismayed that tiny beak holes had marred their crimson beauty.
Never in all that time did we dream that we'd find some EXTRA produce in our yard one Saturday morning! Around a bite of blueberry chocolate chip pancake, Ethan said, "Hey, what's that on the porch? It looks like... a strawberry!"
We all rushed out onto the porch and found that it was indeed a perfect, plump strawberry. But where could it possibly have come from? Allyson had a theory. She said a bird must have dropped it. I figured it might have been one of our little tomato thieves bringing a peace offering.
Oddly enough, Lola, the dog who literally eats rocks, disdained to eat it. She put her lips around it and tested it with her pink tongue, but instead of devouring it as I expected, she rolled it gently around the porch with her nose. Occasionally she'd give it another taste, but she never did eat it. Funny dog!
Who Ate all the Parsley?
A week or so later, on a weekday morning, I was lethargically eating oatmeal when Bill called me and Ethan out to the porch. The first thing he said was, "Look at your parsley."
I surveyed the hanging basket with bleary eyes, then did a double take when I realized the parsley was GONE! Not a leaf remained, just pathetically shorn stalks.
"What happened?" I shrieked.
Bill held out his hand, upon which rested the largest caterpillar I'd ever seen.
He offered to let me hold it, but I grimaced and shuddered violently. So he set it in the bushes to grow into a butterfly... so that it could lay its eggs in my herbs some day.
The Rotter Drawer Strikes Again
The two green bell pepper plants yielded just one perfect specimen. It was plump and unblemished, and I couldn't wait to taste its crisp juiciness, fresh off the vine.
However, I couldn't immediately think of a recipe that called for bell pepper, and I don't like them well enough to eat them alone. So I put it in the fridge, where it suffered the fate of many other vegetables before it. When we thought of it a couple of weeks later, its limp form had been ravaged by mold.
One Glorious Success
The one crop that flourished was Ethan's banana peppers. The plants blossomed several times, and the peppers were large and waxy and smooth.
There was only one problem: no one would eat them. Ethan, the only one who allegedly likes banana peppers, apparently only likes the ones they serve at Subway. The first time we harvested some peppers, he eagerly cut one up, but then he just took one tiny bite and spit it in the trash.
We figured he might like them better if they were pickled. Bill said all we needed to do was put them in a jar of pickle juice. I was pretty skeptical, but I allowed myself to be swayed by Bill's total confidence. (He seems to be a storehouse of obscure knowledge, and even if he doesn't know something, he can usually make up a very plausible explanation.) We waited a few weeks, and then Ethan got ready to try them again. This time, all he did was look at the pale, limp pepper and wrinkle up his nose.
The last six peppers were too beautiful to waste. I looked up a recipe on the Internet and pickled them myself. I boiled them in straight vinegar with onions, garlic, and a variety of spices. Then I put them in an old pickle jar, closed it, and boiled the jar until the top sealed. My kitchen positively reeked, but the pickled peppers at last resembled the ones you find in the grocery store.
A day or two later, Ethan worked up the courage to try them. He gingerly touched his tongue to a pepper and said, "Ewww." So much for the theory that kids love to eat the vegetables that they plant themselves. Now the jar is sitting on the top shelf of the refrigerator, waiting for some banana pepper lover to visit.
Oh well, even though we didn't actually eat too many of our vegetables, we sure had a lot of fun with The Family Garden. We definitely plan to do it again. And I'm sure you'll hear about it when we do.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Fumbelina: The Greatest Fairy in the World
I can't believe Halloween is already over! It seems like only yesterday that I posted last year's Halloween entry. This year was even more fun because Allyson was anticipating it so eagerly.
She began rehearsing for Halloween a few weeks before the big event. She assembled her own costumes by combining various pieces from her princess treasure trunk. For example, there was this country Super Girl princess bank robber costume, complete with Cinderella pumps:
She also designed costumes for me, but the only things that fit were the sleeping mask and the flower headband.
I thought I was supposed to be the Masked Flower Bandit, but she said I was Sleeping Daisy. I guess she knows that you wear the mask for sleeping. I was wearing this costume at the same time that she was wearing her Super Girl ensemble, and both of us had to walk around her room in our blindfolds. I stepped gingerly, bracing myself for the hard little toys that often litter her floor, but both of us actually escaped injury.
A few days later, she dressed as a Daisy Ballerina, and she tried out her best ballet steps. Isn't she graceful?
Then again, maybe not so much. We really need to get her into some lessons.
A couple of days before Halloween, we went to TWO pumpkin patches. Allyson and I met our MOPS group for a play date that morning. We rode a train, stomped through a muddy hay bale maze that smelled like manure, and suffered through a picnic lunch in the icy breeze. Still, Allyson and the other kids all managed to have a great time.
That evening the whole family went to another pumpkin patch around the corner. It was hard to tear Ethan and Allyson away from the giant slide long enough to pick out the pumpkins.
While I was still working on dishes, Bill succumbed to the kids' begging and started cleaning the pumpkins. Ethan carved his own pumpkin this year, with only a little help from Bill! Allyson drew the face for hers, and Daddy did the carving. Bill carved a third pumpkin for a contest at work. I never knew he was so talented! (If you can't tell by looking, he made a tree, a cross, and tombstone.)
Ethan's, Allyson's, Bill's
She began rehearsing for Halloween a few weeks before the big event. She assembled her own costumes by combining various pieces from her princess treasure trunk. For example, there was this country Super Girl princess bank robber costume, complete with Cinderella pumps:
She also designed costumes for me, but the only things that fit were the sleeping mask and the flower headband.
I thought I was supposed to be the Masked Flower Bandit, but she said I was Sleeping Daisy. I guess she knows that you wear the mask for sleeping. I was wearing this costume at the same time that she was wearing her Super Girl ensemble, and both of us had to walk around her room in our blindfolds. I stepped gingerly, bracing myself for the hard little toys that often litter her floor, but both of us actually escaped injury.A few days later, she dressed as a Daisy Ballerina, and she tried out her best ballet steps. Isn't she graceful?
Then again, maybe not so much. We really need to get her into some lessons.
A couple of days before Halloween, we went to TWO pumpkin patches. Allyson and I met our MOPS group for a play date that morning. We rode a train, stomped through a muddy hay bale maze that smelled like manure, and suffered through a picnic lunch in the icy breeze. Still, Allyson and the other kids all managed to have a great time.
That evening the whole family went to another pumpkin patch around the corner. It was hard to tear Ethan and Allyson away from the giant slide long enough to pick out the pumpkins.
While I was still working on dishes, Bill succumbed to the kids' begging and started cleaning the pumpkins. Ethan carved his own pumpkin this year, with only a little help from Bill! Allyson drew the face for hers, and Daddy did the carving. Bill carved a third pumpkin for a contest at work. I never knew he was so talented! (If you can't tell by looking, he made a tree, a cross, and tombstone.)
Ethan's, Allyson's, Bill'sWhen Halloween finally arrived, Allyson spent the entire day asking, "When do we go trick-or-treating? Is it time yet? Is it time now?" Clad in her Thumbelina costume and purple nail polish, she just couldn't contain her excitement. I thought maybe Bill had given her a few Halloween candies, but he said it was just her natural enthusiasm.
Ethan went to his dad's for Halloween. He wore a skeleton costume, but I don't have a picture.
We went out with our friends Brandy and Rodney, and their daughter Eniya--the most adorable little bee I've ever seen.
Allyson thoroughly enjoyed the trick-or-treating, especially the slight thrill of fear. Our first stop was at Ethan's friend Makayla's house. When Allyson rang the doorbell, a face hanging on the door started talking in a spooky voice, and she jumped back, though she made sure to wait around for her candy. After that, she wanted me to ring all the doorbells just in case.
She complimented the other kids' costumes along the way, and she was so proud when others admired her costume. "I'm Fumbelina, the greatest fairy in the world!" she announced proudly.
She had almost as much fun handing out candy back at home. The most fun, of course, was EATING the candy. Thanks mainly to Ethan, the candy is all but gone now. Just like Halloween.
Ethan went to his dad's for Halloween. He wore a skeleton costume, but I don't have a picture.
We went out with our friends Brandy and Rodney, and their daughter Eniya--the most adorable little bee I've ever seen.
Allyson thoroughly enjoyed the trick-or-treating, especially the slight thrill of fear. Our first stop was at Ethan's friend Makayla's house. When Allyson rang the doorbell, a face hanging on the door started talking in a spooky voice, and she jumped back, though she made sure to wait around for her candy. After that, she wanted me to ring all the doorbells just in case.
She complimented the other kids' costumes along the way, and she was so proud when others admired her costume. "I'm Fumbelina, the greatest fairy in the world!" she announced proudly.
She had almost as much fun handing out candy back at home. The most fun, of course, was EATING the candy. Thanks mainly to Ethan, the candy is all but gone now. Just like Halloween.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Artificial Sweetness...A Peace Offering
Just moments after Ethan walked through the door this afternoon, he and Allyson started bickering. "It's going to be one of those days," I thought with a groan. Ethan gathered up his homework and moved from the kitchen table to his room.
Allyson traipsed up the stairs after him. "Get out of my room!" he snapped.
"Don't be rude, Ethan," I admonished as he settled down at his desk.
I started to follow Allyson out the door, but Ethan told me he needed my help with his algebra.
"What is it?" I asked, craning to catch a glimpse of his worksheet.
"I just need you to scratch my back," he said. I agreed, but I told him we'd have to leave the door open so I could keep an eye on Allyson.
Approximately two minutes later, Allyson walked in with a tray of colorful cloth cupcakes. "Would you like a cupcake, Mommy?" she asked sweetly. I thanked her and daintily nibbled at my pink-frosted cupcake, careful not to let it actually touch my lips.
She held out a white-frosted cupcake to Ethan. "Do you want one, too?" With my eyes, I silently urged him to accept this peace offering.
He narrowed his brows suspiciously. "What kind is it?" he demanded.
"Peanut butter chocolate banana!" she replied proudly.
Ethan snatched the cupcake out of her hand and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. He proceeded to chew it theatrically.
Allyson's eyes were huge with alarm. "Ethan!" she shrieked. "It's a pretend cupcake. You can't eat it!"
Ethan didn't answer, just grabbed a second cupcake and crammed it into his mouth in front of the first one. His mouth completely stuffed, he still managed to grin broadly.
"You're going to gag yourself," I warned. Meanwhile, Allyson started chewing the remaining cupcake with gusto.
True to my prediction, Ethan spewed the two cupcakes out of his mouth. "Plehhh!"
"They're wet!" Allyson exclaimed, but she didn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she was grinning from ear to ear. "I'll go make some eggs!" she said, scurrying back to her room.
Ethan had just started the next problem when she returned with her tiny metal mixing bowl and wooden spoon. "It's scrambled eggs," she explained.
"Yum!" I said, trying to convey the right level of appetite without actually touching the spoon to my mouth.
When I'd finished, she handed the bowl to Ethan. "Do you want some eggs?"
Ethan eyed the bowl angrily. "There's nothing in here!" he growled. "Mama, why'd you eat all the eggs?"
Allyson giggled. "I'll make you some more," she assured him hastily.
She returned a minute later with the same bowl and spoon. "Do you want some, Mommy? Just eat a little, and then Ethan can have the rest."
"NO! I want my own bowl," Ethan argued. "I'm really hungry." He then wolfed down the imaginary eggs noisily while Allyson looked on with pleasure.
"Make me a slurpie," Ethan said when he'd finished devouring the eggs.
"What kind?" Allyson wondered.
"Coconut."
"What color?"
"Blue."
"Put in extra artificial colors and flavorings," I called after her. "That's how Ethan likes it."
Ethan gave me a dirty look, but he was laughing. We'd just had a discussion in the kitchen about why I try to limit their consumption of artificial colors and flavors.
Allyson returned with a blue Cinderella tea cup. "Here's your artificial sweetness," she said.
So that Ethan could get a little homework done, I finally had to tell Allyson that he was getting a bit full from all the cake, eggs, and slurpies. We were all in high spirits after that, but I'm sure I was the happiest of the three. I just love to see them having fun together despite their nine-year age difference.
Another Harmonious Moment--Playing Guitar Hero Drums
Allyson traipsed up the stairs after him. "Get out of my room!" he snapped.
"Don't be rude, Ethan," I admonished as he settled down at his desk.
I started to follow Allyson out the door, but Ethan told me he needed my help with his algebra.
"What is it?" I asked, craning to catch a glimpse of his worksheet.
"I just need you to scratch my back," he said. I agreed, but I told him we'd have to leave the door open so I could keep an eye on Allyson.
Approximately two minutes later, Allyson walked in with a tray of colorful cloth cupcakes. "Would you like a cupcake, Mommy?" she asked sweetly. I thanked her and daintily nibbled at my pink-frosted cupcake, careful not to let it actually touch my lips.
She held out a white-frosted cupcake to Ethan. "Do you want one, too?" With my eyes, I silently urged him to accept this peace offering.
He narrowed his brows suspiciously. "What kind is it?" he demanded.
"Peanut butter chocolate banana!" she replied proudly.
Ethan snatched the cupcake out of her hand and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. He proceeded to chew it theatrically.
Allyson's eyes were huge with alarm. "Ethan!" she shrieked. "It's a pretend cupcake. You can't eat it!"
Ethan didn't answer, just grabbed a second cupcake and crammed it into his mouth in front of the first one. His mouth completely stuffed, he still managed to grin broadly.
"You're going to gag yourself," I warned. Meanwhile, Allyson started chewing the remaining cupcake with gusto.
True to my prediction, Ethan spewed the two cupcakes out of his mouth. "Plehhh!"
"They're wet!" Allyson exclaimed, but she didn't seem bothered at all. In fact, she was grinning from ear to ear. "I'll go make some eggs!" she said, scurrying back to her room.
Ethan had just started the next problem when she returned with her tiny metal mixing bowl and wooden spoon. "It's scrambled eggs," she explained.
"Yum!" I said, trying to convey the right level of appetite without actually touching the spoon to my mouth.
When I'd finished, she handed the bowl to Ethan. "Do you want some eggs?"
Ethan eyed the bowl angrily. "There's nothing in here!" he growled. "Mama, why'd you eat all the eggs?"
Allyson giggled. "I'll make you some more," she assured him hastily.
She returned a minute later with the same bowl and spoon. "Do you want some, Mommy? Just eat a little, and then Ethan can have the rest."
"NO! I want my own bowl," Ethan argued. "I'm really hungry." He then wolfed down the imaginary eggs noisily while Allyson looked on with pleasure.
"Make me a slurpie," Ethan said when he'd finished devouring the eggs.
"What kind?" Allyson wondered.
"Coconut."
"What color?"
"Blue."
"Put in extra artificial colors and flavorings," I called after her. "That's how Ethan likes it."
Ethan gave me a dirty look, but he was laughing. We'd just had a discussion in the kitchen about why I try to limit their consumption of artificial colors and flavors.
Allyson returned with a blue Cinderella tea cup. "Here's your artificial sweetness," she said.
So that Ethan could get a little homework done, I finally had to tell Allyson that he was getting a bit full from all the cake, eggs, and slurpies. We were all in high spirits after that, but I'm sure I was the happiest of the three. I just love to see them having fun together despite their nine-year age difference.
Another Harmonious Moment--Playing Guitar Hero DrumsSunday, October 25, 2009
Guarding Your Heart
Guess what I did this weekend?? My friend Brandy and I were part of the studio audience for five Beth Moore Bible study segments! If you've been reading awhile, you know what that means: naturally I feel compelled to share a revelation or two.
This was my first time to hear Beth in person, and it was as amazing as I thought it would be. It was also my first time to be part of a studio audience, and that was an interesting experience, but I don't really have time to say much about that.
It was pretty hard to decide what part of the conference to share, but I thought it over and decided that the segment that hit home most with me was the one called The Guarded Heart. Here's what I learned....
We started the session by reading Proverbs 4:20-27, with a focus on verse 23: "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life."
At first, my mental commentary was, "Yes! Preach it, sister." I had heard this verse many times before, and I recognized the wisdom of it and believed that I had done a pretty good job of putting it into practice. As usual, though, Beth showed me a whole new perspective.
She started by talking about the many ways we should guard our hearts:
We may try to withhold our heart, or guard our heart, but whatever is in our heart is going to come out. If our heart has grown cold, we'll pour out that coldness on the people around us. If our heart is full of anger and resentment, we'll spew out rage. Whatever is on the inside--bitterness, sorrow, love, joy--is going to come out and pour over the people around us.
The Revelation
Beth took us to Exodus 34 next. We glanced back a couple of chapters to review the story of Moses coming down the mountain to find Aaron and the Israelites worshiping the golden calf. Then we read about God showing his glory to Moses, who was hidden in the cleft of a rock as God passed by.
As we read this story, I wondered what it could possibly have to do with guarding your heart. Soon, it all started to come together. It turns out that the Hebrew word translated as "maintaining" in the phrase "maintaining love to thousands" is the same word translated "guard" in Proverbs 4:23.
In the passage in Exodus, God is describing his own character: compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, and guarding his love to thousands. God was very angry with his people during this time because of their unfaithfulness to him, yet he actively tended, maintained, and guarded his love for them. God often withheld his blessing when they were sinful and unrepentant, but he NEVER withheld his love.
So What Does This Mean to Us?
Beth suggested that our focus should not be guarding our heart FROM others, but guarding our heart FOR others, just as God guards his love for us. That means we must tend to our hearts and protect the love that God has placed there.
Sometimes we are tempted to withdraw our love because we've been hurt too much, and it feels dangerous to keep loving. But that is not what God intends for us. He wants our love to abound more and more through the knowledge of Christ (Philippians 1:9). Love is the whole point! In Mark 12, when a teacher of the law asked Jesus the most important commandment, he replied, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."
The tricky part is that we really do need to guard our hearts from unhealthy relationships and influences, but at the same time we need to guard our love for the very people who hurt us. Beth advised that we should refuse to support and enable unhealthy behavior, yet we should refrain from holding back our love.
One thing she said really pierced the armor around my heart. She said that guarding your heart means watching out for diminishing love. She invited us to examine our most important relationships, especially our marriages, and ask ourselves whether our love was less fervent than before. Of course, passion in a marriage waxes and wanes, but she wasn't talking about romance. Instead, she was talking about going through the motions, about withdrawing emotionally.
I took a hard look at my own heart and realized something that brought tears to my eyes. I've been growing so much in the last year or so in my walk with God, and I've found myself loving others in ways that are completely new and often delightful. But I haven't striven for that level of love with my husband. I've just been coasting, and often we've been living parallel lives. We haven't made time for each other. In past years, I would have fought against that. There would have been tears and Relationship Talks. Somewhere along the way, though, I stopped trying so hard. Either I just got busy and forgot what was really important, or maybe (probably) I took a step back and decided I didn't want to risk things getting messy.
I told Bill about this revelation tonight, and he acknowledged that this has been a very busy season in our lives. We agreed that we would work on spending more time together, for a start. And I'll be praying that God will fill up that wellspring in my heart with his abounding, forgiving, extravagant love.
How About You?
Are you guarding your heart AGAINST people, or are you guarding your love FOR people?
This was my first time to hear Beth in person, and it was as amazing as I thought it would be. It was also my first time to be part of a studio audience, and that was an interesting experience, but I don't really have time to say much about that.
It was pretty hard to decide what part of the conference to share, but I thought it over and decided that the segment that hit home most with me was the one called The Guarded Heart. Here's what I learned....
We started the session by reading Proverbs 4:20-27, with a focus on verse 23: "Above all else, guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life."
At first, my mental commentary was, "Yes! Preach it, sister." I had heard this verse many times before, and I recognized the wisdom of it and believed that I had done a pretty good job of putting it into practice. As usual, though, Beth showed me a whole new perspective.
She started by talking about the many ways we should guard our hearts:
- watching the company we keep
- watching what goes into our heart (what we watch, what we read, etc.)
- watching what we say--"What goes into a man's mouth does not make him 'unclean,' but what comes out of his mouth, that is what makes him 'unclean.'" (Mark 7:15).
We may try to withhold our heart, or guard our heart, but whatever is in our heart is going to come out. If our heart has grown cold, we'll pour out that coldness on the people around us. If our heart is full of anger and resentment, we'll spew out rage. Whatever is on the inside--bitterness, sorrow, love, joy--is going to come out and pour over the people around us.
The Revelation
Beth took us to Exodus 34 next. We glanced back a couple of chapters to review the story of Moses coming down the mountain to find Aaron and the Israelites worshiping the golden calf. Then we read about God showing his glory to Moses, who was hidden in the cleft of a rock as God passed by.
Exodus 33:18-23, Exodus 34:5-7a
Then Moses said, "Now show me your glory."
And the LORD said, "I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the LORD, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. But," he said, "you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live."
Then the LORD said, "There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen."...
Then the LORD came down in the cloud and stood there with him and proclaimed his name, the LORD. And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The LORD, the LORD, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin....
As we read this story, I wondered what it could possibly have to do with guarding your heart. Soon, it all started to come together. It turns out that the Hebrew word translated as "maintaining" in the phrase "maintaining love to thousands" is the same word translated "guard" in Proverbs 4:23.
In the passage in Exodus, God is describing his own character: compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, and guarding his love to thousands. God was very angry with his people during this time because of their unfaithfulness to him, yet he actively tended, maintained, and guarded his love for them. God often withheld his blessing when they were sinful and unrepentant, but he NEVER withheld his love.
So What Does This Mean to Us?
Beth suggested that our focus should not be guarding our heart FROM others, but guarding our heart FOR others, just as God guards his love for us. That means we must tend to our hearts and protect the love that God has placed there.
Sometimes we are tempted to withdraw our love because we've been hurt too much, and it feels dangerous to keep loving. But that is not what God intends for us. He wants our love to abound more and more through the knowledge of Christ (Philippians 1:9). Love is the whole point! In Mark 12, when a teacher of the law asked Jesus the most important commandment, he replied, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' There is no commandment greater than these."
The tricky part is that we really do need to guard our hearts from unhealthy relationships and influences, but at the same time we need to guard our love for the very people who hurt us. Beth advised that we should refuse to support and enable unhealthy behavior, yet we should refrain from holding back our love.
One thing she said really pierced the armor around my heart. She said that guarding your heart means watching out for diminishing love. She invited us to examine our most important relationships, especially our marriages, and ask ourselves whether our love was less fervent than before. Of course, passion in a marriage waxes and wanes, but she wasn't talking about romance. Instead, she was talking about going through the motions, about withdrawing emotionally.
I took a hard look at my own heart and realized something that brought tears to my eyes. I've been growing so much in the last year or so in my walk with God, and I've found myself loving others in ways that are completely new and often delightful. But I haven't striven for that level of love with my husband. I've just been coasting, and often we've been living parallel lives. We haven't made time for each other. In past years, I would have fought against that. There would have been tears and Relationship Talks. Somewhere along the way, though, I stopped trying so hard. Either I just got busy and forgot what was really important, or maybe (probably) I took a step back and decided I didn't want to risk things getting messy.
I told Bill about this revelation tonight, and he acknowledged that this has been a very busy season in our lives. We agreed that we would work on spending more time together, for a start. And I'll be praying that God will fill up that wellspring in my heart with his abounding, forgiving, extravagant love.
How About You?
Are you guarding your heart AGAINST people, or are you guarding your love FOR people?
Thursday, October 22, 2009
He Makes Music
Monday night was Ethan's first band performance at a football game. He had to audition for it, so he was pretty excited. Ironically, though, his initial reaction to being selected was rather ambivalent--he wasn't sure he wanted to go after all because he didn't want people to stare at him.
When the big moment came, he was beaming as he took his turn on the quads. He didn't spot us for the longest time, and I could tell he was scanning the stands for us. I kept waving as casually as possible, but Bill finally made me stop. When Ethan finally saw us, he gave a big grin, but then he caught himself and turned away as if he didn't know us.
It was fun listening to all the songs he's been practicing for weeks: Funky Town, Go Fight Win!, the Darth Vader Star Wars theme. The difference is that you could actually recognize the songs; at home all we hear is the rhythm, typically beaten out on the brick hearth, the ottoman cushion, or even the hardwood floor when Ethan thinks I'm not looking.
The band sounded shockingly good compared to the concerts we endured last year. Maybe it was the auditions. In any case, I found myself tapping my foot and bobbing my head, but only in the most inconspicuous way, of course.
Allyson was bursting with sisterly pride. When the lady next to us asked if she had a big brother on the football team, she said, "No, my brother makes music... to celebrate the game. His name is Ethan." (This was a word-for-word rendition of the explanation I'd given her on the way to the game, other than the part about his name being Ethan.)
Allyson's pride dissipated as the temperature dropped. As we snuggled on the bleachers, she kept up an incessant stream of whining. She alternated between, "Can we go buy a snack? PLEASE?" and "Is it time to go home yet? Is it time NOW?"
When she wasn't busy griping, Allyson turned her energies to embarrassing us. At one point, I caught her rubbing the leg hair of the middle schooler on the row behind us. "I'm sorry!" I said, and he just laughed.
"Why did you DO that?" I hissed.
"I just wanted him to see my cute face," she explained.
"Well, don't touch people's legs," I admonished. "In fact, don't touch people at all."
She did something even worse on the way out. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Allyson was temporarily diverted when she recognized the Huskies Fight Song, which Ethan had made us practice over and over. He'd hum the tune while he did the percussion, and then he'd do little drum rolls while we chanted, "H!... U!... S!... K!... I!... E!... S!" I loved messing with him by spelling it wrong (Huskys) or shouting "Huskies!" after the spell-out, and each time he'd yell at me and say we had to start the song over. But now that it was go time, Allyson and I performed flawlessly.
Bill almost fell off the bench each time I shouted "H!" because his ear was right in my line of fire. "Sheeze!" he complained the first time. "Do you have to yell?"
"Yes!" I said. "I know Ethan's going to be watching." Sure enough, Ethan's face lit up when he saw me yelling to his drum rolls. All seven times they played the fight song, he sought me out to make sure I was still chanting.
About halfway through the game, I realized that I had not brought my camera. "Oh, man!" I moaned, already thinking of my non-illustrated blog entry. I brightened when I remembered Bill's cell phone--which he hadn't brought, unfortunately. "I wish my phone had a camera," I said. Bill gave me an odd look and started to open his mouth just as I said, "Oh, yeah. It does have a camera. But it's a pretty crappy one."
"You don't need to take a picture."
"Yes I do! It's his first game." I fumbled with my phone and finally figured out how to use the crappy camera. I took a couple of shots, but even though we were pretty close and Ethan was standing under a flood light, the blonde kid on the drums could have been anyone. I took a closeup of Allyson, and at least you could tell that she's pretty darn cute.
"I wonder how I could get the pictures onto the computer," I mused.
Again, Bill gave me a bemused look. "Maybe you can hold the camera in front of the computer and say, 'Camera! Transfer pictures!'" he suggested.
I punched him in the leg. "My phone's not that fancy.... What I mean is that other people have Internet access on their phones, and they can email their pictures or upload them to Facebook," I explained. "So, smarty pants, how can I get the pictures onto the computer?"
"Use a USB cable," he said.
"Oh," I said. "Of course."
By 8:30, the game was over and my lips were getting blue. Also, my hands were numb from clapping; the Huskies won the game 16 to 6!
Now, for Allyson's final mischief.... You know how kids like to run a stick across the rungs of a fence? Well, Allyson did that with her hand and the legs of the people that we passed. One of the men was at just the right height that she sort of slapped his butt. "ALLYSON!" I shrieked.
"Sorr-ry!" she said, not the least bit apologetic. Luckily, the man didn't seem to know who had touched him, so we beat a hurried retreat. Ethan was helping put the instruments away at that moment, so he didn't have to share in the mortification; otherwise, we might be banned from the next game.
Ethan was pretty jubilant on the ride home, though he tried to hide it. All in all, it was a great way to spend an evening.
When the big moment came, he was beaming as he took his turn on the quads. He didn't spot us for the longest time, and I could tell he was scanning the stands for us. I kept waving as casually as possible, but Bill finally made me stop. When Ethan finally saw us, he gave a big grin, but then he caught himself and turned away as if he didn't know us.
It was fun listening to all the songs he's been practicing for weeks: Funky Town, Go Fight Win!, the Darth Vader Star Wars theme. The difference is that you could actually recognize the songs; at home all we hear is the rhythm, typically beaten out on the brick hearth, the ottoman cushion, or even the hardwood floor when Ethan thinks I'm not looking.
The band sounded shockingly good compared to the concerts we endured last year. Maybe it was the auditions. In any case, I found myself tapping my foot and bobbing my head, but only in the most inconspicuous way, of course.
Allyson was bursting with sisterly pride. When the lady next to us asked if she had a big brother on the football team, she said, "No, my brother makes music... to celebrate the game. His name is Ethan." (This was a word-for-word rendition of the explanation I'd given her on the way to the game, other than the part about his name being Ethan.)
Allyson's pride dissipated as the temperature dropped. As we snuggled on the bleachers, she kept up an incessant stream of whining. She alternated between, "Can we go buy a snack? PLEASE?" and "Is it time to go home yet? Is it time NOW?"
When she wasn't busy griping, Allyson turned her energies to embarrassing us. At one point, I caught her rubbing the leg hair of the middle schooler on the row behind us. "I'm sorry!" I said, and he just laughed.
"Why did you DO that?" I hissed.
"I just wanted him to see my cute face," she explained.
"Well, don't touch people's legs," I admonished. "In fact, don't touch people at all."
She did something even worse on the way out. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Allyson was temporarily diverted when she recognized the Huskies Fight Song, which Ethan had made us practice over and over. He'd hum the tune while he did the percussion, and then he'd do little drum rolls while we chanted, "H!... U!... S!... K!... I!... E!... S!" I loved messing with him by spelling it wrong (Huskys) or shouting "Huskies!" after the spell-out, and each time he'd yell at me and say we had to start the song over. But now that it was go time, Allyson and I performed flawlessly.
Bill almost fell off the bench each time I shouted "H!" because his ear was right in my line of fire. "Sheeze!" he complained the first time. "Do you have to yell?"
"Yes!" I said. "I know Ethan's going to be watching." Sure enough, Ethan's face lit up when he saw me yelling to his drum rolls. All seven times they played the fight song, he sought me out to make sure I was still chanting.
About halfway through the game, I realized that I had not brought my camera. "Oh, man!" I moaned, already thinking of my non-illustrated blog entry. I brightened when I remembered Bill's cell phone--which he hadn't brought, unfortunately. "I wish my phone had a camera," I said. Bill gave me an odd look and started to open his mouth just as I said, "Oh, yeah. It does have a camera. But it's a pretty crappy one."
"You don't need to take a picture."
"Yes I do! It's his first game." I fumbled with my phone and finally figured out how to use the crappy camera. I took a couple of shots, but even though we were pretty close and Ethan was standing under a flood light, the blonde kid on the drums could have been anyone. I took a closeup of Allyson, and at least you could tell that she's pretty darn cute.
"I wonder how I could get the pictures onto the computer," I mused.
Again, Bill gave me a bemused look. "Maybe you can hold the camera in front of the computer and say, 'Camera! Transfer pictures!'" he suggested.
I punched him in the leg. "My phone's not that fancy.... What I mean is that other people have Internet access on their phones, and they can email their pictures or upload them to Facebook," I explained. "So, smarty pants, how can I get the pictures onto the computer?"
"Use a USB cable," he said.
"Oh," I said. "Of course."
By 8:30, the game was over and my lips were getting blue. Also, my hands were numb from clapping; the Huskies won the game 16 to 6!
Now, for Allyson's final mischief.... You know how kids like to run a stick across the rungs of a fence? Well, Allyson did that with her hand and the legs of the people that we passed. One of the men was at just the right height that she sort of slapped his butt. "ALLYSON!" I shrieked.
"Sorr-ry!" she said, not the least bit apologetic. Luckily, the man didn't seem to know who had touched him, so we beat a hurried retreat. Ethan was helping put the instruments away at that moment, so he didn't have to share in the mortification; otherwise, we might be banned from the next game.
Ethan was pretty jubilant on the ride home, though he tried to hide it. All in all, it was a great way to spend an evening.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
She Has Her Mother's Hands...And Our Father's Smile
On the way to the grocery store today, I mused about the blog entry I had planned to write this weekend. I hadn't written it because I just didn't have the heart for it. For some reason, I've been a funk the last week or so, mired in lethargy and apathy. Part of my mood could have been due to my possible infection with swine flu, right on the tail of Allyson's confirmed bout, but I think it's much more than that. I think I'm mainly exhausted from the violent mood swings associated with my dad's recent surgery. He's doing well right now and should be coming home tomorrow, but I seem to be continually teetering between crushing anxiety and giddy relief.
Anyway, as I pulled into the Walmart Market parking lot, I was thinking over two possible blog entries and deciding it just wasn't worth the effort today. I mumbled my habitual grocery store prayer without much feeling: "God, please help me love someone today."
I completed my list with a minimum of aggravation. They weren't out of anything this week, and everyone whose cart was blocking the way was polite and apologetic. Still, I felt dull and rather grumpy as I made my way to the checkout lines.
For once (on a Sunday!), all of the lines were pretty short, so I had the luxury of choosing a line based on the checker. I have several favorites, and three of them were working today. I passed up Miss Efficiency because I wasn't in a hurry and I wasn't in the mood for a lackluster greeting and a thank you that didn't reach her eyes.
Finally, I settled on the new girl. She's probably a bit older than me, and she's quiet and sweet and a little homely--until she smiles. She's also very slow, but that doesn't bother me in the least, though I worry that it might bother other people, and maybe she'll get downsized. I noticed today that the couple ahead of me didn't seem at all bothered. In fact, they engaged in a relaxed conversation with her throughout their leisurely transaction--talking about the new white chocolate Hershey kisses, among other things.
The girl--I wish I knew her name, but I'm very bad with names--became a favorite on a recent shopping trip when I watched her deal with three rude customers in a row. The first two were trying to pass some expired coupons, and she refused to take them because it was against store policy. The guy behind them in line was so smart aleck that he would have had me in tears, but she just smiled sweetly when he said, "What do you think you are? The coupon police?"
"I'm just trying to do my job," she said calmly while she waited for a manager's assistance.
I waited literally 30 minutes, in which time I made friends with the man behind me, who will probably end up being Ethan's high school band instructor. We had that almost festive mood you sometimes see during a natural disaster or a prolonged power outage, when people are determined to make the best of an inconvenient situation.
When it was my turn, I commended her for her patience and excellent customer service skills.
"I just try to be kind to everyone, and to follow the rules," she said humbly.
Today she greeted me with her usual warmth, but I knew if we were going to have a conversation I'd have to initiate it. As I cast about for something to say, my eyes fell on her perfectly manicured, iridescent fingernails.
I took a deep breath. It's still very hard for me to talk to people, especially virtual strangers. "Your nails look pretty," I said, a blush tinging my cheeks.
She blushed, too. "They're just press-ons," she admitted sheepishly, pausing in the bagging with a flourish of both hands.
"It must be hard to keep nice nails when you work with your hands," I said. "I never bother with mine," I continued, displaying my blunt-cut, naked nails. Then I jerked them back because I didn't want to distract her too much.
"I don't think that Ovaltine scanned," I said quietly, in case a manager might be lurking behind me.
"Oh, it didn't!" she said, surprised. She looked off into space, her hands still. I eyed the lady behind me out of the corner of my eye, but she was absorbed in placing her items on the belt and didn't seem to notice the delay. "I have my mother's hands," the checker said, finally scanning the next item.
"I used to hate it that my nails were like Mom's. My dad and my sister's nails grow fast and long, but mine are always breaking off...." She struggled to loop the handles of the next reusable bag over the handles. "But now I love my hands. They look like Mom's, and I miss her so much."
While she meticulously separated the cold foods, canned goods, and produce, her mother's story unfolded. She'd lost her mother to breast cancer in 2001 when she was only 62. She told me what it was like to watch her struggle for four years, and then die after only a month of hospice care when the doctor told them there was nothing else he could do.
She finished the story just as she read me my total. "I always tell my children to appreciate the people around them. You just never know when you might lose someone," she concluded.
"That's good advice," I agreed.
She smiled broadly and handed me my receipt. "Thank you," she said sincerely, looking in my eyes.
"Thank you, too," I replied with my own broad smile.
I'm not sure why the whole interchange lifted my spirits so much. On the surface, it was certainly a gloomy conversation. I guess it was the knowledge that she cared enough to converse with me. She didn't just say the obligatory "Thank you." Instead, she saw me as someone worth knowing.
I think maybe that's the real reason that her line is the longest; maybe it isn't just that she's the slowest checker. I hope Walmart realizes what a gem they have in her. (I'm going to complete the online survey and tell them so.)
Isn't it funny how a stranger's kindness could penetrate the malaise that hung on me all weekend? And isn't it funny that I prayed for God to help me love someone at the grocery store, but he prompted someone to be kind to me instead?
I'm going to try to follow the checker's advice, and her example. I'll try to slow down enough to connect with others, and I'll try to appreciate EVERYONE God puts in my path.
Anyway, as I pulled into the Walmart Market parking lot, I was thinking over two possible blog entries and deciding it just wasn't worth the effort today. I mumbled my habitual grocery store prayer without much feeling: "God, please help me love someone today."
I completed my list with a minimum of aggravation. They weren't out of anything this week, and everyone whose cart was blocking the way was polite and apologetic. Still, I felt dull and rather grumpy as I made my way to the checkout lines.
For once (on a Sunday!), all of the lines were pretty short, so I had the luxury of choosing a line based on the checker. I have several favorites, and three of them were working today. I passed up Miss Efficiency because I wasn't in a hurry and I wasn't in the mood for a lackluster greeting and a thank you that didn't reach her eyes.
Finally, I settled on the new girl. She's probably a bit older than me, and she's quiet and sweet and a little homely--until she smiles. She's also very slow, but that doesn't bother me in the least, though I worry that it might bother other people, and maybe she'll get downsized. I noticed today that the couple ahead of me didn't seem at all bothered. In fact, they engaged in a relaxed conversation with her throughout their leisurely transaction--talking about the new white chocolate Hershey kisses, among other things.
The girl--I wish I knew her name, but I'm very bad with names--became a favorite on a recent shopping trip when I watched her deal with three rude customers in a row. The first two were trying to pass some expired coupons, and she refused to take them because it was against store policy. The guy behind them in line was so smart aleck that he would have had me in tears, but she just smiled sweetly when he said, "What do you think you are? The coupon police?"
"I'm just trying to do my job," she said calmly while she waited for a manager's assistance.
I waited literally 30 minutes, in which time I made friends with the man behind me, who will probably end up being Ethan's high school band instructor. We had that almost festive mood you sometimes see during a natural disaster or a prolonged power outage, when people are determined to make the best of an inconvenient situation.
When it was my turn, I commended her for her patience and excellent customer service skills.
"I just try to be kind to everyone, and to follow the rules," she said humbly.
Today she greeted me with her usual warmth, but I knew if we were going to have a conversation I'd have to initiate it. As I cast about for something to say, my eyes fell on her perfectly manicured, iridescent fingernails.
I took a deep breath. It's still very hard for me to talk to people, especially virtual strangers. "Your nails look pretty," I said, a blush tinging my cheeks.
She blushed, too. "They're just press-ons," she admitted sheepishly, pausing in the bagging with a flourish of both hands.
"It must be hard to keep nice nails when you work with your hands," I said. "I never bother with mine," I continued, displaying my blunt-cut, naked nails. Then I jerked them back because I didn't want to distract her too much.
"I don't think that Ovaltine scanned," I said quietly, in case a manager might be lurking behind me.
"Oh, it didn't!" she said, surprised. She looked off into space, her hands still. I eyed the lady behind me out of the corner of my eye, but she was absorbed in placing her items on the belt and didn't seem to notice the delay. "I have my mother's hands," the checker said, finally scanning the next item.
"I used to hate it that my nails were like Mom's. My dad and my sister's nails grow fast and long, but mine are always breaking off...." She struggled to loop the handles of the next reusable bag over the handles. "But now I love my hands. They look like Mom's, and I miss her so much."
While she meticulously separated the cold foods, canned goods, and produce, her mother's story unfolded. She'd lost her mother to breast cancer in 2001 when she was only 62. She told me what it was like to watch her struggle for four years, and then die after only a month of hospice care when the doctor told them there was nothing else he could do.
She finished the story just as she read me my total. "I always tell my children to appreciate the people around them. You just never know when you might lose someone," she concluded.
"That's good advice," I agreed.
She smiled broadly and handed me my receipt. "Thank you," she said sincerely, looking in my eyes.
"Thank you, too," I replied with my own broad smile.
I'm not sure why the whole interchange lifted my spirits so much. On the surface, it was certainly a gloomy conversation. I guess it was the knowledge that she cared enough to converse with me. She didn't just say the obligatory "Thank you." Instead, she saw me as someone worth knowing.
I think maybe that's the real reason that her line is the longest; maybe it isn't just that she's the slowest checker. I hope Walmart realizes what a gem they have in her. (I'm going to complete the online survey and tell them so.)
Isn't it funny how a stranger's kindness could penetrate the malaise that hung on me all weekend? And isn't it funny that I prayed for God to help me love someone at the grocery store, but he prompted someone to be kind to me instead?
I'm going to try to follow the checker's advice, and her example. I'll try to slow down enough to connect with others, and I'll try to appreciate EVERYONE God puts in my path.
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