The Church Picture Family Farce: If I Laugh At Us First, Then You Can Laugh Too

I certainly have never claimed that that we are the Waltons; if anything, we are the anti-Waltons. While it's true that we get along 100% of 52% of the time, that's mostly because we see each other in passing. Friday night, however, required cooperation and a coordination of four schedules; the result of which I am pretty sure lowered our family average to 51%.

The event under question was the scheduling of church pictures. Every five to six years, the church hires a photography company to snap the pics of current, occasional, tri-holiday *, and wanna-be members. This has never been a big deal for our family, mostly because previous pictures were taken before a) the kids learned how to voice an opinion, and b) the kids could drive and be employed. Thus, the first arduous task of said venture was finding a workable time. After three or four attempts and subsequent rescheduled dates, we finally agreed on September 20 at 8:00 pm. I knew that the 8:00 pm time slot would be a challenge for me because a) it would be a Friday night**, and b)  it would be t-minus one hour from my usual bedtime. However, since the kids were amenable to that time slot, I would take one for the team.

At least, I thought we had 100% agreement on the time slot.

On Monday, as I was depositing clean clothes in Nick's room, I glanced at the calendar on his door and noted that he had written "Family pictures" on the September 27. I wrinkled my brow, walked over to the calendar, and corrected the error. As I exited the room, a flicker of doubt passed through me. Originally, I had schedule pics for the 20th, but due to a work conflict with one of the kids, I had re-scheduled for the 27th. I had told him that, right?

I sent a text to Erika, and she confirmed that she was off Friday night. Good. One down. Now, to check with the other.

As Nick headed out the door to work on Thursday morning, I reminded him of pics on Friday night. "Uh, no," he replied sarcastically, "You told me the 27th. I have to work on Friday night." *** After bickering for a few minutes, he left in a huff, and I was indignant. After all, I had told him the 20th, and he had screwed up . . .or . . .did he?

As I sat back in my chair, I thought to myself, "I did tell him about re-scheduling, right?" I have now reached the age where I-think-I-did and I-did merge together to create its own special reality. The only difference is that as one ages, s/he becomes exponentially stubborn about admitting that such a phenomenon occurs. Later, after a kind entreaty, Nick softened a bit and said that he might be able to get off an hour early. . .if he got all his work done early at Cub. Ok, I could live with that.

On Friday afternoon, I sent a text to Erika to remind her: "Remember church pics at 8."

Erika: "How long"

Me: "IDK"

Erika: "I need to know"

Me:"I suppose it depends on how on schedule they are and how cooperative we are"

Erika: "Guess"

Me: "1/2 hour at the very most"

Erika: "OMG why"

Knowing that all the burgeoning drama was due to the fact that a) there was a home football game, and b) there was a new young suitor on the line, I suggested that she wear her clothes for the pic to the game and shoot across to church (which is directly across from the football field ****and meet us there at 8. There were a few more pointed texts about attire *****and the time of rendezvous ******, but Erika was taken care of. Check.

By 7:45 p.m. Mike and I were sitting in front of Cub, waiting for Nick to exit *******. When he didn't appear, Mike went in to get him. When he exited, shaking his head, I knew that it wasn't because there was a pack of angry bees swarming his head. As he opened the door and slid into the seat, Mike reported, "He said he will be out in five minutes. He wants to work until 8."

"But we have to be there at 8!" I yelled ********.

After five minutes, Nick still had not appeared. I tapped the steering wheel. I reached for the ignition. . .three separate times. Then, I opened the door, and as I exited the vehicle, I could hear my long-suffering, exasperated husband say, "Oh, my. Here we go."

As I entered Cub, I made eye contact with #1 son, waved, and mouthed "we're leaving" as I abruptly turned around. As I was making my way out, I saw two of his co-workers and stopped to say hi*********. Nick was close on my heels, and I could tell by the flaring of the nostrils that the bull had been poked.

Speeding somewhat**********, Nick changed in the backseat***********, and we "shared our feelings with one another" on the way to church. As I entered the parking lot, my phone began buzzing loudly in my purse. "Will someone get that, please?" I asked, "I'm sure it's Erika, wondering where we are."

Right. The phone continued to buzz again and again. "WILL SOMEONE PLEASE ANSWER MY PHONE?! I AM DRIVING HERE!" Loath to dig in my purse, neither made a move. For whatever reason, the boys in my house seem to think that a woman's purse is like a giant snake pit into which no one of the male species is ever allowed to enter.

After parking the car, I grabbed my phone out of my purse. Sure enough, Erika had called me. . .five times. Grumbling and muttering, we ran across the parking lot; Erika was waiting for us at the front door: "Um, you told me I had to be here by 7:45. You're late."

"It's your brother's fault," I said pointedly. "He wouldn't leave work."

"Solid color, huh? Then, why is Dad wearing that sweater?" She replied, pointing at Mike. To explain, Mike was wearing a solid gray sweater with an argyle front.

Not wanting to get stuck in one of Erika's tangled verbal labyrinths************, I simply said, "Because he looks good in that sweater" as I brushed by her."*************

As we approached the check-in desk, it was just as I feared; they were behind schedule. Normally, I don't care, but since I had pulled Thing 1 and Thing 2 from their preferred activities, I knew I was never going to hear the end of it.

As usual, I was so right.

First, Nick started in, "So we are going to be late, huh, Mom? I had to leave work early. . " Then, Erika cut in and tag-teamed, "Oh my gosh, seriously? We have to hurry up. I left _____ at the game, and I didn't tell him where I was going. . ."

Ugh, even though I didn't have to use the restroom, I escaped under the guise of needing a potty break. After a few deep breaths to restore my equilibrium, I was ready to head back into the ring. After fifteen more minutes of bickering **************, it was our turn.

And just like that, aliens (presumably) entered the bodies of our two children, and they turned into cooperative, cajoling subjects for the Lifetouch guy. "Do you two get along?" he asked in attempt to put them at ease.

"Oh yes," Erika smiled and gushed, "We're the best of friends."

I choked, and Mike rolled his eyes. Then, he looked at me, shook his head, and started to smile.I wasn't quite to the point where I thought this was a charming moment, but then again, Mike has always had a much higher tolerance threshhold. It's part of the reason why this marriage works so well.

And so, we cheesy-smiled our way through the portrait session where our family picture will soon be found in the church directory. After it was all said and done, I received a text from Erika that said, "Sorry for the sass."  Nick, too, must have been remorseful because as we were dropping him off at a friend's house, he gave me a pat on the shoulder, which is as close to an apology as I am going to get.

As we drove home, I thought about the fact that this would probably be the last family picture we would take for church. In five years, Nick will be 24, Erika will be 22, and both will more than likely no longer be living at home. While I had wanted a Waltons moment . . .for the last picture to be memorable ***************, I should have known better. We are, and have never been, the Waltons. Rather than reminisce about fun trips and happy events, my kids prefer to re-tell and giggle over our family faux pas and embarrassing moments. Ok, I guess I will take that; those stories definitely bind us together. And now, thanks to Friday night, we'll have a new one to laugh about. . .eventually.


* Members who only show up on the three important church holidays:
Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter

** Cupcakes (aka jammie pants) are applied by no later than 7:00 pm on
weeknights. On weekends, and if it has been an especially trying week,
cupcakes are on by 6:00 pm, and are accompanied by a glass of whatever
wine happens to be in the house

*** Note to self: 6:00 a.m. is not a good time to discuss anything with a
teenager. EVER.

**** How convenient

***** Wear something long-sleeved and solid-colored

****** Erika: "I will be there at 8" vs. Mom: "Be there at 7:45"

******* Nick's car had been sold at 5:00 pm, so he had no wheels and had to be
picked up from work.

******** Prior to having children, Mike and I were the most punctual people on the
planet. . .for realz. We were ALWAYS fifteen minutes early for everything.
Then, we had kids and blew that track record clean out of the water.

********* As a teacher, rudeness is never an option.

********** Ok, excessively. Sorry, law enforcement officers. Usually, I am a very
temperate, responsible driver. However, stress and driving is an ugly
combo for Missy.

*********** Yes, I had picked out his outfit AND ironed his shirt.

************ If Erika had been the lawyer at OJ Simpson's trial, that man would never
have seen the light of day again. Word.

************* Yes, I went there. I pulled the parental "because" card.

************** One-sided. I refused to play. I opted for the silent treatment, which is a
deadly weapon to kids. They know how to combat tears and volcanic
explosions, but silence plays with their minds.

*************** For the record, it WAS memorable.

Navigating Through the Perfect Storm

To live is to experience stress; that is a basic law of life - as natural as breathing and eating. While there are, indeed, two types of stress - eustress (good kind) and distress (bad kind), it is the latter we tend to experience and lament the most.

My spin on this topic has always been that any stress can be endured as long as it is an isolated case. For example, if I have a bad day at work, it is much more bearable if everything is ok at home/with the family or at church. But when all three are out of joint, the stress is overwhelming.

Every once in a while, the perfect storm ignites - when the gales from the different shores of one's life become so turbulent that one loses his/her sense of balance and direction. I can't say that I am in a storm right now, but I can certainly smell rain in the air.

As usual, God is good and dropped just the perfect scripture into my lap to combat the brewing storm.  First, yesterday's devotional verse was Romans 5: 3 - "Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit whom He has given us."

Then, this morning's verse was from I Samuel 17: 37 - "The Lord who delivered me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine." Even though David was talking about himself, the verse could be talking about anyone of us; all we would have to do is insert three different nouns. The God is the same, and so is the power.

My particular talent is waking up in the middle of the night to agonize over things that a) I cannot control, and b) I certainly can do nothing about at 3 am. This morning, however, God brought the Fruits of the Spirit to mind. Rather than five smooth stones, here is the way in which He is helping me to approach the Philistine of stress in my life:

(Inhale) Love. . . . . . . .(Exhale) Hate
(Inhale) Joy. . . . . . . . . (Exhale) Sadness
(Inhale) Peace. . . . . . .(Exhale) Chaos
(Inhale) Patience.  . . . .(Exhale) My timeline
(Inhale) Kindness .  . . . (Exhale) Bitterness
(Inhale) Goodness. . . . (Exhale) Judgment
(Inhale) Gentleness. . . .(Exhale) Harshness
(Inhale) Faithfulness. . . (Exhale) Doubt
(Inhale) Self-Control . . .(Exhale) Selfishness  

Dream A Little Dream With Me

“The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head.” This quote from Tim O'Brien's book, Things They Carried. As O'Brien writes book about the Vietnam War, he tries to reinforce that storytelling is an act of love; it is a way for us to bring life to those who are no longer here. September 14th marks the day on which my cousin, Lisa Jarveis, would have turned 43. Dream along with me as I relay fourteen memories about her.

One toy that I always wanted as a kid but never got was a Sit 'N Spin, but Lisa had one. It was blue with the tell-tale rainbow swirl in the middle. I remember us both sitting on the Sit 'N Spin, one on either side, our legs straddling each other, so we could both be on it at the same time. We would spin and laugh until we were ready to puke, or until the person's legs on the bottom had become numb. Then, we would switch places and do it all over again.

When Erika was born, Mike and I asked Lisa and Jason to be her godparents. After baptism, everyone was back at our house on Quincy to have lunch. At the time, Erika was about a month old, and she was struggling with digesting formula. Long story short, right after eating, Erika would projectile vomit, and of course, that's what she did that day as well. I remember taking Erika back to her room to change her clothes, and Lisa quietly walked in behind me. Almost in tears, Lisa said, "What's wrong, Miss? Is she going to be all right?" When it came to kids, no one had a bigger heart for them, especially babies, than Lisa. I included this memory because I was touched that day by her empathy - tearful because my baby didn't feel well and wanting to know how she could help.

When Grandpa and Grandma Ryks first moved to town (Prinsburg), our uncle, Harvey, lived with them, and the basement must have been his domain. Anyway, there was a turntable down there, along with all of Uncle Harvey's disco records. I remember laughing and dancing as Lisa and I tried to figure out what the heck a "Hustle" was supposed to look like. Our favorite disco record was KC and the Sunshine Band; the orange shag carpeting completed the disco vibe for us.

As long as we're talking about Grandma's basement, there was a time when all four of us (Lisa, Brad, Ross, and I) were together, and it was time for lunch (the-farmer-schedule-3pm-midafternoon-snack-lunch). We decided to eat downstairs at the card table, and Grandma brought the food, including a freshly-made pitcher of grape Kool-Aid. While pouring up the juice, Lisa felt confident that it was a spill-proof pitcher and decided to test the laws of gravity by tipping the pitcher upside down.  She was right. . .for about two seconds, and then, there was a purple flood. . .which trickled over the sides of table to the orange shag. It was not our best moment, but we all hustled to get the mess cleaned up.

As a kid, there was nothing better than playing in the grove. When Lisa's family moved to the "home" place, we cleared out parts of the grove, just west of the house. At the time, Harvey's raccoon "palace" still existed, but we were told we couldn't play in there. Instead, we removed the brush and sticks in several "pockets" of the grove to create a house with rooms. We even got a broom and swept the dirt of our "house." As most people know, the grove is usually a treasure trove of broken and cast-off pieces of household crap. This was true for us as well, so we spent lots of time scouring the grove for broken plates, old frying pans. . .whatever junk we could use to make our "house" better.

For my 30th birthday, Mike, Lisa, Jason, and I all went to Stillwater to take a river cruise. We had dinner aboard the paddleboat and listened to a Dixieland Jazz band while cruising the Mississippi. Since our lives had gotten so busy with our kids, it was nice to be able to spend a little time together, so it's a special memory for me.

Every once in a while, Lisa and I would get to have a sleepover. It was more fun at Lisa's house because she had a huge queen-sized bed. I remember very distinctly, lying side-by-side, whispering late into the night. As the night went on, the deeper and darker secrets would be revealed with a solemn promise that went something like this, "I'm going to tell you this, but you can't ever tell anybody." This was the closest moment I have ever had with regard to having a sister. Even to this day, there are things that Lisa told me that I have never revealed to anyone.

As far as I know, Lisa never wore blush. Did you know that? Since she was a Mary Kay dealer for a long time, I would occasionally buy stuff from her, and one day, I asked her what kind of blush I should buy - creme or powder. She explained that she didn't know because she never wore any. She said she didn't like it because it looked fake. Random, I know, but I thought it was interesting.

Another toy that Lisa had that I coveted for a long time was the Barbie Dream House. You know the one. . .with an elevator and multiple floors. It was the bomb. Every time I was over there, I wanted to play with the thing because I was a Barbie girl, hard-core. While Lisa was fine with playing Barbies, she was a baby doll girl. She loved and loved her babies. I guess she was preparing for her career and greatest passion, motherhood. Sidebar: My mom and dad made me my own Barbie Dream House and furniture, which I received somewhere around 1978-80 for Christmas. I still have it, and my children have never been allowed to play with it.

One Christmas, Lisa and I were at her house when they lived on the home place. We usually celebrated with the Ryks bunch on Christmas Day. After eating and opening gifts, we were bored and went outside. Her dad (I think) had just bought a brand-new snowmobile, so after getting the green light to use it, we took off - she was driving, and I was behind her. If you knew Lisa at all, the word, "slow," was not a part of her driving vocabulary, so naturally, she had that throttle mashed wide-open as we jetted across the plowed field. The same was true on the return trip to the yard, only as we were headed toward the driveway, she didn't slow down. . . at all. I don't know if she didn't see it, or what, but we hit the driveway approach at full speed. . .and were full-on, Dukes-of-Hazzard airborne for a bit. We landed hard, and by an act of God, we didn't flip. As we stopped to catch out breath, neither of said a word, looked at each other, and burst out laughing. When we ran into the house to tell the adults what we had done, no one believed us. We still laughed about this incident in later years.

Back in the day, the Ryks children were subjected to an annual activity that occurred at the very buttcrack of summer. . .swimming lessons. Usually, our parents would book lessons for us at the Renville pool during the first or second week of June. Did I mention that the Renville pool was an outside pool? The first week of June was brutal because the water was ice-cold, it rained often, and we would have them in the morning or around noon. Anyway, Lisa and I had a hard-core crush on one of the lifeguards/instructors; his name was Shawn Grabow, and even in June, he had a deep Coppertone tan and feathery David Cassidy hair. One of the tasks we would have to complete in order to move to the next lesson level was jumping off the high dive. Honestly, there was no logical reason we had to do this if we are talking about swimming lessons, but that was what we had to do. Confession:  Lisa and I would pretend that we were scared to jump off so that Shawn had to climb the ladder and "threaten" to push us off. It was so silly, but we loved the attention because he was hott. Ha!

My memory is faulty with regard to the actual vehicle involved with this next memory. The car I most associate with Lisa is the minty greenish Caprice Classic; she beat the poop out of that guy, so I am going to say this incident happened with that car. Anyway, one night when I was out on a date with Mike, we spotted Lisa and Amy, and so we started a game of chase on the side streets of Willmar. We were ripping around the corners at a pretty good clip on the southwest side - over by Redeemer Lutheran Church; it was all in fun. However, it's all fun and games. . .until a cop is involved. While we got away, Lisa was pulled over. I can't say if she got a ticket or not, but I can tell you this. The next morning, bright and early, the phone rang at my house. It was Lisa. "Hey, you know what happened last night?" she asked. "Can we keep that to ourselves?" (Translation: I don't want my mom and dad to find out.) I think it's safe to spill the beans on that one now. ;)

Even though we weren't sisters, there are three months between us, and there were some connections between the two of us that were more than coincidental. For example, my name, Melissa, was a name that had been seriously considered for Lisa as well. My mom and dad didn't find that out until later.  Later, the name, Gretchen, was on my list for any girl children we might have, and Lisa named her firstborn Greta (a lovely name with a strong heritage). I don't know if I ever told Lisa about that. When our son was born, we named him Nicholas, which was also Lisa's number one choice of a boy's name.

Number 14 is a memory that I can't share but am so thankful for. On March 16, 2012, I drove out to see and chat with Lisa. By divine appointment, we were alone in the house, so we were able to talk about whatever we wanted to, and we did. For about two hours, we chatted, cried, laughed, and discussed. Had I known then what was about to transpire, I would have stayed much longer. Even so, I am thankful for the time we had.

Every time I think about her, it's like enjoying the warmth of a favorite sweater then pulling a thread and unraveling a sleeve. The memories make it feel as though she is still here, but there are so many questions. In any case, I am thankful for the memories, and there is joy and comfort in knowing that she is spending her birthday in the best possible place.

The Climb

As I heard the door slam this morning, I knew it had to be about 5:45 a.m. without even looking the clock. That's about the time Nick leaves so that he can make it to work by 6. I wanted nothing more than to throw the covers over my head and roll over, but I knew that if I did, I would be extremely angry with myself. So, by 6:15, I was out of the gravel, threading my ear buds through my shirt and hitting "reset" on my watch. It was time.

Saturdays are usually my long run days. It's the day on which I extend my mileage if I want to challenge myself. This particular Saturday was an important one because in all likelihood, it was going to be the last long run of the summer.

To explain, on Tuesday, I officially go back to work, which essentially means that my personal life and pursuits come to an end for the next nine months. Teaching, at least for me, is very intensive. It means early mornings, full afternoons, and evenings full of either sporting events, concerts, paperwork, or planning. Getting a run in will now become a challenge, and long runs will be an impossibility (as will scrapbooking, reading for fun, and using the restroom without obeying a bell). So far this summer, my longest run had been six miles. Today, I was going to up the ante and go for a personal best: eight miles.

Why eight? Adding two miles would be a challenge but could still be achieved. Likewise, eight miles would be the exact mileage from our house around the lake and back again. I had no particular time in mind; I just wanted to finish without walking.

All went well until I hit mile seven; I fully expected that the last two miles would be the true challenge. The sun was up, and the formidable presence of the heat and humidity was full in my face. Still, as I rounded the corner by the fairgrounds, I pressed on, reminding myself that I had two miles to go. I had already done five, two more was completely do-able.

As transitioned to the last mile, the situation intensified. The heat and humidity were even more oppressive, my feet suddenly felt like cement bricks, and worst of all, I had to scale a serious hill. I have no idea the grade, but I do know that this hill progressively rises for a 1/3 to a 1/2 mile. In short, this hill was going to make or break me.

With that in mind, I slowed my pace. I am already a seriously putzy runner, but my slowed pace probably resembled a brisk walking pace to the average observer. I didn't care; it was still running, and that's all the mattered to me. In considering what I had already accomplished for the day, it would have been completely acceptable to walk up the hill, but it was not acceptable to me.

As I began the climb and looked ahead to the top of the hill, I was instantly overwhelmed and faltered a bit. Since Mile 7, some serious self-talk had motivated me to keep going; now, I wasn't so sure.

Discouraged, I looked down at the paved path. I noticed that someone had finally cut the grass so that sprigs of straw were strewn on the path. The path wasn't covered, but the wind had thrown a few errant pieces here and there.

In order to distract myself from the hill, I trained my focus on the grass. I picked one piece of grass and ran toward it. When I reached that piece, I looked a few feet ahead and picked another to focus on and ran toward it.

If ever I looked up ahead to see how far I was from the crest of the hill, I was instantly overwhelmed and frustrated, so after learning my lesson quickly, I just kept my eyes on the pavement, playing connect the dots with pieces of grass.

Even as I was making my way up the hill (and I swear this is true), I found myself thinking about Francis Chan's book, Forgotten God. One area of anxiety for many people (including me) is knowing and following God's Will. Since we are each given particular talents and gifts and are here in this moment in history for a reason, we feel pressure to seek and fulfill His purpose for our lives.

Chan, however, suggests that knowing the full and whole picture at once is not productive or conducive to growth. "It is easy to use the phrase 'God's will for my life' as an excuse for inaction or even disobedience. ... My hope is that instead of searching for 'God's will for my life' each of us would learn to seek hard after 'the Spirit's leading in my life today.' May we learn to pray for an open and willing heart, to surrender to the Spirit's leading with that friend, child, spouse, circumstance, or decision in our lives right now.”

He continues by saying, “It's much less demanding to think about God's will for your future than it is to ask Him what He wants you to do in the next ten minutes.”

What God really wants is for us to train our ears to His voice so that we do exactly what He asks us to do at the moment He wants us to do it. The result of our obedience will BE the fulfillment of God's Will for our lives.

In essence, focusing on His voice and doing what He asks is like following the straw on the path. As I reached one piece and conquered the distance, my eyes focused on a new piece. As I surpassed each piece of straw, I gained confidence and satisfaction in achieving the smaller goal while ultimately conquering the overall challenge of cresting the large hill. Training my eyes on the hill in the distance would only have resulted in frustration and defeat.

Likewise, by doing what He asks me to do when He asks me to do it, I am doing His Will, and I am ultimately fulfilling His purpose for my life. I don't need to know the big picture; He already does. By demanding to see and know the whole thing, once again, I insist that I need to be in control, and therefore, I am only proving how spiritually immature and selfish I am. Obedience in the seemingly small things reaps joy and peace.

It's a win-win all the way around.

On a physical level, this philosophy was certainly proven today as it explains how I made it to the top of the hill. . . and how I managed to run 8 miles without stopping or walking. Undoubtedly, it will also prove to be true as I traverse the miles of hills and valleys in this race called life.

"And your ears will hear a word behind you, "This is the way, walk in it," whenever you turn to the right or to the left." Isaiah 30:21

The Dell From Hell Farce: Either You Laugh or You Cry. I Prefer to Laugh.

Sometimes, the stuff that happens in life is so stupid that you either have to laugh or cry.   Here is the tale of the Dell from hell.

Right before the band and choir trip to New York in March, I spotted a Dell laptop that was reasonably priced in the Best Buy ad, and we decided to buy it.* Mike had recently begun nurturing a relationship with Craigslist and wanted to a laptop so that he could browse while watching TV in the evening. I, on the other hand, had visions of using this laptop to write the G.A.N.** And so, we bought it on March 17 and shoved the box under the bed for safe keeping until we returned from the trip.

Fast forward to April 18. Good thing that we weren't depending on the G.A.N. to pay the bills because that's the day I lost everything I had written thus far. That's the day that the hard drive crashed when Mike was browsing Craigslist.*** On April 24, some dude from St. Cloud made a house call and replaced the hard drive. Mike resumed browsing and then. . .

Today, I went to check the date of expiration for the anti-virus protection on the laptop. . .and the dang thing would not turn on. SERIOUSLY? If you are like me, you would probably prefer a colonoscopy to having to hang on the phone with a customer service specialist. I usually get re-directed at least twice, hung-up on **** once, and end up concentrating on a piece of lint in front of me in order to FOCUS on probable meaning because the customer service agent's heavy foreign accent is throwing me off.

After completing any necessary evening chores*****, I gathered up my receipts, service tags, and a cold beverage, and settled in for what promised to be a headache-inducing conversation with an immigrant (sorry, but true) whom I would probably not understand.

Sure enough, after a couple of false starts ******, Sari (sorry?) started the process. Apparently, he didn't believe that a hard drive could have crashed again, so he had me performing all sorts of computer-related contortions. . .unplug, restart, take out the battery, repeat. Then, I had to find an HDMI cord and check the monitor. Then, I had to find a Phillips screwdriver and remove the screws on the back (top or bottom? What is the top, and what is the bottom?), take out the memory stick (what the heck is a memory stick?), put it in slot blah-blah, then slot la-la, repeat. Who knew that a customer service call would turn into an obstacle course? I was practically breaking a sweat.

As I was trying to keep pace with Sari, it was at this point that my son decided it was time to make himself supper. ******* I believe I touched brain tissue tonight as I stuffed my index finger as far as I could into my ear canal in order to avoid the sound of clanging pots and pans. ********

Then, as I was wielding a screwdriver and focusing on Sari's instructions, Nick wanted to play food charades. . .and tell me that the dessert I had made earlier was (thumbs up) a keeper. Thanks?

Finally, after an hour (for real) of quality time with Sari in trying to complete the Computer Repair 101 course that he had provided, Sari concluded that the motherboard, internal . . . ., ,<insert long list of convoluted computerese> needed to be replaced. They would be sending me a box into which I will deposit my faulty piece of Dell metal, and in 7-10 days, "I promise you, ma'am, that you will never have to call for service again."

Riiiiigggghhhht.

After recording the dispatch number, the case number, etc, etc, etc, Sari explained that he had relayed my issue to his supervisor who wanted to "personally reassure" me that the problem would be taken care of.

Fine. It had already been an hour. What was another two minutes?

So, Sari-er (sorrier?) got on the line and basically repeated the same schpeel as Sari and ended by saying, "I promise you, ma'am, that you will never have to call for service again." Ok, that was creepy. Maybe Borgs really do exist?

After hanging up, I wandered into the office to give Mike an update. As he was scrolling through page after page of motorcycles on Craigslist, I explained that the motherboard and other stuff needed replacing. When I finished, he must have sensed that it was his social responsibility to respond, so without looking from the screen, he said, "What happened to the guy's mother?"

Honestly, I can't even begin to make this stuff up.

*Why a Dell, you may ask? Well, I had really wanted a Mac, but I have kids. Either I feed them, or I get a really expensive laptop.

**Great American Novel

*** A sign from God? I think so.

**** "disconnected" in custservspeak

***** I knew I was in it for the long haul.

****** including a snarky exchange with technical support vs. customer service. . .Excyuuuusssse me.

******* I had made chicken pot pie earlier, but apparently, he was hungrier for finer cuisine, like, oh say, macaroni and cheese.

******** This could have been a passive-aggressive endeavor as Nick had previously told me that I should hang the pots and pans since they are so friggin' noisy when you are trying to extract them from the cupboard. Point taken, but now, is not the best time to prove your point.

Diary of a Fat Kid: A Seriously Humorous Memoir

Almost a month ago, Trisha Pendill started a Facebook group called "Marathon Before School." In a nutshell, participants would record his/her mileage until the first day of school; the challenge was to accumulate enough mileage to have run a marathon (26.2 miles). Since I was running anyway, I decided to join.

Since July 27, I have tallied 45.6 miles, almost two marathons. Prior to July 27, I had been averaging about 13 miles a week, but I hadn't officially been keeping track either. Today, as I was completing my last mile toward home, I started to do some informal math in my head. The long and short of it is that by the end of the summer, I will have basically run to Minneapolis and back.

Holy crap. Not bad for a recovering fat girl.

Ok, now I have to explain.

In elementary school, I was the fat kid in my class. No, thanks; really, I'm ok. No need to pass the Kleenex box or crank up the sad, after-school-special soundtrack music. It is what it is, and it was what it was. Every class has one, and mine happened to have me.

From the second grade on, I was the one elected to tackle the guys during the ridiculous yet wildly popular (and nowadays, absolutely politically incorrect) game that we called "Girls Catch the Boys and Kiss Them" because, well, I was the biggest girl who could take them down. I was also unofficially given the nickname, Tank, by a particular red-headed classmate *.

During my 5th grade year, I cleverly avoided the playground at recess by volunteering to stay in to correct papers for Mr. Jasper. It was a win-win for both of us.

All fat kids, including me, share a common enemy, however. And that is the dreaded, annual Presidential fitness award requirements. Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. . .the chin-up, sit-up, run-a-mile torture tests that kids have to endure just to acquire a circular piece of fabric, aka a patch, that says Presidential Fitness Award **.

The tests themselves, while unpleasant, were an annual torment, but they were nothing compared to the humiliation of having to do them in front of your peers. This degradation was compounded even more by the fact that the tests were done in alphabetical order (more than likely to accommodate the tester and his/her clipboard checklist).

To explain, my second cousin always preceded me in these tests. Where I was fat and infatuated with sedentary activities such as watching TV ***, reading, and doing puzzles, Darice was lithe and athletic and breezed through the tests without breaking a sweat.

On one particular occasion, I remember that we all had to line up by the monkey bars on the playground. Each took a turn (while the others watched, of course) at walking toward the gallows (fine, that' s a little dramatic, I agree) and assuming the chin-up position and hanging there ****.

Check. Check. Check. We were clipping along through the list of my classmates, and then, it was Darice's (second cousin) turn, and of course, as you can probably guess, she set the class record for hanging there the longest at well over a minute.

Neato.

Now, it was my turn.

I made it exactly four seconds. Fail. Hey, cut me some slack. I was fighting more gravity than she did.

Anyway, I lost a bit of chub in junior high, and once I joined volleyball in 10th grade*****, the weight just fell off. For the first time, I was looking good and wanted to stay that way.

Once sports were over, though, I discovered that the pounds would creep on quickly if I didn't stay active, so a stationary bike and I became good friends******, and that's how I stayed relatively (for me) slim throughout high school.

College, however, was a different animal. High carb was life, and I found I had to work relentlessly to keep the weight at bay. This is when I delved into the underworld of eating disorders, which majorly screwed up the next five years of my life (but that's a subject for a different day).

Shortly after we married, I began two love affairs - one with my husband and the other with my cooking*******. I packed on a lot of weight in the first year of our marriage, and after being horrified by a Christmas picture in which a double-chin was a prominent feature on my face, I was on the move again.

Throughout the twenty+ years of marriage, child-raising, and career, walking has been my most effective fitness technique. As an early riser, my early morning walks helped me to clear my head, pray, and keep fit. When the kids were little, we three would bike a lot while Daddy was at work, and in recent years, I have decided to challenge myself by running.

In 2010, when I turned 40, I cranked it up a notch. I decided to complete the Minnewaska Triathlon, which is a 400 yard swim, 11 mile bike ride, and 2.5 mile run. Naturally, on the day of the Tri, it was thundering, lightning, raining, and cold. I was just about crying because I felt so out of my league with all the hard bodies around me. But, my die-hard cheerleader was there (Mike), and he was snapping 8,000 pictures, encouraging me to just go. In the end, it was just the right challenge for me, and I successfully completed the course.  I can remember tearing up during the bike ride because I thought to myself, "You are really doing this, and you're not dying!"

So that brings me to today.

I am 43 years old. By the end of the summer, my running shoes will have covered somewhere between 175 and 200 miles of pavement and gravel. This former fat girl is completely recovered. You know how I know? My first concern is no longer weight; I haven't stepped on a scale all summer.  I am strong. I am healthy. I love to push my body and see what it can do, and isn't that what fitness is all about?

*Funny story. . .years later, I had said red-headed boy's daughter in class. Somehow she learned of the connection between me and her dad, and she seriously thought I was going to fail her because of it. I am so not making that up. Wow.

** Look at this face. Do I LOOK as though I covet said patch? Do I really care if the president thinks I am fit? No, no I do not. Back away with the clipboard, and no one gets hurt.

***Mork and Mindy, Happy Days, Dukes of Hazzard. . .I will totally ROCK you at 80s trivia.

**** Seriously. How is hanging in the chin-up position a test of fitness? How many basketball players do you see hanging on the rim after stuffing the ball? How many volleyball players hang on the net for an indeterminate amount of time? It might be a useful skill if you are Indiana Jones and are hanging on for dear life so that you don't plummet into a rocky cavern below, but yeah, not sure, Mr. President, how you reasoned that one out.

***** Don't judge. Late bloomer. Let's just say I was a rock star setter. . .on the C team. . .where most of my teammates were at least two years younger than me. Don't judge.

******We became BFFs with my old pal, the TV (Love Boat, Fantasy Island, Falcon Crest - see ***)

*******My cooking was not very good. at all. But I think I ate all the leftovers to try to convince myself and Mike that my cooking was good. I think he lost weight that year.

The Simple Life

Even though I should be somewhat hesitant to mention this (I told an English teacher colleague yesterday, and he about laughed himself silly), I have spent the summer re-reading the Little House series - yep, the children's books by Laura Ingalls Wilder about her experiences as a pioneer. The last time I read these books, I was a 2nd or 3rd grader in elementary school. I can't exactly tell you what the impetus for my decision was, but I have spent my summer savoring the pages.

I use the word, "savor," because another friend couldn't believe that it has taken me all summer to get through the series. After all, they are easy-reading children's books, and since I am a fairly speedy reader, there is no reason why I should not have had these books done by the 4th of July. However, "savoring" is what I do best.

In college, in order to break the monotony of studying, a good friend and I would often scrounge up change in order to raid the vending machine, by purchasing two Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (a favorite for each of us). My friend's method of eating it was "down the hatch," but I could make my peanut butter cups last a ridiculously long time. First, I would pick off all the chocolate ridges around the edges, then I picked off all the chocolate on the tops and bottoms, and then, I would finally eat the peanut butter part. I know how to make a good thing last.

Naturally, when anyone re-reads books (and I typically do not), s/he tends to pick out details and ideas that s/he missed the first time around.  This was especially true for me since I was reading the Little House series as a 40 something vs. an 8 year old. For example, as a kid, my least favorite book in the series was Farmer Boy, the account of Almanzo's formative years in New York state. As a kid, I was bored to tears with all the description of farming, food preparation, and animal husbandry. However, this time around, this was one of the books in the series that I enjoyed most.

One of the most refreshing aspects of the series is the simplicity of it all. When I read the account of Laura and Almanzo's marriage, I was struck by the lack of fanfare and "hoo-hah." After "courting" for three years (and Laura never even calls it that; she refers to it as "Sunday afternoon horse rides"),they ended up getting married in the middle of the week in the pastor's house because they wanted to avoid Eliza's (Almanzo's sister) and his mother's attempts to turn it into a complicated, expensive event. Laura got married in a black dress, mostly because it was her newest dress, they went back to the Ingalls farm to have a simple wedding supper with Pa, Ma, and the girls, and then, they went home and did chores. There was no saying, "yes to the dress," no expensive venue, DJ, catered meal, floor decal, etc, etc, etc.

Most delightful of all was Laura's attitude about life. While she didn't enjoy farming as an occupation and begged Almanzo to get out of it, she loved farm life vs. town life. In the book, she addressed her lack of a social life by saying that she regarded her four-legged friends as more valuable than any on two legs. And like her Pa, she valued the open prairie - the vast, unsettled wildness of it all. In short, she conveyed the fact that she loved her life just as it was and did not wish for anything more or different (other than making a steady income and having no "notes" on the house or equipment).
While the pioneer life was harsh, hard, and often deadly, it seems far superior to the lives we lead today.

I realize that statement doesn't make a lot of sense, especially when I think about all the modern conveniences that make life tolerable - washing machines, flushing toilets, Internet shopping, cell phones. But I am still sticking to my original claim.

Since there was no Internet or computer or phones, for that matter, out on the prairie, Laura's world consisted of what was in front of her within a twenty mile radius. Often, when one was married and moved away (depending on how far s/he moved), the marriage ceremony could very well be the last time one saw his/her pa and ma as well as other relatives.

Likewise, since there was no way to get to one, much less see one other than in a book, Laura never had a desire to travel to the ocean. . .or see Europe. . .or do missionary work in a foreign country. She was completely contented with her life as it was and concerned herself with the life and people in her present circumstances. Period.

I suppose, then, it could be argued that it is a blessing to be living in such modern times.   Skype, email, texting, and Facebook help us to stay in contact with the people with whom we have traveled along life's path. Likewise, the Internet and air travel have shrunk our world considerably so that seeing an ocean, jungles, and even Big Ben is easily within the realm of possibility. Even though these are wonderful opportunities (and I'm not dissing them), I still think that, to a certain extent, Laura had us beat.

To explain, with all these opportunities come choice, which generally is a good thing, but choice can also lead to more confusion, or noise, as I like to call it.  Sure, if I don't like my current job, I can quit, fly across the world, and do something else if I want to. . .but what? There are so many possibilities to consider! What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to go? What was I born to do?

The noise of choice often muddies the waters for us. Rather than seeking God's Will, choice sometimes makes it easier for us to ignore God's voice because, well, if we don't like things the way they are, we can choose a different route with little difficulty.  Choice can also mean walking away from circumstances that could have been specifically orchestrated by God as part of our spiritual growth.

As a pioneer woman, Laura didn't have the privilege of choice. Therefore, she had to rely on the circumstances God had placed her in, the people in her midst, and the values and skills she had been taught.

Lately, I have been reading a book about David, as in King David. While he is one of the most admired of Biblical characters, he certainly wasn't perfect and had to learn the hard way, just like all the rest of us. The point to be underscored is that David learned that he was miserable and made horrible decisions when he didn't have his ear tuned directly toward God. Through many trials and errors, David disciplined himself to put God first whenever a decision needed to be made. In essence, he eliminated the noise around him to do exactly what God required and wanted. It's not surprising that this was God's plan all along. Before God would allow David to replace Saul as king, God needed David to be trained correctly. At times, David was miserable, but he ultimately emerged as the person God wanted him to be.

Therefore, when the situation is carefully examined, it seems as though life today is more difficult than when pioneers such as Laura Ingalls Wilder lived. We are bombarded by choices, and rather than encourage us, we are discouraged and discontented. We see the banquet of careers, places to live, volunteer opportunities, hobbies. . .and worse, we have unlimited access to the choices and lives that others are creating/living, and we get overwhelmed and disappointed by our current state. We worry that life is short, that we've made the wrong choices, that other, better, bigger circumstances would make us happy and fulfilled. In short, the noise of choice can be so overwhelming that God's still, small voice gets swallowed up into the cacophony. We no longer hear it or seek it because based on what we have seen and the choices that the world has exposed us to, we think we know best.

In the 1970s, there was a cheesy phrase that people had hanging on fridges and walls: "Bloom Where You're Planted." Yet, these days, I often find myself muttering it when I get off track. I know that Laura would certainly approve of it, and while it probably wouldn't be flashy enough for David, I am pretty sure he would echo the sentiment. I am where I am at this moment in history for a reason. Rather than get sucked in by the circus of the world, my job is to "bloom," which, in the most basic definition, is to love others and use my gifts, right where I am. If and when the plan changes, God will let me know, but I have to make sure that I can hear Him. This means I have to be diligent about avoiding excessive, distracting noise.

Clearly, the simple life that Laura describes in her books has merit, and when we read about it, we long for it. However, the simple life is completely within our grasp. We don't have to travel 140 years back in time to achieve it. Through Laura's and David's examples, we learn that the simple life is a matter of attitude and a disciplined heart.