Glimpses of His Love

As previously mentioned, I’m reading The Way of the Wild Heart by John Eldredge, and he discusses the six phases of the masculine journey. (I encourage you to read this book and Wild at Heart, whether you’re a man or a woman, because it’s very enlightening. I also highly recommend Captivating, which is about the feminine journey.) They are Adored Son, Cowboy/Ranger, Warrior, Lover, King, and Sage. I am just beginning the chapters on the “Sage” part, and to this point, the most difficult part for me to read has been the “Lover” section. However, one thing in the Lover part of the book struck a chord in me, and that was when Eldredge was speaking of this communication between God and man. He spoke of the way God has shown His love over the years, and that resonated with me, because I understood. I have been there. I know what you mean. Shortly after I read that section, I had one of those little things happen that communicated to me that God longs to be intimately connected with my life. That experience led to the poem that I posted yesterday and began this post brewing in my head. Some things are really clear in my mind, but become much more complicated when I try to get them out and put them in words, so I hope I’m not confusing this issue too much in the telling…

Someone once said that when you talk to God it’s called prayer, but when God talks to you it’s called schizophrenia. :) I still think that’s hilarious. Have you ever spent time thinking about the ways in which God carries on conversations with His people? Chances are, if you’ve spent any time in prayer, ever in your life, you’ve at least considered the reverse. Perhaps you haven’t spent much time thinking about it. Perhaps you’re one of those people who think that it just doesn’t happen. Perhaps you’re not even sure that God exists. On the other hand, maybe, like me, you’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about it and have begun to enjoy a more regular intercourse with your Creator because of your careful consideration.

The two typical interactions that people automatically assume you’re talking about when you refer to the voice of God in your life are the Bible, and other people. It’s true. Those are great sources of interaction with God. I firmly believe that the Bible is our primary source for understanding the Mind and Heart of God, because it is His love story that He put in writing for our benefit. I believe, like many before me, that the Bible is the divine Word of God, that it is a living Word, and not a dead writing. I believe, as the Bible says of itself, that it is “able to make thee wise unto salvation through faith which is in Christ Jesus. All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness; that the man of God may be perfect, thoroughly furnished unto all good works.” In addition to Scripture, I believe that God uses people to speak to one another to convey His thoughts. In my life, He has used many people, even some unlikely sources.

This thought always reminds me of the little girl who was afraid of the dark. She called for her daddy, and he came into the room. She told him of her fear, and he said, “Don’t you remember that you learned that Jesus is with you all the time? You don’t ever have to be afraid of anything, because Jesus is there to take care of you.” She replied, “I know that, Daddy, but I just wanted someone with skin.” In our frailty as humans, we sometimes need someone “with skin,” and God faithfully provides that. He places people in our lives to help us through things, and for that we are grateful. On the reverse of that is the fact that sometimes you and I become the someone with skin to help others through. Sometimes we know it, and sometimes we don’t, but it’s a blessing to be that someone, either way. But I digress…

There are many other ways that God shows us that He is present, that He cares, and that He is interested in even the most mundane details of our daily lives. Sometimes He speaks directly to our spirit, using words that are almost audible in our heads. Sometimes He conveys an emotion or alleviates a negative emotion. There have been moments in my life that I could very clearly, in my mind, hear God’s voice speaking to me. Those things have not always been life-changing words, in fact, most of them were just moments shared between two close friends, but some of them have been very eye-opening. The first time that I felt God joking with me startled me and delighted me. But when I thought about it, I thought that if we’re created in His image and we joke with each other, why wouldn’t He joke with us, too? There was a time, a little over a year ago, that I had found a song that I loved, and I was listening to it one morning while getting ready to go somewhere, and I heard Him speak to me, in echo to the words of the song. That song has, ever since, been my love song with my Lover, my Lord: OUR song. Every time I hear it, I smile, and it renews my commitment to Him.

It’s interesting to note that trying to explain to someone else these moments is nearly impossible, even to someone else who understands. There’s such a POWER in the voice of God that it’s impossible to convey, so the re-telling of the experience loses something big. I’ve learned that those moments are generally to be shared only between the two of us, and in the sharing of those moments alone with Him, a precious intimacy is developed.

For those of you who know something of my spiritual journey, you know that it’s only been in the last few years that I’ve begun to grow by leaps and bounds. I had the foundation, being raised in a Christian home and being “saved” since the age of 4, but the personal relationship side of Christianity was, for me, a roller coaster ride. Sometimes I wasn’t even near the theme park, and sometimes I was at the height of the highest hill in the throes of the ride. I just couldn’t seem to get a handle on the supposed intimacy that God offered. He’s so big, and I’m so small. Why would He care about the little things in my day, when He has so much else to do? (This is why I intensely dislike the song “God Must Be Busy” btw. I understand it, but I detest the theology of it.) In thinking that He wouldn’t care about the little things, I effectively cut Him out of those parts of my life. When you consider the fact that the majority of our lives revolve around the little things, that cuts God out of the biggest part of who we are. I didn’t, at that time, see how those “minor” exclusions broke His heart. He wanted to be a part of those things, and I just didn’t want to “bother” Him by sharing them. It makes me sad to think about that.

One of the best things about God is that even when we hurt and reject Him, He keeps pursuing us. He keeps blessing us. As David put it in Psalms, “He knows my frame. He remembers that I am dust.” He doesn’t let it get Him bent out of shape. He doesn’t say, “Well, if she’s going to exclude me, I’m just going to forget it! Let’s see if she can make it through the day without me being there to fix things for her. Hmph!” He just continues to woo. He loves us, demonstratively, overwhelmingly, each day, even when we fail to notice. It’s really incredible.

You know, when I thought of the gifts of God, as I was growing up, I would think of the really obvious things: life, health, salvation, prosperity, etc. I didn’t think of actual gifts. My parents gave me the gift of life, too, but when I think of gifts they give me, I think of the littler things: a book, a memento, a card in the mail. It took a long time, but I started realizing that God gives little gifts, too. He gives us evidence of His love in tangible form, much the way a suitor would give his beloved when he’s wooing her. This is where we get the imagery of Jesus as the Lover of our souls. All aspects of human experience directly relate to aspects of divine experience. Our relationships among ourselves mirror the relationship we have with God, and He did that intentionally.

I want to give you an example, because this was the event that got me thinking about this post in the first place. I attended a business conference over the weekend, and Saturday morning I wound up parking a significant (in 4” heels, 8-10 blocks is much more significant) distance from the convention center and walking. It was the first spot I could find, and I was in a rush because I was running late. Little did I know that the distance was orchestrated by God. With hands full of the things that I “needed” to get through the daytime sessions and into the afternoon break, I was trotting down the sidewalk (yes, trotting) toward the conference, and something caught my eye. It was a flower, or rather a little batch of flowers off some bush like a lilac. I saw it, pristine, beautiful, recently cut, unbruised, untrampled on the sidewalk. I looked around for the bush, and I didn’t see it. I thought, “Oh, that’s nice, God, thank You,” and I kept walking. I felt a little twinge of guilt for not stopping to pick it up, but I was running late, hands full. I didn’t have anywhere to put it. I kept walking. “You could put it in your hair.” True. I could, but I’m a block away from it by now, and I’m still late and I’m still carrying stuff. “Alright.”

I thought about that flower off and on for the rest of the morning/early afternoon. Before the evening session, I decided that I needed to take some of my stuff back to the car so I wouldn’t have to deal with carrying so much after the late night session ended, so I hauled my proverbial cookies back to the car. I didn’t see the flower, but about a half-block down from where I remembered it being, I saw the bush it had come from and thought, “How could I have missed that bush? It’s so beautiful and has flowers all over it.” The answer was, “I meant for you to see the flower I wanted to give you, not the bush it came from. If you’d seen the bush, the flower wouldn’t have been as remarkable.” I took my things to the car, dropped them off, reorganized and started back, at a slower pace. I was looking for my flower now. It was still lying there, a little wilted from the heat of the day, but unbroken and untrampled. I thought, “Oh, it’s wilted. That’s too bad.” I got about 10 steps past it when I thought, “I’m an idiot. I’m not walking by that AGAIN.” And I stopped, turned around, and went back and got it.

Now, had someone been with me, they would have thought I was crazy. I turned around and went back and picked up a wilted flower. I carried it in my hand back into the hotel, into the restroom where I changed my clothes, and then placed it in my hair where it had belonged all day. No one said anything. It would have been beautiful in my hair when I arrived, because it just matched my dress, and it was fresh then, but I had, as a friend of mine says, “delayed intelligence.”

The rest of the walk, after I picked it up, I realized what it meant. God gave me flowers. He gave me a little bouquet, for no other reason than that He loved me and wanted me to be happy. He knows that the question of my heart and the journey of my life is the quest to be beautiful. He blesses me with little bits of beauty that He leaves for me alone to see because He knows I’m searching for beauty in my heart. He gives me beauty that complements my own beauty (matching my dress, even) as an affirmation and in answer to my question, “Am I beautiful, God?” “Yes, my Love. You are beautiful. You are more beautiful to me than anything. I love you. I delight in your beauty, and because you delight in the beauty in which I surround you, here is a token of my love. Wear it in your hair as a gift from your Lover.”

My primary love language is gifts. God was speaking my language, physically, so that I could hear, see, smell, touch, and experience His love. I love flowers. I’ve only received flowers from a handful of people over the years, and they mean the world to me. I told my daddy that if I ever got married that it would be his job to make sure that my husband knows how I love to receive flowers. He said, “When you get married, your husband should know that without having to have me tell him.” Well, God’s my Lover, and He knows my heart so well that He gives exactly the gift He knows will delight me. And, not being a gracious lover in return, or perhaps more accurately, not always being in the frame of mind of being the Beloved, I noticed, but didn’t really notice. It took Him several tries for me to acknowledge His gift, and being as boneheaded as I am, it took me a bit, but I got the message.

God speaks to us. He gives us glimpses of His love. He showers us with gifts, even tangible ones, and we are so wrapped up in our tiny, little lives that we miss them, but He keeps trying. He woos. He calls. He loves. He leaves it up to us to open our eyes, to be receptive to His love, and to share the amazing lives that He longs to give us. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to work at keeping my eyes open, at being available when my Lover calls me to come out and play, at hearing His voice. May you see Him in your life. He’s there, just pay attention, and you’ll see Him.

Much love.
L~

P.S. Yes, the picture above is of the actual flower from God. And, yes, I still have it. :)

Bring on the Boneheads

I was raised by parents who thought it was very important to be educated. The foundation of education, from their perspective, was reading. My brother and I were read to before and after birth, and the books we were read were adult literature, most of the time, not children’s story books. We were both taught to read for ourselves before we started school. I was reading “real” books by the age of 4. We were raised with good literature, including both fiction and non-fiction. Commonplace in our home were Sherlock Holmes novels, Mark Twain’s writings, C.S. Lewis’ books (Chronicles of Narnia, and his apologetics), Jane Austen’s works, William Shakespeare’s brilliance, and too many others to recall or name here. Heavily dominating the literary training of our youth was the Bible. This is where I get my vast love of reading, literature, writing, and speaking. I love, with all that is in me, words.

Sometimes, I forget that other people don’t come from extraordinarily literate families like mine. Sometimes, it doesn’t occur to me that the language I embrace and use so imaginatively is gibberish to those with less extensive vocabularies. Frankly, it wasn’t until adulthood that this thought even occurred to me at all. A friend of mine asked me to teach her English as a second language. Important point—English is the only language said lady has ever spoken/read/learned. She would pick a word from our conversations, ask me to define it, then find somewhere to use it within 24 hours. She ASKED me to correct her grammar! Dream come true. Haha. That moment defined a tiny thought in my brain. That thought triggered a greater realization. Not everyone thinks exactly the way I do. Amazing.

Something incredible about language is what it does inside our brains. Words are tools by which we learn to embrace and use our world. Teaching someone words is a portion of teaching someone thoughts. When you have words at your disposal, you have more ingredients for thought. Thought leads to ideas. Ideas lead to action. Action leads to experience. Experience equals education. I will, at this time, refrain from stepping onto my soapbox regarding education, as that is quite another topic and not the one I wish to discuss for the time being. Suffice it to say, readers are thinkers.

When you are raised to read and reason, you learn to think things through before you act on them. Major life decisions require thoughtful planning. Believe me, I have a truly spontaneous nature, but that doesn’t keep me from refusing to act on foolish thoughts… well, most of the time, anyway. One of the major decisions in life, from my perspective, is the person to whom you will be bound for eternity—well, at least ‘til death do you part. As a little girl, I watched my mother and learned how to be a woman. I was raised to believe that the highest calling any woman can have is to be a homemaker, a wife, a mother. Having pursued careers, owned businesses, gotten ejumacated, run wild, and eventually started to grow up, I have come full circle—to the point that I believe little else with such fervency. I truly desire to be called to that noblest profession. There is one teensy tinesy little caveat with that. It’s awfully hard to be a homemaker/wife/mother when you’re single.

Beyond that, (eventually I will get to the subject of this post, I promise) a favorite topic, whether in thought or conversation, of girls the world over is boys. We (well, at least the straight ones of us) think of them a lot. Those of us (guilty, as charged) who are, what we called in elementary school, “boy-crazy” think of them more than a lot—read constantly. Those who are both boy-crazy and raised to believe that homemaker is the highest calling are pooched from the get-go, because we put a lot of thought into what Prince Charming is going to be like. When you couple that with a literary bent and the thought-processes borne of studying thoughts of great thinkers, you basically have a mess. This calls to mind that part of a song from Music Man when Marion the Librarian’s mother is trying to convince her to give Professor Hill a chance—“I know all about your standards, and if you don’t mind my saying so, there’s not a man alive who could hope to measure up to that blend of Paul Bunyan, St. Pat, and Noah Webster you’ve concocted for yourself out of your Irish imagination, your Iowa stubbornness, and your library full of books!” To put it simply, we think ourselves out of the possibility of a relationship with anything that even vaguely resembles a human.

So, we make lists. Lists of things he’ll like. Lists of things he won’t like. Lists of things he’ll do. Lists of things he won’t do. Lists of things he’ll be, won’t be, will think, won’t think, will have, won’t have, will look like, won’t look like, etc. etc. etc. Lists of lists and lists of places you left the lists of lists because you can’t keep up with them all. And then, every once in awhile, you take all the lists and put them in a pile and set them on fire and watch them burn, until your smoke alarm goes off and the Alexandria Fire Department get in their shiny trucks and come over to rescue you from your burning apartment. And you think, “Oh, as soon as they let me back in, I need to add “Firefighter” to list 32—no, wait, I burned that one, too.”

As a single, fairly level-headed adult who desires to remain the latter but not the former, for most of the rest of her life, I keep my eyes open. I observe people. I don’t often act on my observations, anymore, due to a pesky little thing called self-preservation, but from time to time, I get into “dating” mode. Usually short-lived, “dating” mode for me is a flurry of first dates, and rarely second ones. Occasionally, someone strikes my fancy or hits enough points on my endless lists that I’ll allow myself to consider a relationship. Even less often, I’ll actually try out that relationship. To put this in perspective, in my post-college life (all seven years of it), there have been three guys who I’ve considered to be my boyfriend, three more who considered themselves to be my boyfriend, and two more that I thought about potentially kindling a romance. None of these have lasted longer than a month. (Someday I’ll write a “war” stories blog post and fill you in on all that.)

The reason most guys don’t make it past a first date is that I’m not interested in CHANGING guys. I have no desire to push, prod, or nag them into being someone else (or becoming a Man). I wouldn’t want anyone to do that to me, either. I don’t want to saddle myself with someone who doesn’t live up to my standards, someone who drives me nuts with his need to discuss politics, someone who fancies himself an intellectual and is therefore incapable of condescending to the level of someone who is, frankly, more intelligent, better-read, and way out of his league (yeah, that’s me), someone to whom I’m not physically attracted, someone who, after one date, feels it’s appropriate to call me at 3 in the morning on a Tuesday for reasons unknown then get bent out of shape when I’m not particularly thrilled that he awakened me to chat about nothing specific, someone who is unstable, someone with anger issues, someone who has no respect for my time and even less respect for my person, or any of the other, somehow unsatisfactory “someones” who troll the world. (Here, I shall refrain from stepping onto my “State of the Dating World Address” soap box.)

The main problem with this whole thing is—They’re. All. Alike. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. You try and you try to pick the one who seems the least nuts, who meets, in some way, a portion of your Non-Negotiables, who might, perchance, not make your family want to kill him on sight, who is vaguely attractive, who has a “good” job (whatever that is), who has an “education” (whatever the heck that means), etc. etc. etc., and they’re all alike. Frankly, they’re all completely wrong. Well, for me, anyway. They’re all self-aggrandizing, pompous, obnoxious, yuppies who need a swift kick in the pants administered by a real man. Bar-none. And some of them are downright rude, or they’re just plain jerks. They’re a waste of my time and energy, and nothing, absolutely nothing gives me a headache like that particular variety of a waste of my time and energy.

So I met this guy. He drives me crazy. He’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever dated. My favorite term for him is “bonehead.” Yup, he’s a bonehead. He is almost as much of a bonehead as I am. OK, maybe he’s more of one. He scores so low on my list-compliance test that I almost didn’t acknowledge that he was on my radar at all. The problem is that he’s forced me to re-think the lists themselves. He is completely, totally, and in all other ways, utterly inappropriate for me. He flat-out doesn’t qualify for an AUDITION for the role of “Man in My Life,” much less a call-back. Like I said, he’s a bonehead. But. Yeah, you knew it was coming. BUT. But, he fascinates me. He intrigues me. He attracts me. He makes my brain scream, my heart cry, and my body zing. I get all confused and enthralled when I think about the possibilities. Then I get depressed because there is just no way. None. And then he dumps me. Out of the blue. One day, we’re happy. The next day, he’s blank, and we’re done. I’m relieved. Really. Truly. On the level of my heart that says, “Whew that was a close call, and he could have messed you up BAD…” (yes, that level of my heart does not always acknowledge my internal grammar checks) I am relieved. Now I don’t have to worry about him being around my family and the potential offense he can spark. And then, the little girl in me—the one who refuses to succumb to anything so boring as “appropriate”—cries and says, “But now I don’t have to worry about him being around my family…”

You see, in all my list-making, all my life, I failed to consider some things. I failed to consider the fact that a girl who is so boneheaded and heartstrong as I needs a strong man in her world. I failed to consider that the woman in me needs a man that can meet my velvet with a boulder of his personality. I failed to consider that a man entirely unlike my father will never earn my respect and will never be worthy of my love and devotion—no matter how I long to give it. I failed to remember that said Daddy is also a bonehead. I failed to consider that the fact of an attraction between the soft woman I strive to be and the hard man that I need would cripple all of the reasoning that I bring with me. I failed to consider that the man I need, the man that the woman I’m becoming needs, might just not be predictable. He might not fit into my neat little packages. He may not look the way I expect him to. He may affront me with the force of his being and make me crazy. He may be a cave man, a beast, a bonehead—and when you put “my” in front of those words, they become terms of endearment, loving niceties. He may be too many things I hadn’t thought of and too few of the things I had thought of for me to even consider. I failed to consider reality. I read too many books.

OK, so that’s it. No more of him. He’s not mine, nor was he, except in my head, or when we were alone and he’d whisper those honey-soaked words that professed my possession of him. My boyfriend. My Man. My Beast. My Caveman. My Bonehead. OK. It didn’t last long enough for me to be too hurt. But two little girls are in the back of my head, like children on a cross-country family vacation. One is the prim and proper “big” sister who insists on dressing up in mommy’s shoes and wearing her pearls everywhere she goes. The other is the free-spirit who prefers her scuffed up jeans and her bicycle (or pony, in my case) and a smudge of dirt on her cheek to the perfume and powder of her polar-opposite twin. They sit back there, softly arguing. Not so much that Mom and Dad (my conscious thoughts) are forced from their conversation in the front seat to intervene and bring order, but just loudly enough that when there’s a lull, the parents are aware of the subject at hand. Instead of arguing over a toy or picking on each other out of exhaustion or crankiness, the twins in the backseat of my mind are arguing over life, the future, the potential for happiness, the dreams I hold dearest, and the realism of the necessity of lists.

“You can’t consider someone like that. He swears too much to even introduce to the family. He has tattoos for Pete’s sake, and wants more. He’s uncouth and undeveloped. He hasn’t yet learned some of the most important lessons in life, even though he’s 5 years your senior!”

“Yes, I know all that.” The little foot would stomp the floor-board impatiently if it could reach, but being short, the little girl actually kicks the back of the driver’s seat instead. “But the only people I’ve ever met who are ‘appropriate’ for me are not attractive. I have no respect for them. They don’t meet me on my level or challenge me like that. Those people just bore me, give me a headache, and annoy me. He's a MAN. He makes the girl in me wake up and take notice!”

“But you can’t base a future on how someone makes you FEEL. Feelings are fickle.” She’s absentmindedly twirling the string of pearls through her fingers. “Feelings tell you nothing, but that you’re alive—“

“Exactly! I’m ALIVE!”

“—But you can’t base a future on a vital sign!”

“But if I don’t have vital signs, how can I have a future?”

And Satin Perfume & Pearls pauses, always careful to choose her words with consideration. Satin Ponies & Puddles looks very proud of herself for a heartbeat, then more unsure as the two consider. And the argument continues, quietly, in the back of my mind.

So, my paradigm has shifted. I’ve always known that some things work and some don’t. I’ve always known that there are things I want in my life and things I don’t. The man in my world will need to be certain things and need to not be others. It’s just that I’m not as sure of all those things as I was before. The problem with being sure is dealing with the sharp contrast between surety and reality. A few of my Non-Negotiables remain. A few are less “Non” and more “Negotiable”, and a few things that I hadn’t considered have become mainstays of the Non-Negotiable master list. Thanks to the man who was briefly My Beast, My Strong Man, My Bonehead. Yes, Bonehead. That is now a Non-Negotiable.

It took someone who does not think the way I think, who doesn’t have the “education” that I have, who doesn’t meet my qualifications, who doesn’t fit. It took someone who can’t possibly be my one-and-only to teach me that my scripted suitors don’t fit, that my lists don’t cover all the bases, that the intangibles create the romance, and that I need to rethink this whole idea of who will be a part of my future. He’ll never read these words, I’m sure, but I thank him, with all my heart. And I thank my girlfriend who opened the door with her request for English lessons, because if I hadn’t realized that mine was not the only perspective, I would have never been open to discovering this whole other side of the man I will someday love and marry. And now, bring on the Boneheads. :D

Much love.
L~

When God calls, "Come out and play!"

I heard Him, today. Plain as the lightning that flashed across the sky. "My Princess, come out and play with me!" I went out on my balcony and I listened and watched as the cloudburst rolled through. The thunder and the lightning tripped through the clouds as my Papa God invited me to join Him for a romp in the rain. I stood and watched, fascinated as the rain dripped around me. I cried out to Him, inside my heart, and I asked Him for the strength and the opportunity to answer His invitations in the affirmative.

Do you ever get flashes of insight into Who God is? I had one of those flashes, while I stood on the balcony, almost in a storm. I saw God as the precious child who runs to a close friend and says, "Can you come out to play?" The problem is that so many other voices are drowning out the still, small voice of the God of the universe, and so often, the answer we give Him, when we take the time to answer at all, is "Not right now, I'm busy." How very sad! He created us to be in relationship with HIM and with each other, but we're too busy, running our lives, to hear His calls. He does call to us. He seeks us where we are. He invites us to join Him in an adventure that would blow our socks off. And when we say, "No, not right now, God." He simply says, "Alright. I'll wait. I'll wait until you hit crisis mode and you need me. I'll wait until you think the time is right. I created time, and I can put you on a schedule that is much more productive, but I understand that you don't have time for Me. You don't have time for me? OK, then." And we go about our busy days... staying busy, struggling to be productive, wondering why everything doesn't fit the way we think it should, getting frustrated, wearing down, burning out.

And every once in awhile, God gently interrupts. He softly whispers into our hearts, "Hey. I'm still here. Would now work for you?" And if we hear Him at all, if we've not drowned Him out for so long that we can't even hear His voice any longer, we say, "I'm sorry, God, but I'm on deadline. I have to finish this report before COB, and then I've got to get to a doctor's appointment, run 3 errands, get home and get supper on the stove while I'm putting laundry in the dryer..." and our mental list takes over, and we cease to speak to our Father as we transition back into busy. He knows. He understands. He sees the strain on us, and He longs to take it from us. He longs to help us carry the load. He longs to flex His power over time and task to help us do all that's important, but instead of intruding, uninvited and unaccepted, into our daily lives, He simply waits outside, and calls to us to "Come out and play!"

Perhaps you've heard Him. It may not have been today, and it may not have been in the rain on your window, but perhaps at some point, you've heard the gentle voice in your heart inviting you into a relationship, inviting you on an adventure. You see, little children have big imaginations. They were created in the image of God, and they haven't learned yet that they need to grow up in the image of the current Cosmo girl or GQ guy, model or sports hero, pop princess or superstar... they haven't learned that yet. What do they do with these imaginings? They make up "imaginary" friends or "imaginary" siblings. My three-year-old niece has a "big brother" named Archibald. (Where was she when I named my "imaginary" friends? I'm not even going to share what I came up with...) What do they do with these friends? Well, they go out and play. They make up adventures, and then they go on them. There is nothing too outlandish that they cannot imagine it to be so. Where do they get these amazing imaginations? Could it be from the One who Created us all to be in relationship, to answer the call to come out and play, to step outside of the little comfortable boxes we create for ourselves and let Him accompany us on the greatest, most amazing adventures that HE can dream for us? Possibly... Maybe... Perhaps.

And you say, "But God wouldn't ask me to forsake my priorities. He wouldn't tempt me to enjoy the weather instead of working in a cube when I have an obligation to work. God doesn't work like that. He wants us to be serious and be grown-ups. You can't 'play' with God. You have to go to church or pray or something with God. You can't just 'be' with Him." If that's your answer to this, then I'm very sorry, but we aren't serving the same God!! My God created beautiful weather, and it wasn't to tempt us away from important things. Who says that what you think is important truly is, anyway? If you died tonight, tomorrow someone else would finish your reports, because you are expendable at work. My God created work, and He provides us with the ability to create priorities. Are your priorities straight? Have you checked with HIM to make sure He thinks so, too? What on your list outweighs your relationship with Eternal God? What is more important than answering His call? Certainly not the phone conversation, the email, the paperwork, the deadlines, eating, drinking, or sleeping... What is so gall-blasted important that you have the nerve to be too busy for GOD? You see, God created laughter and tears. When was the last time you laughed out of uninhibited joy? When was the last time you cried an honest tear? If He created us in His image, then shouldn't He understand? Shouldn't He get to weigh in on your priorities? Shouldn't He get acknowledgment every once in awhile? When was the last time that you noticed, appreciated, and thanked God for the weather? When was the last time that you watched the sun set or the moon rise? When was the last time that you shared your lunch with your "imaginary" friend and giggled over something that no one else would understand? When was the last time you answered the call to "come out and play"?

My prayer for you, today, is that you will hear the voice outside your window, and that you will make it a priority to "come out and play" with God when you do.

Much love.
L~

On Sheep, Wolves, and Sheepdogs

I've read this article several times, and I wanted to post it on here.

The Source

By LTC (RET) Dave Grossman, author of "On Killing."

Honor never grows old, and honor rejoices the heart of age. It does so because honor is, finally, about defending those noble and worthy things that deserve defending, even if it comes at a high cost. In our time, that may mean social disapproval, public scorn, hardship, persecution, or as always,even death itself. The question remains: What is worth defending? What is worth dying for? What is worth living for? - William J. Bennett - in a lecture to the United States Naval Academy November 24, 1997

One Vietnam veteran, an old retired colonel, once said this to me:
"Most of the people in our society are sheep. They are kind, gentle, productive creatures who can only hurt one another by accident." This is true. Remember, the murder rate is six per 100,000 per year, and the aggravated assault rate is four per 1,000 per year. What this means is that the vast majority of Americans are not inclined to hurt one another. Some estimates say that two million Americans are victims of violent crimes every year, a tragic, staggering number, perhaps an all-time record rate of violent crime. But there are almost 300 million Americans, which means that the odds of being a victim of violent crime is considerably less than one in a hundred on any given year. Furthermore, since many violent crimes are committed by repeat offenders, the actual number of violent citizens is considerably less than two million.

Thus there is a paradox, and we must grasp both ends of the situation: We may well be in the most violent times in history, but violence is still remarkably rare. This is because most citizens are kind, decent people who are not capable of hurting each other, except by accident or under extreme provocation. They are sheep.

I mean nothing negative by calling them sheep. To me it is like the pretty, blue robin's egg. Inside it is soft and gooey but someday it will grow into something wonderful. But the egg cannot survive without its hard blue shell. Police officers, soldiers, and other warriors are like that shell, and someday the civilization they protect will grow into something wonderful. For now, though, they need warriors to protect them from the predators.

"Then there are the wolves," the old war veteran said, "and the wolves feed on the sheep without mercy." Do you believe there are wolves out there who will feed on the flock without mercy? You better believe it. There are evil men in this world and they are capable of evil deeds. The moment you forget that or pretend it is not so, you become a sheep. There is no safety in denial.

"Then there are sheepdogs," he went on, "and I'm a sheepdog. I live to protect the flock and confront the wolf."

If you have no capacity for violence then you are a healthy productive citizen, a sheep. If you have a capacity for violence and no empathy for your fellow citizens, then you have defined an aggressive sociopath, a wolf. But what if you have a capacity for violence, and a deep love for your fellow citizens? What do you have then? A sheepdog, a warrior, someone who is walking the hero's path. Someone who can walk into the heart of darkness, into the universal human phobia, and walk out unscathed

Let me expand on this old soldier's excellent model of the sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs. We know that the sheep live in denial, that is what makes them sheep. They do not want to believe that there is evil in the world. They can accept the fact that fires can happen, which is why they want fire extinguishers, fire sprinklers, fire alarms and fire exits throughout their kids' schools.

But many of them are outraged at the idea of putting an armed police officer in their kid's school. Our children are thousands of times more likely to be killed or seriously injured by school violence than fire, but the sheep's only response to the possibility of violence is denial. The idea of someone coming to kill or harm their child is just too hard, and so they chose the path of denial.

The sheep generally do not like the sheepdog. He looks a lot like the wolf. He has fangs and the capacity for violence. The difference, though, is that the sheepdog must not, can not and will not ever harm the sheep. Any sheep dog who intentionally harms the lowliest little lamb will be punished and removed. The world cannot work any other way, at least not in a representative democracy or a republic such as ours.

Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are wolves in the land. They would prefer that he didn't tell them where to go, or give them traffic tickets, or stand at the ready in our airports in camouflage fatigues holding an M-16. The sheep would much rather have the sheepdog cash in his fangs, spray paint himself white, and go, "Baa."

Until the wolf shows up. Then the entire flock tries desperately to hide behind one lonely sheepdog.

The students, the victims, at Columbine High School were big, tough high school students, and under ordinary circumstances they would not have had the time of day for a police officer. They were not bad kids; they just had nothing to say to a cop. When the school was under attack, however, and SWAT teams were clearing the rooms and hallways, the officers had to physically peel those clinging, sobbing kids off of them. This is how the little lambs feel about their sheepdog when the wolf is at the door.

Look at what happened after September 11, 2001 when the wolf pounded hard on the door. Remember how America, more than ever before, felt differently about their law enforcement officers and military personnel? Remember how many times you heard the word hero?

Understand that there is nothing morally superior about being a sheepdog; it is just what you choose to be. Also understand that a sheepdog is a funny critter: He is always sniffing around out on the perimeter, checking the breeze, barking at things that go bump in the night, and yearning for a righteous battle. That is, the young sheepdogs yearn for a righteous battle. The old sheepdogs are a little older and wiser, but they move to the sound of the guns when needed right along with the young ones.

Here is how the sheep and the sheepdog think differently. The sheep pretend the wolf will never come, but the sheepdog lives for that day. After the attacks on September 11, 2001, most of the sheep, that is, most citizens in America said, "Thank God I wasn't on one of those planes." The sheepdogs, the warriors, said, "Dear God, I wish I could have been on one of those planes. Maybe I could have made a difference." When you are truly transformed into a warrior and have truly invested yourself into warriorhood, you want to be there. You want to be able to make a difference.

There is nothing morally superior about the sheepdog, the warrior, but he does have one real advantage. Only one. And that is that he is able to survive and thrive in an environment that destroys 98 percent of the population. There was research conducted a few years ago with individuals convicted of violent crimes. These cons were in prison for serious, predatory crimes of violence: assaults, murders and killing law enforcement officers. The vast majority said that they specifically targeted victims by body language: slumped walk, passive behavior and lack of awareness. They chose their victims like big cats do in Africa, when they select one out of the herd that is least able to protect itself.

Some people may be destined to be sheep and others might be genetically primed to be wolves or sheepdogs. But I believe that most people can choose which one they want to be, and I'm proud to say that more and more Americans are choosing to become sheepdogs.

Seven months after the attack on September 11, 2001, Todd Beamer was honored in his hometown of Cranbury, New Jersey. Todd, as you recall, was the man on Flight 93 over Pennsylvania who called on his cell phone to alert an operator from United Airlines about the hijacking. When he learned of the other three passenger planes that had been used as weapons, Todd dropped his phone and uttered the words, "Let's roll," which authorities believe was a signal to the other passengers to confront the terrorist hijackers. In one hour, a transformation occurred among the passengers - athletes, business people and parents. -- from sheep to sheepdogs and together they fought the wolves, ultimately saving an unknown number of lives on the ground.

There is no safety for honest men except by believing all possible evil of evil men. - Edmund Burke

Here is the point I like to emphasize, especially to the thousands of police officers and soldiers I speak to each year. In nature the sheep, real sheep, are born as sheep. Sheepdogs are born that way, and so are wolves. They didn't have a choice. But you are not a critter. As a human being, you can be whatever you want to be. It is a conscious, moral decision.

If you want to be a sheep, then you can be a sheep and that is okay, but you must understand the price you pay. When the wolf comes, you and your loved ones are going to die if there is not a sheepdog there to protect you. If you want to be a wolf, you can be one, but the sheepdogs are going to hunt you down and you will never have rest, safety, trust or love. But if you want to be a sheepdog and walk the warrior's path, then you must make a conscious and moral decision every day to dedicate, equip and prepare yourself to thrive in that toxic, corrosive moment when the wolf comes knocking at the door.

For example, many officers carry their weapons in church. They are well concealed in ankle holsters, shoulder holsters or inside-the-belt holsters tucked into the small of their backs. Anytime you go to some form of religious service, there is a very good chance that a police officer in your congregation is carrying. You will never know if there is such an individual in your place of worship, until the wolf appears to massacre you and your loved ones.

I was training a group of police officers in Texas, and during the break, one officer asked his friend if he carried his weapon in church. The other cop replied, "I will never be caught without my gun in church." I asked why he felt so strongly about this, and he told me about a cop he knew who was at a church massacre in Ft. Worth, Texas in 1999. In that incident, a mentally deranged individual came into the church and opened fire, gunning down fourteen people. He said that officer believed he could have saved every life that day if he had been carrying his gun. His own son was shot, and all he could do was throw himself on the boy's body and wait to die. That cop looked me in the eye and said, "Do you have any idea how hard it would be to live with yourself after that?"

Some individuals would be horrified if they knew this police officer was carrying a weapon in church. They might call him paranoid and would probably scorn him. Yet these same individuals would be enraged and would call for "heads to roll" if they found out that the airbags in their cars were defective, or that the fire extinguisher and fire sprinklers in their kids' school did not work. They can accept the fact that fires and traffic accidents can happen and that there must be safeguards against them.

Their only response to the wolf, though, is denial, and all too often their response to the sheepdog is scorn and disdain. But the sheepdog quietly asks himself, "Do you have and idea how hard it would be to live with yourself if your loved ones attacked and killed, and you had to stand there helplessly because you were unprepared for that day?"

It is denial that turns people into sheep. Sheep are psychologically destroyed by combat because their only defense is denial, which is counterproductive and destructive, resulting in fear, helplessness and horror when the wolf shows up.

Denial kills you twice. It kills you once, at your moment of truth when you are not physically prepared: you didn't bring your gun, you didn't train. Your only defense was wishful thinking. Hope is not a strategy. Denial kills you a second time because even if you do physically survive, you are psychologically shattered by your fear helplessness and horror at your moment of truth.

Gavin de Becker puts it like this in Fear Less, his superb post-9/11 book, which should be required reading for anyone trying to come to terms with our current world situation: "...denial can be seductive, but it has an insidious side effect. For all the peace of mind deniers think they get by saying it isn't so, the fall they take when faced with new violence is all the more unsettling."

Denial is a save-now-pay-later scheme, a contract written entirely in small print, for in the long run, the denying person knows the truth on some level.

And so the warrior must strive to confront denial in all aspects of his life, and prepare himself for the day when evil comes. If you are warrior who is legally authorized to carry a weapon and you step outside without that weapon, then you become a sheep, pretending that the bad man will not come today. No one can be "on" 24/7, for a lifetime. Everyone needs down time. But if you are authorized to carry a weapon, and you walk outside without it, just take a deep breath, and say this to yourself...

"Baa."

This business of being a sheep or a sheep dog is not a yes-no dichotomy. It is not an all-or-nothing, either-or choice. It is a matter of degrees, a continuum. On one end is an abject, head-in-the-sand-sheep and on the other end is the ultimate warrior. Few people exist completely on one end or the other. Most of us live somewhere in between. Since 9-11 almost everyone in America took a step up that continuum, away from denial. The sheep took a few steps toward accepting and appreciating their warriors, and the warriors started taking their job more seriously. The degree to which you move up that continuum, away from sheephood and denial, is the degree to which you and your loved ones will survive, physically and psychologically at your moment of truth.

Where have all the MEN gone?

I’ve come to the conclusion that there aren’t very many men in our society today. At some point, we stopped teaching our boys how to grow up and become men. At some point, the women decided they had to pick up the slack. At some point, the boys decided that, since the women were doing such a good job of taking care of themselves and everyone around them, it wasn’t worth the hassle of becoming a man.

I remember my brother coming home after a long day at the hospital, one day, and telling mom that a woman had gotten huffy with him because he opened a door for her. I will never forget my mother’s response to his question of why he should open a door for a woman who didn’t want him to and didn’t appreciate the gesture. She said, “You don’t open the door because she’s a lady, because she may not be, but because you are a gentleman.”

It seems as though guys are all too comfortable with their masculine role being “stolen” by feminists. It seems they’re not willing to step up and take the responsibility for their own actions, because they’re too afraid to “get in trouble” for their efforts. Guys are too willing to renege on their responsibilities and blame it on the feminist movement.

In the midst of World War II, the men were going off to war to give their lives for their country, and the women stepped up and went off to work so that the country would still be there upon the return of their men. Women answered the call to arms, the call to jobs, and the call to keep on at an unprecedented level. Unfortunately, when the men and women returned from war, many of the women decided to keep their jobs. It was easier to work a full-time job than to be a full-time wife and homemaker. So they stayed, and the jobs that the men had before going to serve their country were filled, so the men had fewer options. Some woman came up with the supposedly ingenious idea that women were being repressed by being the caregivers of the families, and the battle was on. For awhile, men fought the idea of the women encroaching on their roles, their jobs, their spaces. For awhile, the feminist movement fought the “glass ceiling” that inhibited the promotion and adequate compensation of female workers. Then the men realized that the women weren’t going to give up, that they were hard workers and capable of doing more than their fair share of the work, leaving the men fewer responsibilities, and that it was easier just to crumble.

The problem is that most of the women I know DON’T WANT the men’s roles we’re having to fill. Most of us don’t want to have to take care of the things that responsible men in a developed society should do. Most of us have figured out that, if we don’t protect ourselves from these guys that refuse to become men, no one is going to come to our aid. We have discovered that, not only are the guys we’re dating NOT going to protect us from danger, step between us and those bullies, open the doors for us, but they’re quite possibly going to put pressure on us in ways that no MAN would. Not only do we have to protect ourselves from what’s “out there”, but we also have to protect ourselves from the ones who should be our protectors.

It’s not right.

At what point did it become the woman’s job to make sure that not only did SHE do what’s right, but that the men in her sphere of influence and encounter did, too?


Have you ever wondered why women are attracted to military men and powerful corporate-executive types? It’s because they have a higher level of responsibility and accountability than the guy on the street. There is something about a man who is in control that is not just attractive, but almost mesmerizing. He, the man in the uniform, is able to meet a set standard. He has disciplined himself, mind and body, so that he can be more than just some guy. He, the CEO-VIP, has risen to that level of responsibility by maintaining disciplines in his life and not backing down. He has proven himself, time and time again, through competence and a willingness to BE the decision-maker, not just act like one. He, the MAN, attracts us, because he is a man. He is not a guy. He is not a dude. He is not a poor excuse for a momma’s boy. He has stepped up and taken responsibility for his life. How often do we meet men like that? Certainly not as often as we should.

It used to be that the family, and ultimately our society, could not function without responsible men. The family unit would crumble without the bread-winner. It was a shameful thing, when a man couldn’t provide for his family well enough to keep his wife at home. It was a shameful thing for a family to owe money or for a woman to have to go to work. Today, guys are all too secure in having their wives go off to work a 40-80 hour work week while they PAY a stranger to raise their children.

The fun thing is that there aren’t that many women who really WANT to have those jobs. Most women have resigned themselves to it because it’s common practice, these days, or because they HAVE to work outside their homes to provide for their families, or because there’s a dearth of MEN out there. Women are waiting longer and longer to get married, and more of us are exploring alternative ways to fulfill our desire for children, because there just aren’t that many MEN to be had. Sure, we could settle for the guys that expect us to pick up the check, the guys who expect us to defend our own honor and fight them off, tooth and nail, when they “lose control” of themselves. Sure, but what kind of life is that? What kind of existence is it to be both the man and the woman in a relationship? To be the nagging woman that he doesn’t want to come home to, because he can’t be trusted to do the basic things that comprise his role in the relationship? If we wanted to do that, we’d stay single. Oh, wait… We ARE staying single.

Men, it’s time to step up and take responsibility for yourselves. It might not be easy. Many of us (women) have become used to fending for ourselves, and sometimes it’s difficult to relinquish control of something that’s long been our responsibility, but WE WANT you to take these things off our hands. WE WANT to not have to concern ourselves with walking down the street in broad daylight, entertaining company in our own homes, etc. We want you to open our doors and treat us like ladies, EVEN WHEN WE’RE NOT ACTING LIKE IT! We want to not HAVE to take a self-defense course. We’d much rather MEN step up and be MEN and stop being little whiny wussies who can’t control themselves.

Women, it’s time to step back and allow the guys to become men. It’s time to relinquish the roles of protector, provider, decision-maker. It’s time to resume our femininity. It’s time to stop being the heavy and learn to become the lady whose very softness commands the respect, desire, and love of a man who is TRULY a man.

I guess the question is: Who do you want to be? Do you want to be all that God created you to be? Men, do you want to command the respect, devotion, and adoration of women? Ladies, do you want to be loved, admired, and treated as an equal? Who do you want to be?? Is it who you are now?

The Man of My Dreams

On those lonely nights—the nights when the emptiness of my room was simply too much to bear, you were there. Well, not physically. In fact, you were somewhere else entirely, but in my dreams, in my imagination you were there. I would squeeze my eyes tightly shut, burrow up against my pillows and imagine it was you. I would dream that beautiful words were being whispered in my ear, that my lover was holding me close and with tender fingers stroking me to sleep against his chest.

I dreamed on countless nights that the fantasy was real: that we were married, in love, creating a family and a life. I would shut out the reality of loneliness, the reality that you were not, and might never be, mine. I would imagine my way into a world that did not exist, and then I would simply fall off to sleep in the idea of your arms and dream about you. When I woke, I’d imagine you getting out of bed with me in the morning, perhaps after making leisurely love to each other, and I’d picture your face in the mirror, brushing your teeth, or I’d put on my make-up with the image of you taking your morning shower. It was in those moments that I thought of all the mundane things that comprise love. The moments that don’t mean anything individually, but when you add them together, they become a life built together, intertwining, revolving around and throughout each other’s existence.

When I look at you, I see a man who has been through the wringer, but is stronger than it all. I see a man who provides well, and happily, for his family. I see a man who chooses his commitments carefully and honors them with not only his words, but his actions. I see a man who has struggled through things that he did not choose, and has come out on the other side of his struggles victoriously. I see a man who has earned the right to a happy life and a loving family. I see a man who has earned, in every way—through honor, battle, passion, and decision—my respect, adoration, and loyalty. I see a man. Not a boy or a guy or any other derivation of a masculine term… a MAN.

I dream now of a life I can share, and I never spent much time thinking about that, before you opened my eyes and my heart. I’ve been alone so long. I’ve had to be strong, be the decision-maker, be the authority, the bill-payer, the one who ultimately had to answer for the hours in my day. My successes and my struggles went equally un-shared, and I had not dwelt on that fact, because I didn’t know how to become unselfish enough to desire a life shared with another. I spend a lot of time thinking about it, now. I think about what it would be like to have my strengths and the strengths of another working together. I think of the moments of joy over something that’s gone right, and the arms into which I could rush when things didn’t go the way I’d choose. I think of the abilities that I have, and I dream of having those things recognized in an equitable relationship. I dream of the qualities that I admire and how I would show my appreciation for all that my man is. I dream of the physical relationship, but what I long for now, that I could never acknowledge—even to myself—is an intimacy that must be earned. I long for an intimacy that sees the faults, but overlooks them in favor of the good bits. Someone once said that love has eyes, but it also has eyelids. I long for the day when I can devote myself to that man who is able to share that relationship with me, because if he trusts me enough to be intimate with me on those levels, then I can completely submit to his desires and needs with total abandon, willingness and a desire of my own.

It was you who opened my heart to a something I’ve always desired. It was you who showed me that it was possible to have the great romance of which I dreamed… and it was in those lonely nights that I longed for the arms of a man, the one who had crept in so quietly and stolen my fascination. That man was you—the man of my dreams.

The Risk

This heart that beats but barely,
Like the broken wing of a bird…
It lifts no weight to be carried;
Too bruised by the tone of a word

Yet another may heal what is broken
And may touch the wound without pain.
But too close he must come without knowing;
He may break what is broken again.

When he puts forth his hand to touch me,
Do I trust in the look in his eyes?
For if guised his intent is malicious,
To let him too close is not wise.

But who can tell from a distance
Whether demon or doctor is he?
Should it quietly bear the inflicted,
Or with the healer, be “we”?

Dwarves of Ignorance

So my friend Brownie and I went to the Freer on Saturday as part of our monthly "Day of FUN!!!" (Three exclamation points, mandatory.) We visited both the Freer and the Sackler museum gift shops (Rabbit Trail Story-- see below), to which I'm addicted-- any museum gift shop, not just those two... I'm not picky; tried (and failed-- well, not really "failed"... more like "gave up") to get into a kids/parents only class about Hokusai; and walked around most of the Asian exhibits. (Brownie has been to China, and I study karate--Okinawan Kenpo Kobujitsu Karate-- and have a brother who runs a Japanese owned/operated travel agency, so we're firmly steeped--OK, "firmly" might not be entirely accurate-- in Asian culture.) After a while, we started (and by "we" I mean "I") "interpreting" the art. (Yes, I'll admit it. I'm a terrible influence.) We found some things we really liked after that. We saw some great big, fat guys on these screens (that I really wanted to take home and hang up), some really irritated men who thought that, "next time we have guys' night out, we're not bringing our wives" while their wives were having a fine old time gossiping. We saw gods whose belly buttons were dragons (I'd really like to get a dragon-head navel ring) and who were standing on some very bored-/annoyed-looking demons. We saw pots with vestigial nubs where handles should have been (how can you grasp a gallon-sized jug by a little 1/2" nub?). But the best part of all was in the last place we looked (trying not to have a Jeff Foxworthy Moment here... see below). There was, and I wrote this down, so I know it's correct, "Shiva Nataraja (lord of the dance) posed upon the Dwarf of Ignorance..."

I'm sure some obscure prophecy by Swindon's own St. Zvlkx would have read, "where the lord of the dance poses on the dwarf of ignorance, great merriment will be found in satin and brownie," to which his scribe replied, "That doesn't even make sense. I'm not writing that down. Are you drunk again??? I'm taking you to Alcoholics Anonymous, just as soon as someone invents it." (That's for all the Fforde fans out there...)

Here's a fun game for all to play-- next time you get bored at work, try to identify as many "Dwarves of Ignorance" as you can. A word of caution, however, DO NOT IDENTIFY THEM AS SUCH TO THEIR FACES. If it works out, maybe you can stand on one when you become the lord of the dance. Hahaha!

*** RABBIT TRAIL STORY***
While we were in the Freer gift shop, I picked up this martial arts book and was flipping through it. The book was "Dojo Wisdom: 100 Simple Ways to Become a Stronger, Calmer, More Courageous Person". I happened to come to rest on the page that gives you info about the author, and I saw the words "Lawrence, KS", so I looked at the name and, shock of all shocks, it was Jennifer Lawler. She co-wrote a book with a former kickboxing instructor of mine, Debz Buller, called "Kickboxing For Women", which was published right around the time when I was studying under Debz. I actually demonstrated kickboxing techniques at the Barnes & Noble at Town Center Plaza in Leawood, KS to sell the book! Isn't it funny how you can go 1300 miles and have the strangest little familiarities pop up??

***Jeff Foxworthy Moment***
"Why is it when you ask someone if they found something they lost, they always say, 'Yeah, it was in the LAST place I looked!' I sure HOPE so! 'Bill did you find your wallet?' 'Yeah, but I'm still lookin' for it-- just in case we're in an alternate reality or something...'"

FYI-- Brownie tells me she wrote about the dwarves of ignorance on her blog, so I'm off to read that, now.

Happy Dwarf-Hunting!
Much Love.
L~

Sunday Musings

And now, from the woman voted "Most Likely To Be Squished Like A Bug By A Runaway Beer Truck On Her Way Home From Church" for twenty-six weeks running...

It is 9:30 on Sunday morning. I just got home from church. Let me explain to you how Sundays work for me.

Since I don't have a POV (privately owned vehicle), I use public transit. Public transit on Sundays is completely different than public transit the rest of the week, in that buses only run about once an hour, and the trains don't run as often as the rest of the week either. On a regular Sunday, I have to get up about 8:00 in order to be ready to walk out my door at 9:00 in order to actually reach the church in time for the 11:00 service. It takes me about an hour and fifteen minutes to get to church and about an hour and a half to get home. (Church is about 3 miles from my house, in case you were wondering.) So yesterday, I got to thinking that maybe I could just take the zipcar to church. That meant going to the early service, which is only 35 minutes long, so that I don't rack up a huge bill. I got up and left my apartment by 7:15 this morning. I walked half a mile to my zipcar in 10 degree weather.

Now, I have to take this opportunity to ask... Why is it that every man that I find attractive at my church winds up being Secret Service and, therefore, unapproachable???

Beyond that... When the service was over, I hopped in my zipcar, returned it to its spot, grabbed some breakfast at Best Buns and walked half a mile home (only to be passed by a bus I could have taken from Shirlington when I got to the stop closest to my apartment). I came in and looked at weather.com. It is currently 17 degrees, but feels like 4. So, it's been a successful morning. Haha.

I was gone 2 hours, spent about $20 (including car and breakfast), saw the President and First Lady and some really nice looking gentlemen with things in their ears, got some exercise, visited with God, and didn't have to wait on a single bus or train all morning. All in all, I think it's really my best option for church, so I think I'll try it again next week. :D

Much love,
L~

BTW, guess who discovered the ability to hyperlink in her blog and loves it with all her heart? And yes, I have been here 6 months now, for those of you who noted the 26 week thing.