All Creatures Creepy Crawly

On a Monday night a couple of weeks ago, I was just finishing the seemingly endless bedtime routine. Even though I hadn’t done anything strenuous that day, I was so ready to fall into bed, but after I’d fed the cats, one look at their favorite litter box in the laundry room told me I’d better not skip that step tonight.

I squirted my nightly dropper of CBD oil into one side of my mouth and held it there for the two minutes it took to scoop out a shocking quantity of pee clumps. The second box was empty, as usual. Dumb cats.

I swallowed the oil and scrubbed my hands thoroughly through two mental choruses of “Happy Birthday.” Allyson and I had already read the Bible and prayed, so in one more minute I could stretch out on my memory foam mattress, topped with a cool-gel memory foam topper. Ahhh, I sighed as I dried my hands.

On my way out of the kitchen, some motion in my peripheral vision stopped me in my tracks. It was CiCi, cavorting under the table. I smiled. As much fun as she was having, you would’ve thought we’d given her some catnip. What was she playing with?

Since I wasn’t wearing my glasses, I had to lean in close to find out. Ugh! Here was her plaything.

Come Walk With Me for a Mile or Two

I've been working on a longer blog entry but thought I’d share a few reminiscences that carried me to a happy place today.

In need of motivation for sweeping and mopping my kitchen, I searched YouTube for “80s cleaning music” and found a fabulous three-hour playlist. 

By the second song, I was feeling so sad over the contrast between those carefree days and the current Covid-19 worries and resulting isolation that I almost turned the music off. But then the third song inspired me to tell myself, “Relax… don’t do it.” I forbade myself from thinking unhappy thoughts and just enjoyed one song after another, letting the memories swirl through my head and even my body as I remembered….

• driving my old green bomb (a 13-year-old 1973 Dodge Coronet) as fast as I dared, with the windows down and an Alphaville ("Forever Young") cassette blasting, on the short commute to my summer job at Six Flags Over Texas amusement park. My driver’s license was practically still warm from the laminator. (I cried when my dad made me buy that back-firing monstrosity for $1000, but I soon realized I could carry five belted friends; mine was the car of choice for off-campus lunches.)

• Too many Girl Scout trip memories to tell. My two faves: (1) the time the most mischievous in our troop stuck menstrual pads covered in red marker to the side of our chartered bus. I was mortified because the prank wasn’t discovered until we’d been driving a few hours. The rest of us couldn’t figure out why people kept honking. Good times! (2) the tearful reunion of various configurations of feuding, hormonal adolescents in Washington state when someone played Michael W Smith’s “Friends Are Friends Forever” over and over on the bus. (I don’t know how our leaders managed up to 28 girls for up to 3 weeks at a time. Maybe a bit of wine after we’d all turned in for the night.)

• countless sleepovers with Dawn, a Girl Scout friend. Riding our bikes all through the neighborhood. Swimming in her pool. (I was jealous of how great she looked in her bikini.) Telling secrets in the dark.

• slow dancing with Kenny at a dance hosted by my Girl Scout troop. I was shocked when I discerned a spark of romance while we laughed uproariously at the Spandau Ballet song that was playing; I’d thought I hated Kenny due to his merciless teasing for years in English class.

• flirting with older boys in chemistry… and math… and economics. But never in German class. My memory of that class was discovering that someone had opened the second-story window and stuck licked gummy bears to the casement. They'd drawn speech bubbles with the words, “I’m gonna jump.” Also I remember my friend Dawn painting her fingernails and toenails in class. I had a picture I wanted to share but can't find it. Frau G was pretty cool, and a great teacher. (When I caught one of those older boys, I didn't know what to do with him, so I ran away.)

• first real kiss in my front yard. I think his name was Mark.

• sharing a better kiss under the stars on the high-jump mat at the local college with my first real boyfriend

• going to the Ranger game with another Girl Scout friend, fearless M. In the first inning, she convinced a young man to buy her a very tall beer, after which she: -decided the game was boring and we’d have more fun on our own -stole a Barry Manilow cassette from a random unlocked car on the way out just to drive some faceless person crazy -called our mutual crush Coach K on a pay phone(!), and then put the phone up to my mouth. I don’t remember what I said, only that I spluttered rather than spoke. Ah, Coach K. He was 23 years old and rather cute, very short but with the most delightful muscles. He responded to all my journal entries and made me feel like I had something meaningful to share. He is the only teacher I ever remember having a crush on. -enlisted my help looking under the couch cushions at her dad’s apartment for loose change for donuts at Winchell’s, where she sat down on a curb to pee. -somehow delivered me home safely before my 11 p.m. curfew. I'd never been so relieved to slip through the front door.

• sneaking out of choir with M to buy 9-inch chocolate chip cookies at the French bakery, and then getting caught and crying when Mr. M. expressed his bitter disappointment in me

That 80s playlist got me through sweeping, mopping twice, and folding a load of clothes, plus writing a blog entry. Thank you for walking a bit down memory lane with me. I hope you enjoyed it as much as my daughter Allyson did when I read her my list just now.

What are your favorite memories from your teen years?

Sisters Emily, Amy, Me - 1986 (age 16)

1984 (age 14)

Siblings Melody, Emily, Rick, Amy at my first wedding - 1989 (age 18)

Prom night with Byron (first husband) - 1988
Most vivid memory from that night:
a girl throwing up on the hem of my dress in the bathroom

An Uninvited Guest

I've missed you guys lots. I think of you often and have many stories to share but very little time to write them. My life is mostly consumed with planning meals, cooking them, and cleaning up the kitchen afterward. Throw in laundry, exercise when the weather permits, and plenty of sleep, and there go all 24 hours in my day.

Here's a story that a normal person would never share, but when you read it perhaps you will understand why I just had to tell it. If you're terribly shocked, my guess is that  you haven't been reading this blog very long....

I'd been anticipating my Sunday morning shower for two reasons. First, due to my severe dry skin, I shower only twice a week in the winter. Oh, how I love standing under the warm water--not too hot!--for as long as I dare, even though I know my skin may hurt for a day or two afterward.

Second, I'd just gotten all my hair cut off on Saturday, and this would be my first time to style it. I was really hoping it would look as good as it did when I'd left the salon.

I'd mistakenly set my clock an hour ahead on my dad's advice, so this week I planned to enjoy a leisurely shower before church.

I let the water run for a good three minutes while I brushed my limbs, back, and stomach with a natural-bristled brush to stimulate circulation and lymphatic drainage. It stings just a bit, but it's very invigorating.

The water was nice and warm when I stepped in, turning my back to the flow and closing my eyes as I sighed, "Ahhhh."

It only took a moment to wet my shorn locks, and then I opened my eyes to reach for the preservative-free shampoo bar, which I keep on the shower ledge outside the door. (I learned the hard way that you can't keep a shampoo bar in the shower, or it will melt away to nothing.)

I wasn't wearing my contacts, but I had no trouble spotting something that didn't belong in the corner of the shower pan, to the right of the door. It was big and brown and... terrifying! Had Ethan still lived at home, I might have mistaken my uninvited shower guest for one of those toy bugs that used to take my breath away for a moment. This water bug, as motionless as a toy, was the length of my thumb, and all too real.

Like the bug, I froze. The only thing that moved was my vocal cords; I started to scream but sort of swallowed the sound even though Allyson was sound asleep on the other side of the house and couldn't possibly have heard me. Maybe I didn't want the giant roach to hear me. In any case, the only sound my throat emitted was a strangled squeak.

My thoughts seemed to tumble over one another in slow motion. What should I do? If I moved, the bug would run. The only thing I had in the shower that might kill this thing was a bottle of neem oil, but if I hesitated even for a moment, the bug would run at me.

The sensible thing to do would have been to step out of the shower, reach back in and turn off the water, dry off, and return with a shoe. But the warm water was so divine, and the bathroom would not have had time to steam up yet, and I couldn't bear the thought of stepping out into the cold with my soaking-wet body. So I made a very foolish decision.

I decided to share the shower with the roach and just try to finish very, very quickly. There was only one problem with that plan. Although you can use a shampoo bar, with its luxurious lather, quite quickly, there's no rushing the process with a conditioner bar. You're supposed to run the bar up and down the strands of your hair, which is surprisingly hard when your hair is super short. Basically I just rubbed it all around my head while I kept my eyes trained on the still motionless roach.

So far, so good. Now all I needed to do was rinse my hair and wash my armpits and nether regions with yet another soap bar. There was no question of shaving the legs today.

I'd just begun the rinsing--carefully, with my eyes open--when the roach started scurrying toward my feet. I yelped out another strangled screech and sprang into action without any conscious thought.

In one motion, I somehow flung open the shower door and leapt over the brass-edged shower pan, landing on the fluffy rug. Meanwhile, the roach ran to the opposite corner, behind where I'd been standing. I don't know who moved faster, but somehow we missed meeting in the middle.

With water spraying through the open door and streaming in soapy rivers down my body, the rug was drenched in seconds. I scarcely noticed the cold as I stared at that bug, statue-still once more, and pondered the best course of action. I really did not want to smash a roach on the wet shower floor when I was only half done washing.

After 30 seconds or so, I flipped over the plastic drain lid, pulled down the shower head from its hook, and blasted that bug toward the gaping hole. It happily scrambled down when it reached the edge, and I slapped the drain cover back in place.

Back under the warm water, I was unable to enjoy the rest of my shower because I couldn't stop mentally replaying a video I'd shown my students last year. Roaches' articulated exoskeletons are incredibly flexible and strong. Did you know they can be compressed to half their height and still run full speed?

That meant that my shower buddy could easily squeeze back through one of those holes in the drain cover any time it wanted to.

My trembling as I slathered neem oil over my wet skin was not just from the cold, therefore. But I finished the process without incident and was soon standing on the waterlogged rug. The only problem I had to deal with was washing that rug, which was dirty anyway.

So it all turned out fine in the end... even my hair.

Photo from that fateful morning--with clothes

For the record, my house is not infested with roaches. Those water bugs live in the creek across the street. The ones who wander in are usually slaughtered by my cat Arwen. A typical Russian Blue, she is an accomplished hunter, so typically all I might encounter is a dismembered leg--or head, eww!!

I may have to rethink my policy of keeping Arwen out of my bathroom.

God Moved the Mountain.... en ingles

I am back in Texas after the most incredible month of my life, absolutely full of real-live miracles. The Friday before last, I shared in broken Spanish the story of my experiences during the 6.7 magnitude earthquake that occurred in Panama on Tuesday, June 25, 2019.

God has told me to rest right now, and I am. I slept beautifully last night but still need more rest. However, this morning He told me that it is important to go ahead and translate the story to English because of a woman I met yesterday named Rushanda. She is going to be looking on this blog. Very soon I will post a video of our conversation yesterday. It is a message for all people who struggle with anxiety.... 

Anyway, here is the translation, done mostly by Google translate. It is sloppy, but no importa. I am no longer a perfectionist, and this story needs to be told.


Do you know how people say "literally" when, in truth, they mean figuratively? For example, "I was literally at the end of my rope"? This is not such a time.

On Tuesday, three days ago, God literally moved a mountain for me, to move another mountain out of my life.

For many weeks before my trip to Costa Rica,  my boyfriend Juan had been praying about my fears. He told me, "It is not God's will that you be afraid."

I told him, "My insecurities are a part of my personality, I always struggle with anxiety when stressful things happen, but all is well, God helps me every time, I meditate on the promises in His Word, and God calms me down."

Juan did not agree. Although I was too proud to admit it, I knew Juan was right. Secretly, I asked myself, "How could God free me from my fear?"

One day, this verse touched my heart: "Truly I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, be removed into the sea, and will not doubt in his heart, but believe that what he says will be done, whatever he says. It will be done." (Mark 11:23)

I said, "My mountain is fear, please, Father, move the fear mountain of my life."

Still, I thought, "How is that possible?"

La Hermosa Aventura / The Beautiful Adventure

I woke up on Sunday morning ready for mi gran aventura, a visit to a Spanish-speaking church on the other side of town. Though I felt a bit nervous about meeting so many strangers, I was mainly excited. Regarding myself in the bathroom mirror, though, I sighed heavily over the black eye I had given myself on Christmas Eve.

What would people think? If they had my vivid imagination, they might think that I was dragging myself to church after being battered in a domestic dispute. I'm not sure why I felt so embarrassed over that hypothetical assumption; if I ever met someone who'd gone through that, my reaction would be compassion and not judgment.

I've had to explain the eye a lot of times in the last two weeks, but that's because I've been around people who know me well enough to ask, and well enough to believe my bizarre, but true explanation: For some inexplicable reason, I shut my head in my car's passenger door. Once I had stopped seeing stars, I tried to piece together how it happened, but I couldn't make sense of it. Here's what I do know.

After parking my car in the garage, I went back outside and pulled in my empty trash bins. Then, in the dim light of the one remaining functional fluorescent bulb, I quickly opened the door to retrieve some books I'd left in the passenger seat. Backing away from the car with my precarious armload, I awkwardly slammed the door with my right hand, and the metal corner connected solidly with my left temple.

After dropping the books, I clung to the passenger seat's plastic seat belt loop with one hand and covered my eye with the other one. "Oohhh.... Nnnnnh," I moaned as tears gathered in both eyes. "Ow ow ow!" I whined.

When I finally walked inside, I was surprised to find blood on my hand. Would I need stitches? I peered into the mirror in my dining area. No, the only mark was a small, raised lump that was oozing blood. I quickly made an ice pack and pressed it gingerly against my throbbing temple. Good thing I missed my eye, I thought. That could have given me a nasty shiner!

Why Would I Want to Be Normal?

I've been living out a crazy adventure the last few days that I never could have predicted. It started on Saturday morning, when I was watching a playlist that God had queued up for me on YouTube. For the last several Saturdays, I've been multitasking by listening to various preachers to redeem the time spent on dishes and laundry.

The first video was a teaching from one of my favorite Bible study teachers, Priscilla Shirer. As always, God had arranged just the messages I needed to hear, rather like an extension of our earlier conversation in my prayer closet. Through the familiar story of Jesus feeding the 5000, Priscilla taught these truths:

• When Jesus told his exhausted disciples to come away with him, they didn't just go on vacation. On their quiet getaway with their teacher, they encountered a multitude waiting for them. So they continued to work alongside Him, and that shared ministry is where they found their rest.
  
  This echoed what God has been telling me about how I can find rest in the middle of all the stresses of my very demanding teaching job. Though I don't always have time for physical repose, I can always come to Him with my heavy burdens and find rest for my soul  (Matthew 11:28).
• When the disciples saw the hunger of the multitude, they asked Jesus to send them away so that they could find something to eat. Instead, Jesus told them, "They do not need to go away. You give them something to eat."
  
  Priscilla invited me to think about the multitude around me, the ones who make me feel overwhelmed with their impossible needs. Of course, I thought of my 97 students. She suggested that though I may be tempted to ask God to take away my personal multitude, God has sent me into this impossible situation because I am His plan for them, and His provision and glory will be revealed through me.
  
  The disciples' response was remarkably similar to my own: "We have here only five loaves of bread and two fish." How could they feed such a crowd with those meager resources? And how can I even begin to address all the spiritual and physical needs represented in my classroom... when I feel so inadequate?
• Priscilla's next point addressed that concern. In Jesus's hands, the impossibly tiny supply was more than enough to meet the needs. Not only did they feed the 5000 men, along with their women and children, but they even took home 12 baskets full--one basket per disciple! 

To sum it up, Priscilla said that Jesus's plan for the disciples, and for us is:

1. He called them to a purpose only they could fulfill.
2. He gave them power and authority to accomplish what they could not do through their own abilities.
3. He sent them out to do His work.

For me, the most moving part of the message was a story she shared about the sudden death of her cousin, at age 38. She said that we may think we have lots of time to fulfill God's calling, when actually we could have very little. Life is too short to waste time, she said. Whatever God has given us to do, we should feel an urgency to do it now, and even if fear tells us the job is too hard for us, we can't let that stop us. If we say yes to God's call, we can be certain that He will equip us. 

Por el Borde / Over the Edge

EN ESPAÑOL ABAJO 

[Here is another bilingual travelogue entry about my trip to Costa Rica for a Spanish Immersion program.]

ENGLISH TRANSLATION FOLLOWS. 

En la tarde del día cuando visité a Turrialba, hice un excursión con mi profesora, Karen.  Pensé que este canopy tour habían solamente cables, pero la experiencia incluyó más.

Una sorpresa esperó para mí: ¡Antes el primer cable, debemos hacer rappel debajo de una catarata! Nuestro guía nos mostró el proceso y me explicó en inglés. 

Entonces, él me dijo, "¿Está lista? ¡Vaya!" Él pusó mi hombro suavemente.

No podía cambiar de parecer. La situación era misma que mi viaje entiro; aquí, nunca sé exactamente que va a pasar, pero he aprendido que tener confianza. Siempre, todo es bueno. 

At Least You Know You're Alive

Last week I told you a bit about my family's recent road trip to Indiana. Now I'm going to tell you about the day that most of us will remember when we look back on this vacation.

Our last Tuesday was designated as Chicago Day. Rather than to brave the traffic and fight for parking spaces, we decided to take the South Shore commuter train that runs between South Bend, Indiana, and Downtown Chicago. I've actually ridden that route many times, and I usually enjoy the sense of adventure. This was my sister Amy's first time to ride the train since her stroke, but our sister Melody had done her research and assured us that the train was handicap accessible.

We decided to depart from Michigan City, an hour's drive away, because it had more return options than the closer South Bend station. On the trip out, we had the benefit of a one-hour time difference; we could leave at 7:00 and have plenty of time to catch the 9:00 train.

I got Amy and myself up that morning at 6:15, which seemed like plenty of time. But I had not factored in the shared bathroom, nor the multiple trips to the basement to holler at Allyson and her friend Kambry. Aunt Sue came to rescue by cooking our oatmeal and even washing Kambry's hair in the kitchen sink just moments before we left.

Following Melody and her husband Joe, we pulled out of the driveway around 7:20, not too bad in my book. While Kambry brushed her wet hair, Allyson routed us to the Carroll Avenue station. If all went according to plan, we would arrive with 40 minutes to spare.

Two Heroes and a Flash Flood

Tonight I have two stories to share. I can't decide which, so why not tell both? 

Would-Be Heroes
A week ago today, I went walking in the park with Lizzette, my most frequent walking companion aside from Jesus.

We didn't look this good on that evening. 

We got off to a very late start, so it was quite dark on our way back. Thus my usual wonder at the fireflies' magical pinpricks of golden light was tempered by fear of catching the Zika virus from the mosquitoes who also inhabit the thickly wooded creek bank.

Deep in conversation, we'd nearly made it back to the main road when we both stopped short, arrested by a plaintive cry.

"What was..." Lizzette began.

"Is it a..." I started to say "baby," but then we heard it again.