Steele (the Day)

Let's just move along now...

2010-03-04T22:10:00.000-06:00

I'm moving my random, infrequent acts of writing here so be sure to change your bookmarks. It's still a work in progress, and since I'm away on business right now, it may be a few days before I'm up and running with everything humming like a well (extra virgin olive) oiled machine. Nick is the braintrust/geektastic behind the new look, and has been more than a little patient with me. Very soon I will resume my aimless rambling from my perch in my kitchen. Until then I'm catching planes and Foursquaring my adventures. I'm also soaking a pair of very sore feet tonight.

Tea today: Tazo Zen

I am so ready for spring!

2010-02-20T14:06:00.000-06:00

As beautiful as the snow is, and as much as I really do love me some Iowa winter, I am so ready to get back out on my bike in the nice warm air, sunshine, and woods.

Longest. Winter. Ever.

This is really getting old.

Image: Facebook/Trek Bicycle

Tea today: Good Earth Pomegranate Superfruit

Leftovers

2010-02-16T07:15:00.002-06:00

Some days you feel like you have nothing left.

After vacation, the jet lag hit me like a tour bus. I was tired and cranky all last week - not a bit like you're supposed to be after vacation. I really needed to get organized again, back on track with work and home but at the end of every day...

I had nothing left. Nada. Zip.

The weekend was a blur and about 3 days too short. I only exercised twice last week (and not very hard), which left me feeling even more tired, despite nights of 8 and 9 hours of sound, dream-filled sleep. Sitting at my desk all day trying to catch up on seemingly mundane and brainless tasks didn't help much. And then I didn't eat well. And then I didn't sleep well. And the cascade of events happened all over again. Something needs to break the vicious cycle of bleh.

This morning I used up the last bit of everything else around here.

I cooked the last half of banana in my oatmeal and dumped it in the almond butter jar that had one last tablespoon left in it.

I used the last of my grape tomatoes, dried apricots, dates, garbanzos, croutons, and lettuce for my salad for lunch today. None of this looked all that fresh.

Every bag, can, container is empty. Except for carrots. I rarely run out of carrots. You just never know when you're going to run into a hungwy wabbit.

My salad will be topped today with the very last of the only salad dressing left in the fridge.

Every feel like you have nothing left?

Or do you look at what you've had and say "I've had so much?"

Tea today: Jasmine (my last bag)

Happy Birthday, Mr. Burgundy

2010-02-13T00:16:00.001-06:00

I wanted to do a sweet, poignant interview with Ron Burgundy about his big birthday today. I was all prepared for him to impart his usual wisdom and light, cheer and good will, but none was to be found. I wanted him to tell you how age is only a number and not a condition. How every year has been the best year yet. How grateful he was that I gave him the thinnest years of my life.

Nope.

I'm "airing" this anyway, because it's his day and he deserves all the attention.

"Will you answer a few questions for me? Your thoughts about turning (ahem) sixty?"

"No."

"Why not? I need to write a blog post and you're the only blog fodder I have this week. How does it feel to be turning sixty?"

"Terrible. Depressing." (Shifts ice bag on ankle).

"Why?"

"I'm old." (Heavy sigh).

"Sixty isn't old. Not any more. By the time your dad was sixty he was pretty sick, and by the time my dad was sixty he'd had two heart attacks and a triple bypass. You're still running marathons and doing extreme kickboxing."

"I don't want to be sixty. You hear all the time about people who die at 60...62...."

"Do you have any regrets?"

"Yeah, I wish I'd have saved more money."

"There's still time. The guy who invented the frisbee just died and he was 90. And look at Colonel Sanders."

Silence.

Maybe I shouldn't have brought up dead people. He's obviously a better interviewer than interviewee. Whatever.

Go wish him Happy Birthday on Twitter or Facebook and maybe he'll think sixty isn't so bad by the time he hits sixty-one. I think he's still pretty awesome. He can out-kick, out-lift, out-bike, and out-run all of our kids and his young wife. Here's my favorite picture of him from vacation.

I dare anyone to age so gracefully. I just love this guy. The fact that we've been together for 38 years in no way makes him old. It just makes me happy. Isaiah 40:31

Tea today: Good Earth Pomegranate Superfruit

Aloha and Mahalo

2010-02-09T21:45:00.002-06:00

Our vacation was a blur, albeit a beautiful one. Hawaii, Oahu, and Maui in 11 days. Well, Minneapolis too, if you want to include all the stops. The guests on our trip were kind and spry, and downright hilarious at times. My favorite comment of the trip: "Excuse me. I have some support hose that need rearranging."

Our tour manager from Holiday Vacations was probably a drill sergeant in her former life, but she had a heart of gold. She kept all 44 of us in line, on time, and fed mighty fine. Five flights, five hotels, innumerable bus rides (15 maybe?), hundreds of photos and hours of video later, I have to admit the "most expensive free trip ever" (thanks to baggage handling fees, daily internet charges, and umbrella drinks) was downright pleasant and the accommodations were 5-star.

Ron Burgundy was the perfect host for the trip. He handled his duties like he'd used a microphone before. By the second day, he knew everyones name and where they lived. He wielded his camcorder like a ninja. I was just the trophy wife along for the trip (stop laughing), the unofficial trip photographer, and so blessed to have the opportunity to go along. I had a ball Tweeting my way across the islands, despite my unintended lack of discretion for certain hashtags. #gimmeabreak

The side trip to Pearl Harbor was emotional and a bit eerie as I watched the solemn veterans in our group toss the flowers from their leis into the water to be carried out to sea. It was a beautiful tribute to lost lives. You could literally feel the presence of the 1,100 bodies of American soldiers still entombed in the USS Arizona below us. About a quart of oil still leaks to the surface above the ship every day and serves as another sign that we should not forget.

Never forget.

The trip to the Volcanoes National Park was a testimony to the power and strength inside God's earth. Knowing a volcano could erupt at any given time did not unsettle me. I was too awestruck by the remnants of previous eruptions and the literal artistry that resulted from molten lava, black sand, and majestic mountains.

The orchid farm was truly God's paintbrush at its best. I could have stayed there on sensory overload for hours.

We had free time on Maui, the most beautiful of the three islands. The meals were gastronomical. I failed in my goal to sneak into a kitchen of a swanky restaurant, just to watch the chefs. But I succeeded in eating my weight in fresh papaya, pineapple, kiwi, and melon.
The banyan trees had me fascinated to the point that at any minute I expected to see The Captain from "Five People You Meet in Heaven."

The sunsets in Maui were surreal.

The last evening in Honolulu before our departure, Ron Burgundy and I walked hand-in-hand down Kalakaua Avenue, home of the up-scale shops of horror like Prada, Fendi, Coach, and Tiffany. Neither of us had much interest in shopping - he was in search of a hamburger and I wanted sushi. We found neither. Wolfgang Puck demanded $47 for a steak, "market price" for surf and turf (if you have to ask, you can't afford it) and even the gold-painted mime wouldn't perform without a donation.

And then I noticed him, sitting on a rock ledge across from Tiffany's, chin in hands. Hawaiian descent. Shoulders slumped. Tattered, filthy shirt. Matted hair. Plastic bags containing his only possessions were piled around him. He would be sleeping on the beach that night, providing the police didn't kick him off. His face was expressionless and his eyes were glazed. He was the classic image of homelessness.

I wanted to take his picture because he was a beautiful sight of sorts. The downtrodden in the middle of the glitz and glam. The poor among the rich. The empty among the full. The sad among the giddy. Such stark contrast to his surroundings, but I have no doubt he put his pants on one leg at a time, just like the fine Italian leather-shoed men who strutted past him as if he was invisible. But he was so very real.

He was an indelible image from a place known for extravagance. I will never forget him.

Nor will I ever forget the sight and sound of the sea.

Aloha, and Mahalo.

Tea tonight: Hawaiian Islands Pineapple Waikiki

So Long, Farewell, auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye...

2010-02-07T14:28:00.000-06:00

We attended our last service today at the church we've attended and served for the past 20 years. For unnecessary reasons outside our four walls, our pastor retired and about half the congregation left as well. It was a sad day that never had to happen, but it is what it is.

It was always my pleasure to serve God and the people through this little church. Our kids were all confirmed there. RB and Luke sang in the choir. I can't count how many times I made broccoli-grape salad for funerals, helped serve communion, and for the last 9 years I've prepped and run the projection for our contemporary service. It was a good place for me, up there in our make-shift "sound room." I could cry my eyes out (I'm a well-known "church cryer") without having everyone see me. The huge cross in the sanctuary is formed from three spikes, and is the same one tattooed on my son's back (I'm over it). For the past 20 years, all of our family ushered at the 8 pm Christmas Eve service. It was such a blessed tradition, but one that is no longer. New people will replace us and new traditions will come into our lives.

Onward and upward.

We're in the process of finding a new church home. I can't wait to see what God has planned for us there. Our old church will remain in my prayers.

Our praise team sang together for the last time today. They did a beautiful job on "What Faith Can Do," one of my favorite (tear-jerker) songs.

Tea today: Yamamotoyama Green

I could get used to this

2010-01-31T02:38:00.000-06:00

A shoreline spackled with coral.

The sea pounding against the lava rock.

A sunset from our hotel balcony.

A volcanic view from the plane.

The surf pounding against the lava rock wall outside our room.

A little food along the way.

An abundance of flowers ready for lei-making.

And umbrella drinks. Oh yeah.

Hey, how did this guy get in here? I was concerned about him after he did a fire dance. Wanted to make sure he was OK (and didn't do any harm to those 6-pack abs). Yeah, he's winking ;)

This is the one I meant to post.

Aloha!

Tea today: is an umbrella drink considered tea when you're on vacation?

Wherein nothing has changed - or has it?

2010-01-23T11:38:00.001-06:00

The last half of 2009 defies description. Funky maybe?

I felt like a human casserole of worry, fear, and fog. It was just on the inside, but those close to me noticed. Those who cared, asked.

"I'm fine."

The details of what I blame on getting me there are irrelevant, and to recite the ingredient list of my stew would serve no purpose. We all have things in our lives we want to be different. Suffice it to say that life happens, you take the good with the bad, and you wake up each morning asking yourself "Is this the day things will straighten out?" My heart would race (literally) and skip beats. I'd lay down at night with my fingers touching my pulsing carotid artery, counting the erratic lub-dubs, yet didn't care enough to have the physical symptoms evaluated.

Because deep down I knew, they were not physical. I've seen it a thousand times before in the patients who have walked through my work life. That would never be me.

This blog sat in neutral and may still sit a while. Rare postings. I had nothing except an occasional 140 characters or less. It was like I was floating, watching someone else who looked somewhat like me move ghost-like from day to day.

I was uncomfortable. Uneasy. Totally disconnected.

I had only one way out of this drudgery, and I knew it. I'm well aware that God cares much less about my comfort than He does about my relationship with Him, and that being comfortable so often leads to complacency in mind, body, and spirit. So I dug a little deeper. OK, a lot deeper. I needed to be somewhere else - not physically, but emotionally and spiritually. I read my Bible with more intention. My dedicated time in the morning involved arising early and doing nothing for at least a full hour except reading Scripture, understanding the Word through God-breathed teachers and pastors, and being intentional about where my heart really is. Now. Today. I took friends' prayer requests very seriously (wow, we're a hurting bunch) and felt confident my prayers were being heard. If I told you I was praying for you, trust me when I say it was with fervor and intention. RB and I embarked on praying together. On purpose. Epic.

And I removed my selfish requests from those prayers.

"So what can I say

What can I do

But offer this heart O God

Completely to You."

I realized last Saturday night at church when we sang this song that things have become gradually and gracefully different. I feel a sense of peace and calm, even in the midst of the Haiti heartache. The worry and fear are no longer off the charts, and I seem to have a lot more focus at work, with friends, and at home. I don't feel like I'm floating anymore. It's great not being in charge, or rather fully knowing that I'm not.

What changed? Every circumstance in my life has remained exactly the same. On the outside, nothing has changed. People. Places. Jobs. Relationships. Surroundings. Finances. I did get new tires, but other than that - nothing. has. changed.

God is the same. Everything is exactly the same.

Except me.

I hope I don't stay comfortable with that.

"So I'll stand

With arms high and heart abandoned

In awe of the One who gave it all

So I'll stand

My soul Lord to You surrendered

All I am is Yours"

Tea today: Jasmine

The Swimsuit Debacle

2010-01-17T23:13:00.000-06:00

I have this friend who was told she needed a swimsuit for an upcoming tropical vacation. She had years of collected swimsuits at one point - but they seem to have disappeared. She thinks they went to the last Goodwill run, probably because they were so old she was afraid she'd actually wear them again. And be mocked unmercifully.

She ran across a brand called the Slimsuit. It actually has a patent and is guaranteed to make one appear pounds and inches slimmer. So my friend tried one on at the mall today. She chose the appropriate size and the color that appeared to be the most flattering.

The fluorescent lighting in the dressing room cast a horrendous yellow-green glow on skin that hadn't seen a dose of Vitamin D for months. Undaunted, she disrobed and put her right foot through the first leg hole, smugly pleased that her balance was so solid for a woman her age. Tweeting from the treadmill and EFX really has it's advantages when it comes to balance and core strength. After pulling the suit up to her hips, she felt a strong sense of gratitude.

The upper body strength training was paying off, as she met significant resistance pulling the suit up over her hips. She double checked the size to be sure it was correct. The tugging began. She became warm and a bit diaphoretic with her efforts, but she did not give up. Once the bottom half of the suit was securely in place, the rest was fairly easy. The shoulder straps of the tank-type suit felt a little snug, and as she attempted to take a deep breath, she realized that indeed, breathing would have it's limits.

She turned to look in the mirror and gasped. She had no idea that aged body could look so slim and trim and attractive. It was truly a miracle. Flat stomach, slim hips, smooth back...all encased in a suit of armor.

Unfortunately, loose skin, excess adipose tissue, and a few internal organs take the path of least resistance, and though the "body" of this Slimsuit-clad friend looked fabulous, she was horrified at the sudden appearance of jumbo armpit biscuits, shoulder pads, backfat, saddlebags, and yes, even the outpouring of frontsetts, all having appeared from the relentless compression of the fabulous patented suit. Looks notwithstanding, breathing was difficult, perhaps because of the rebar sewn into the suit to reinforce it's shape. The fabric had very little "give," reminiscent of the heavy vinyl cover she pulls and tugs to snap on the boat until her fingers bleed. And these newly acquired appendages nearly glowed neon green with the glare of fluorescent lights on that winter-white skin. She was a vision of a radioactive Michelin Man.

But indeed, the suit looked fabulous.

With the help of a shoe horn, hangers, and hand lotion, we managed to remove her from the vicious entrapment that someone dared to call swimwear. I took my exhausted friend home, we munched on carrot and celery sticks, and I helped her Google "tropical print gauze Snuggie."

Hopefully the bruises will be gone by the time she goes on her vacation. She's really earned it now.

Tea tonight: Pineapple Waikiki

Recharging

2010-01-11T06:40:00.000-06:00

Just for a bit - the real world is calling for my time and attention, and I feel compelled to listen (this time).

Tomorrow Bridget will host the One Word at a Time Blog Carnival on the word "lust." This is not my way of getting out of posting; perhaps it's my way of taking the time to peruse others' wonderful posts. I hope you do the same.

"Stop at the crossroads and look around. Ask for the old, godly way, and walk in it. Travel its path, and you will find rest for your souls."

Tea today: Genmaicha

I want the snow without the cold

2010-01-08T09:27:00.000-06:00

I've lived in Iowa all of my life (well, not yet, but so far). I love the changes of seasons, and especially the beauty of the snow. The way the drifts become so beautifully sculpted by the 20 mph winds never ceases to amaze me.

It also never ceases to amaze me that the street plows come after your driveway has been plowed, thus forcing me to call neighbor George back with his scooper thingie.

That's our pond up there. Just to the right, out of view of the lens, is the hole created by the heater that allows my fish to stay alive in suspended animation until the water temperature is high enough for them to move again. Some of those bad boys have lived in that pond for 10 years. I've never heard them complain.

And the birds get fed by berries and seed that Ron Burgundy throws them every day. Yes, on the ground. It sprouts. In the spring. And the seasons start all over again.

But seriously, 30 below zero wind chill? I'll never get used to that. I want 70 degrees and snow - is that too much to ask?

Reflections on 2009

2010-01-01T17:11:00.004-06:00

Whether it's appropriately called "twenty-ten" or "two-thousand-ten," I will no doubt write "2009" for 3 more months. It will take me that long to change my habit for the new year, and then another few weeks while the "2010" written in Sharpie on my hand gets embedded in my brain.

It was an interesting year, starting out with some devastating news about a friend and the spontaneous combustion of wackadoos into a whole new circle of blog buddies (known to Ron Burgundy as the "imaginaries"). I found terrific inspiration from a great writer Sara and her dog Riley and only through an odd hijacking of Pete Wilson's blog comments one day, did we figure out she lives a mere 7 miles up the road from me. As it came to pass, we found that we've had common ties for over 15 years. How weird/coincidental/spiritual/cool is that??

I agonized and beat myself up over my kids, and then praised God at the beautiful wedding of my eldest son which gained me an awesome daughter-in-law whom I allow to pound me in Phase 10 because she may be picking out my nursing home some day. I keep my kids close in prayer, including this one, as our visits are all too infrequent.

It was an tasty year on the food front. I fell in love with generic foods over brand names (other than fire-roasted tomatoes and pomegranates) and found that pennies add up faster than you can say "free food." I fell more in love with whole foods, and further out of love with any food that has a mother. Perhaps it was the 6 months of chicken noodle soup that I made for my dying dog, or just the gag factor of running gears on a chicken, but I could count on one hand the number of times poultry has crossed my chicken lips this year. I Twit-pic'd my way through breakfast, lunch, and dinner, as well as through a minor finger amputation, my daughter's New York Marathon finish and a spectacular field in Iowa I never knew existed.

I walked my favorite labyrinth more times than I can count

I stared into mighty Mississippi waters at sunset

And biked into sunsets on land

I got lost in the woods more than once

But continued to meet new friends in the process

We buried two things in the back yard, Lucky and St. Joseph

We don't plan on digging up Lucky since his perfect healing, but have high hopes for Joe.

My resolve for the New Year?

Study more.
Rid my life of clutter and junk, including toxic habits, people, and stuff.
Fertilize, nurture, and prune every fruit of the Spirit
Spend more time with my family, taking wisdom from my friend Ginny's post to "Never treat your friends better than you treat your [mother, father, sister, brother]."

Thanks to all tens of friends who stop by here and comment regularly (I love you!), those who lurk (family), and for those of you who landed here with the Google search "ate his testicles" (who ARE you, anyway?) and found this post (most hits ever) or if you were searching for other oddities like "expensive feet," "waiter fly soup," or "cool steele."

This whole blog thing has taken on a life of it's own. For that, I am blessed. Happy New Year!
Image: Schiaccia

Mother Love

2009-12-28T23:10:00.000-06:00

I had several posts in my head to write about "Love" for the topic of the One Word at a Time blog carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley this week. Try as I might I kept coming back to unconditional parental love and a poem that I was given nearly 20 years ago. I do not know the author, but will credit him/her if anyone happens to know. Unconditional love, like our Father has for us, and like every mother and father has for their children, no matter what.

Mother Love

Long, long ago; so I have been told,

Two mothers once met on the streets paved with gold.

“By the stars in your crown,” said the one to the other,

“I can see that on earth, you, too, were a Mother.

“And by the blue-tinted halo you wear

You, too, have known sorrow and deepest despair.”

“Ah yes,“ she replied, “I once had a son.

A sweet little lad, full of laughter and fun.

“But tell of your child,” -- “Oh, I knew I was blest

From the moment I first held him close to my breast,

And my heart almost burst with the joy of that day.”

“Ah, yes,” said the other, “I felt the same way.”

The former continued, “The first steps he took

So eager and breathless—the first startled look

Which came over his face—he trusted me so….”

“Ah, yes,” sighed the other, “How well do I know.”

“But soon he had grown to a tall handsome boy,

So stalwart and kind – and it gave me such joy

To have him just walk down the street by my side.”

“Ah, yes, sighed the other, “I felt the same pride.”

“How often I shielded and spared him from pain.

And when he for others was so cruelly slain,

When they crucified Him and they spat in His face,

How gladly would I have hung there in His place.”

A moment of silence –“Oh, then you are she—

The Mother of Christ,” and she fell on one knee;

But the Blessed One raised her up, drawing her near

And kissed from the cheek of the woman a tear.

“Tell me the name of the one you loved so,

That I may share with you your grief and your woe.”

She lifted her eyes, looking straight at the other

“He was Judas Iscariot, I am his mother.”

Grace in Muddy Slush

2009-12-20T09:56:00.001-06:00

This is my account of the Ten Dollar Challenge that Billy Coffey has presented. Click on the gift icon to read the wonderful stories of the others who have taken Billy up on his challenge.

It did not turn out how I expected. But that's the nature of our plans.

At first I wanted this to be an anonymous blessing. Then I had visions of doe-eyed children longing for Christmas toys, or parents lamenting the fact they didn't quite have enough money for their groceries at the check out. I would give them my ten-spot and they would smile and be eternally grateful and I would (wrongly) feel proud and smug.

In my dreams.

I stopped by a convenience store to put gas in my car. Simple enough. I ran my debit card through the pump, was ready to hop in and take off, but decided I'd run in the store quickly to use the facilities before embarking on the remainder of my errands. As I reached for my purse, I saw the designated Ten Dollar Challenge bill sticking out from behind my insurance cards in my billfold. I grabbed it, and stuck it in my jeans pocket. You just never know.

When I returned to my car, there was another car at the pump immediately in front of me. A 30ish woman, looking a bit bedraggled, was pumping gas into an older model car. The car seemed to be in fairly good shape, save for the frayed bungie cord that was holding the trunk lid in place.

The woman's raspy voice was angrily directed at the children in the back seat, but it's the dead of winter and the windows were up. I heard the familiar sounds of sibling rivalry, and saw some arms flailing and heads bobbing. Two, maybe three little heads. Hot-aired screaming children tend to steam up windows, and I really couldn't see clearly.

"Whew, glad those days are over for me," I thought to myself.

But they weren't over for Angry Gas Pump Mom. She lurched toward the car, opened the drivers door, and proceeded to launch into a tirade of multiple expletives toward the children. "Shut up." "Leave her alone." "When we get home I'm going to give you an @$$ slap."

Ouch, it felt to me like she already did.

Those were some of the kinder words. The remainder were more colorful. It was sad, it was ugly, and at first I just wanted to run away. My second thought was to give her a taste of her own medicine, but I had no idea what she had gone through that day. Could have been any number of things.

Besides, I'm a confrontation coward.

I sat in my car and messed with my phone ... thinking. I gathered up a couple of gum wrappers and random receipts, got back out, and threw my trash in the garbage can.

I kept coming back to the fact that nobody should talk to a child that way, no matter what. I could only see them from the very tops of their heads in the back seat of a compact car, so they weren't very old. I was getting really angry with her.

"Now look what you made me do. You made me go #%#@ over!! Which one of you is going to pay for this ^%#@ gas?" She crossed her hands over her chest and "harumphed" at the steamed up window.

I walked toward the trash, reached in my pocket, and offered up the ten dollar bill.

"Here. I want you to have this, and may you and your children have a Merry Christmas."

"I don't want your #*%+$ money. I can buy my own (#%* gas," she exploded.

"Oh, it's not for your gas. It's just for you. I just want you to know that I care. And that your children really love and need you. Mine used to drive me bonkers when they were that age, too. In fact, they still do!"

So much for Mother of the Year this year. Again.

She pulled her hand away and the bill dropped to the dirty wet slush on the pavement. We both looked down, then our eyes met. I yearned to see hers soften, but it wasn't happening. I shrugged my shoulders, turned, and walked away quickly.

"Well, if you don't want it, I hope it will bless whoever finds it. That was my intent. Merry Christmas."

As I slid behind the drivers seat, she was still glaring at me with eyes not unlike her frosted windows. I started my car and drove off. As I pulled to the stop sign on the access road, I glanced back. It didn't appear that she had moved.

I have no idea if she took the money. When a gift of grace falls into the muddy slush of winter, is it still grace?

Yes, grace can be really muddy sometimes.

And it just might make you cry all the way to Target.

(Image: Photobucket)

Christmas Stories

2009-12-19T06:44:00.000-06:00

Our house is as decorated as it's going to be this year. In other words, the tree is up.

And every ornament tells a story.

Friends I miss

A reminder of LuckyPuppy at the Rainbow Bridge

A First Christmas

Proud Gifts to Mom and Dad

Nurse Mom to the rescue. Some of these we've had since Shep was a pup - if we'd had a pup named Shep, that is.

That was a good year - First Baby, First Christmas.

Our wedding cake topper turned into Best Christmas Decoration Ever

And who could ever forget a lispy three year old's precious voice when we set this one up 30 years ago..

"Mom! It-th Mary, Jopheth, and JC Penney!"

May your dayth be pleathant and brite.

Just don't shoot your eye out.

Tea today: Dragonwell

Here is the Church, Here is the Steeple...

2009-12-15T07:28:00.002-06:00

Here is the church

Here is the steeple

Open the doors

And see all the people.

It's a childhood finger rhyme that takes me back more than a couple dozen years. Pudgy fingers wrangling to point and intertwine and form the church in the way it was intended. Little fingers representing people, working together, pushing against each other, wrapping around each other, interlocking, and being the church only because all of the people-parts are working together for the One True Glory.

When the people of the right hand and the people of the left hand don't work together, the church falls into a mass of tangled finger people. And when the hands are flailing ghost-like in the air, seemingly attached to nothing, the church flounders. Gasps a few agonal breaths, then dies.

Our church has recently been divided by, of all things, the governing body of it's denomination. A vote was cast where nobody wins.

Not God. Not us.

Yet we still yearn to open the doors and see all the people. Together.

We are confused, broken, struggling finger-people who were bound together by the love of Christ for decades, and are now torn apart by the very entity that was intended to bring us together.

I have one request today - will you pray for my church?

This post is a part of the "One Word at a Time" Blog Carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley. Stop by and visit other contributions on "church." And bring some kleenex - she's got herself a bit of the flu this week.

Tea today: Tazo Joy
Image: PhotoBucket

Adrift

2009-12-12T05:36:00.003-06:00

When a paralyzing snow storm comes our way, it freezes you in your tracks. Literally and figuratively. We know it's coming, we have the non-stop "weather crawl" on TV to warn us, the shift in barometric pressure alters our moods and our physical senses, and there's a swelling-up of that calm-before-the-storm that centers in your chest. We're used to it in Iowa, and when we had children at home, I was always prepared.

Cookies. Hot chocolate. Mac & cheese. Goulash. Entertain the kids. Avoid hearing "I'm bored" at all costs.

This storm was no surprise. "Biggest of the decade," my favorite weathermen told me. That can only mean one thing in Iowa. You'd better buy bread and milk. And lots of it. I never quite understood that "milk sandwich" thing, but I usually just do what the guy ahead of me in line at Fareway does.

Until that day.

I left work irresponsibly later than I should have for a stormy day, and the evening was already wrapped in full white garb. The white skies were peacefully eerie in the dark. Streets were covered, businesses closed, and respectful white-knuckled drivers were headed with trepidation to their destination.

I stopped at the grocery store, only because I could. I knew not what to buy. Our refrigerator was on the blink, so "stocking up" was pointless. I'd just thrown out an unopened bottle of milk the day before, and chastised myself that I hadn't caught it sooner and thrown it in a cooler.

I left the store with bananas, an onion, two sweet potatoes, and three grapefruit. Storm patrol at it's finest. My mind was simply adrift along with the storm. You really don't need to think much when you're driving 20 mph.

The drifts blanketing our yard and sub-zero temperatures would not let me keep refrigerator food - like fresh vegetables, yogurt, and eggs - unfrozen. The garage hovered around 42 degrees - for now. The freezer was chock-full with everything that could be frozen that had been rescued from the fridge. Two big containers of freshly-made soup sat on the garage floor, but I was hesitant to eat the beef noodle - it had never really cooled from its initial preparation before my fridge met it's maker ("Hello, Amana, I'm home"). The black bean was a different story. My jalapeño passion would kill anything.

Hating to waste anything remotely related to red meat, Ron Burgundy decided he'd try the beef soup anyway. Brave man, always going ahead of us to sense out danger. It was apparently fine, but I left it for him, knowing I wouldn't be cooking much the rest of the week. (And I also know bacteria will grow in 42 degrees). Other than my sparse grocery purchases, I was left with 3 of the four food groups: frozen, canned, and preserved. I could make do.

The official snow day came as predicted. I was imprisoned by beautifully sculpted 3 foot drifts in the driveway. The laundry and de-cluttering was done, except for the most obvious things I don't mess with:

The yard art in the family room in various stages of re-stringing, which prevented me from cleaning that room prior to assembling the Christmas tree

the kitchen desk containing very important things that cannot be lost and must not be moved

or the den-turned-computer-room-turned-editing-studio with strategically-placed video cassettes, DVDs, and yards of firewire

Disorganized clutter is certainly a spiritual gift for a certain few in my family, and I decided not too long ago it's not the hill I want to die on.

I was paralyzed. Literally, nothing to do except read or work on the projects I hauled home from the office (bleh). I entertained the idea of making cookies, but nearly every recipe called for sugar. (Obviously I don't bake much). I found 1/3 cup in the container, a recipe for Snickerdoodles, cut it in thirds, and made a batch for RB to enjoy with his salmonella beef soup. I found myself adrift on the internet, but with my email down, it was difficult to communicate. I couldn't make any calls out of our area, because our new cell service does not work in our house (huh? SprintFail), so there was no catching up with out-of-towners. It was a good day to shop online, but I had not one clue what to get anyone. My trusty little book collection was lulling me to sleep.

I made lists. I love lists. They offer hope and plans and tomorrow.

I enjoyed the solitude, staring at the beautifully formed drifts in the yard.

I read Scripture and caught up on podcasts.

I did a couple of online yoga sessions, for which my back was grateful.

I baked a sweet potato.

A wise person once told me "only boring people get bored." That was assurance that I wasn't boring, but Snickers didn't seem too bored either, and she is the epitome of boring. Besides, she thinks yoga is dumb (and for dogs).

It was most certainly a day the Lord had made, and I loved every minute of it. Adrift among the drifts.

Am I the only one who can enjoy a day like that and not feel restless or bored?

Awaiting My Ten Dollar Challenge

2009-12-06T09:40:00.000-06:00

Last week, Billy Coffey posed the Ten Dollar Challenge to all of us, so on a brief trip to the grocery store, I got $10 back on my debit card, and tucked it away in a safe place. I was waiting for the opportunity to bless someone with this ten-spot.

Today, I'm still waiting.

Interesting, the Advent series at church has been about "Waiting..." And I'm not a very good waiter.

Impatient.

Anxious.

Tired of waiting for things to happen. You know, on my timetable. It's been good for me to understand the whole concept of waiting in the scripture. Waiting in faith, and understanding that in God's silence, He's doing His work. He's attempting to align my desires and dreams with His. My job is to remain faithful while waiting.

Hurry up, Big Guy.

It's not like I didn't have the opportunity for that ten dollars this week. There was a guy in front of me at the convenience store buying milk, jerky, and cigarettes who didn't have enough money, and had to clumsily write a check. Judgemental of me, I know (it was whole milk)! Just couldn't do it. There was the donation bucket at the hospital cafeteria for someone with an ill child. I walked right past it. I can't explain why. Was it wrong? I don't know.

I even entertained the idea of blessing myself with carry-out sushi. It had been a long week and not an easy week at work, and I deserved it, didn't I? I can't believe I just admitted that.

But I didn't feel really led to do that either.

I'm still waiting for that opportunity to bless someone with this ten bucks, and I'm certain the opportunity will come. Is it my fear that this kind act will go unnoticed? I hope not. What I have in the back of my mind is that I want this to be only between me, the person I give it to, and God. Nobody else.

Except the entire blogosphere (Billy's the boss of me on this) - but hopefully I will have a story that will bless you as well.

But these things are not on our timetable, are they? So I wait...

Will you take the Ten Dollar Challenge? If you do, please sign the linked list on Billy's page, and leave me a comment about how God used you and your ten spot.

I know the time will come.

The Greatest Kind of Grief

2009-11-30T05:30:00.001-06:00

Time again for the "One Word at a Time" blog carnival with our host, Peter Pollock. Stop by his blog and join us!

Grief.

If given the choice, none of us would probably choose to experience grief in even it's simplest form. It assumes loss - loss of life, loss of health, even the loss of our sense of self.

It is impossible to avoid, foolish to deny, yet inevitable for growth.

Grief chooses us, but it doesn't mean we must live in it's grip.

At the risk of sounding insensitive, I can't completely grasp the concept of prolonged grief when someone dies. Many people close to me have died - my father, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. It was sad. I cried. But to me, after a short period of mourning, death loses it's sting because of what my faith tells me. I won't deny the occasional thought of a sad memory that conjures up feelings and tears of missing them, but grief? Not so much.

In the words of the venerable Dr. Seuss:

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.

Please, God, don't test me in these thoughts.

To me, the greatest grief is the loss of a real-life relationship. When bitterness and envy and greed enter into hearts and harden them. When understandings fade. When closeness separates. When opinions collide in a broken heap of rudeness, pride, mockery, and jealousy. Where laughter ceases and tears begin. Trust pales. This is where I find the greatest grief, because it has a way of hanging around, dancing this vicious circle in our hearts and heads, allowing the enemy the next dance.

There must be some good in grief. I don't believe for one minute that God created such a potent emotion without purpose. He will fix the broken, mend the torn, and bestow the grace that comes with His abundant love. The "good" in grief?

It brings us to our knees as we cry out and bare our souls to the One who loves us the most. And I have no doubt that in our angst, He cries right beside us, wanting our relationship with Him restored as well. Wanting all relationships restored. He wept, but His work did not stop there. Ours must not either.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

Tea today: green with pomegranate

Gratitude

2009-11-26T11:14:00.000-06:00

Today I'm grateful for the fabulous colors of fall that will all-too-soon be covered with downy snow blankets.

May we enjoy the autumnal beauty as it is, in this moment.

The leaves turn.

The leaves fall.

The flowers fade.
Sometimes more than we like.

But the Word lasts forever with promises, preparing for the next season.

I am grateful for His promises.

Give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus.

~1 Thessalonians 5:18~

Tea today: Tazo Zen

The Pomegranate Within

2009-11-22T23:39:00.005-06:00

By now most of my friends know I'm ga-ga over pomegranates. I could go on and on about the nutritional benefits, the beauty of the fruit, the biblical references, and even where the best deals are in my town. I'll spare you.

Most would choose a fruit that looks like these. Symmetrical, shiny, firm, heavy for it's size, and of course, the POM Wonderful brand, which IMHO, is the only real pom there is in existence. No, POM didn't pay me to say that. But I did win a free bottle of juice in their Twitter contest last week. That alone is enough to be on the Twitter bus. And I didn't even sleep in a Holiday Inn Express.

I got these a week or so ago. (The pom is the fruit on the left, for those of you who are produce-challenged).

At the store Thursday night I saw the most shabby, pathetic bin of POMs I've ever laid eyes on. They were shriveled, had lost all roundness, were peppered with sunken, dark spots, and the rind was thin and hard. There was nothing pretty or appealing about them, other than I knew they had probably once looked more beautiful. Some of them were actually cracked open. I was, as usual, drawn to the bin. I looked them over, and thought that if I just bought one, I wouldn't be out that much, there might be some decent arils deep into the fruit, and could have my pom fix for the day. Sucker, I know.

What a blessing that pitiful thing turned out to be! It was one of the most delicious, sweet poms I'd ever enjoyed, As I cut through the rind, a few squirts from the deep ruby-red arils greeted me. The juice was so dark, it was almost purple. There were maybe 10 bad arils in the entire fruit. Legend has it there are exactly 840 of them in every fruit. It was nearly perfect.

If one can have a spiritual, out-of-body experience eating a fruit, then I did. Or the crazies had struck. I'm going with the former.

Surely this is how God sees us. To others (and sometimes ourselves), we're cracked, bruised, thin-skinned, and not so pretty. To Him, we are perfect, from the inside out. Fearfully and wonderfully made. And He longs for us to burst forth with the joy he has put deep inside of us, putting aside all the the things on the outside that cover us, haunt us, and keep us from living the life He designed us to live.

I just knew that pomegranate was destined for bigger things than the broken-down produce bin at Walmart.

So am I.

Tea tonight: Green with lemongrass

Belated Honest Scrap

2009-11-19T20:33:00.000-06:00

Thanks to Alix over at Casa Hice for bestowing upon me the Honest Scrap Award many weeks ago. I don't do awards well, and am grateful for the acknowledgment. Alix is one of the sweetest and funniest people you could meet, if you could meet her that is. Which I haven't. But I feel like I've known her most of my life.

Thank you, friend. Thankyouverymuch.

Honest Scrap rules require that I list ten honest things about myself, and then I have to pass it on to seven people with blogs that I find brilliant in content and/or design, or those who have encouraged me.

I'm well aware that many of my favorite bloggers don't "do" awards, so don't be surprised if this doesn't appear in their blogs, but do me a huge favor and drop by their cyberhomes. They are certainly worthy of visiting.

My 10 honest things:

Just because I cry, it doesn't mean I'm sad. It means that emotion is my spiritual gift, which I have not yet learned to either contain or gracefully embrace. Short of a coma, I probably won't be cured of this.
My co-workers think I'm a lot smarter than I really am. I'm an idiot savant, but for work purposes, the "savant" part is all that matters.
I can and do forgive very easily, but unless you're repentant, I may have a hard time forgetting. Being sorry without repentance means you keep reminding me because it keeps happening.
Finding pleasure in solitude is one of the most wonderful gifts God gives me.
My faith is an exercise in "use it or lose it." And the more I practice, the better I get. I need more practice.
I never see a little girl with long hair without thinking of my own and remembering the smell of her hair. And usually tearing up (see #1).
When I walk by the giant bags of cereal at the grocery store, I miss my boys (see #1).
I have been to a mall once since January, and only out of necessity of an undergarment. Yup, just one. 'Nuf said.
Bad table manners are like fingers on a chalkboard to me. I'm not a dining snob. Please, don't make inappropriate noises and eat like it's the last meal you'll ever have. Because if you get really gross, it just might be.
I absolutely, totally, and undeniably love to cook, especially concoctions that call for 10 or more ingredients and lots of chopping. I love my knives. Be very afraid.

I'm supposed to pass this along to seven others. I hate to pick seven, because I love more than seven - I love everyone on my blogroll. Starters: Hysterical Steph. Random Katdish. Deep thoughts Billy Coffey. Strong and courageous Gitz. Boz my favorite dog, and his "mom" Annie. Encouraging Peter (who even made me a special video - check out that accent!). Food with Style (oh my, just look at that food - you won't find a ham sandwich there)!

The problem with these gifts is that I've left of at least a dozen of my favorite bloggers, all of whom I find gracious, encouraging and who make my day. But I have to stop and peel a pomegranate.

Because every quick fruit snack should require a sharp knife, a big bowl of water, a strainer, a stack of paper towels, and 20 minutes.

Just bein' honest.

Tea today: Jasmine

A Yellow Fuzzy Community

2009-11-17T06:11:00.007-06:00

We were a community of sorts
A baker's dozen, a horde of hapless hormones
An odd group to the unknowing
Different backgrounds, marital status
...life callings, financial peace (or not so much)

Some collected degrees
And there were GEDs
Professionals and service workers
Homemakers and factory workers

Some sported the latest Michael Kors or Coach bags

Others were perfectly content with half-price Target satchels

Or a daughter's cast-off purse from middle school
Our bags did not define us.

Some of us held deep love for our Lord

Others questioned His existence

But there was never discord

The little we held in common
Most notably
A passion for the game
And four years of college eligibility
Melded us together as a community.

Expectant acceptance
Peace and ease.

We were brought together by one thing.

A yellow fuzzy ball.

A symbol and scent
Of trust
Friendship
Honor

"I got your back" ...as well as the shot that just whizzed past you

"Yours!"

Lots of grace (for that shot just whizzed past you again)
Ice for a swollen knee
Bloodied band-aids
Hugs and tears for other wounds that you couldn't quite see
Because we felt every hurt, as if it was our own.

The thrill of victory
The agony of defeat
And the feet
And the feat.

Road trips
Borrowed bobbie pins
High fives for impossible shots

A badly broken ankle in a crucial match
And the insensitive teammate who said,
"Suck it up!"
We won anyway, but ouch,
I felt terrible after saying that
When she showed up on crutches.

That yellow fuzzy ball leveled the playing field
Every. Single. Time.

We were the Sisters of the Yellow Fuzz
The older we got
The better we used to be

We were a visible community
Until one by one
We parted

One moved
One was injured
One died
Then another
(Heart disease sucks
Cancer really sucks)
And a few just sort of
...faded ... away ...

Some still gather
Shopping in the "city"
Travels to distant states for old friends
Over a local birthday margarita
The gaggle regroups to giggle
At carefully chosen birthday cards
That only we would understand.

We become community again
Even if only once a year
It's like we never missed a step

And we realize that it wasn't about the yellow fuzzy ball after all

It was about something intangible, yet palpable
Different, yet unchanged

An indescribable gift
Of heart and soul and spirit

Our Yellow Fuzzy Community endures
If only a precious memory.

"What cannot be achieved in one lifetime will happen when one lifetime is joined to another." ~Harold Cushner

Join us at the "One Word at a Time" blog carnival hosted by Bridget Chumbley and Peter Pollock. Come, bask in that which is my new community.

Tea today: Tazo Zen

"I don't remember..."

2009-11-03T06:40:00.018-06:00

I'm joining Bridget Chumbley and Peter Pollock this week for their "One Word at a Time" Blog Carnival. Stop by Peter's blog and see all the great entries on this week's word:

Remember

Car keys. Dental appointments. Birthdays. All relatively unimportant when you look at remembering life. And love. And forgetting how to do both.

I clearly recall the first time my dad told me "I don't remember." Those three words told me so much. The cold reality of finally humbling himself to the ravages of Alzheimer's was so evident in his eyes.

He would have no more yesterdays to remember.

He was aware of his dilemma for a while. That vague, obtuse state of mind when you know you can't remember.

He knew he wasn't the meticulous, sharp-penciled accountant he had once been, though he'd spend hours scrawling random numbers in ledger books for no other reason than he could. There was a whisper of familiarity there. He struggled with pride and was able to fool a lot of people for a long time because he was so brilliant, and didn't want anyone else to know his debilitating secret. He did this for many years until one day he just up and said "I don't remember."

The white flag of surrender was flown.

That was so painful for me. It was easier when he'd call me for the umpteenth time and ask me how to microwave popcorn, like it was the first time he had ever asked. Or for him to refer to one of my boys as "what's-his-name" in a joking manner, pretending he really did know of whom he spoke. Or when he'd say "Hi There" and make you think he knew who you were.

Eventually everyone was named "There." Some knew his ruse and some didn't. His amiable disposition always took him far.

We had some fun with Dad's memory and lack thereof. After all, it was what it was. Coping wears a dark, humorous cloak sometimes.

He remembered where his stockbroker was and drove downtown to see him. What he didn't remember is that you don't stop your car in the traffic lane, shut it off, and just walk in the office.

He remembered that he didn't want anyone to eat his turkey sandwich, but didn't remember that he hid it in an old dresser down by his tool bench. Mom found it several years after he was gone.

He remembered how to drive, but he never remembered where he put the keys. That was to everyone's advantage. Eventually when we intentionally hid his keys, he gave up looking for them, thinking he was the one who had lost them. It was all in the name of love, safety, and the preservation of his dignity. We kept him busy studying the driver's manual so he could "get his license back."

"Tomorrow, Dad," I'd respond when he asked when he could take the driving test. Tomorrow never came. It never does when you don't know there was a yesterday. But that never dimmed his hope of looking forward to tomorrow.

Dad struggled to recapture the past, to keep alive some memory, but neither was to be found. Our desire was to make his today pleasant, knowing that he would never again have another yesterday.

Today I remember him in gratitude and prayer. And I so appreciate all the yesterdays he gave me. Remembering them is a cherished gift.

Join us for the upcoming "One Word at a Time" Blog Carnivals here.

Tea today: Jasmine

I ♥ NY

2009-11-01T16:55:00.016-06:00

A year ago I chased Ron Burgundy and our daughter all over Chicago while they were running the marathon, trying to figure out the train system and snap the elusive father-daughter photo. My directionally-challenged self failed miserably.

With this year's marathon Kate fulfilled a life-long dream of going to New York, though I don't thing she ever intended her "dream trip" would include a 26.2 mile run with 42,000 of her closest friends through the Big Apple and the boroughs.

We weren't invited able to go on this trip. She went with a gaggle of her Des Moines friends and left Mom and Dad behind. I wasn't too concerned. She's a grown woman with just a little ADD and a disdain for anything that resembles boredom. A frightening combination to travel to the Big Apple, indeed. But she has dependable friends, some of whom are familiar with the big city.

I was pretty calm about things until last night when she called and said "I don't remember training for this."

Oops.

She was so struck by the big city, seeing STOMP on Broadway, and looking forward to crashing the Today Show next week, that the thought of running a little marathon today was not foremost in her mind.

As I followed her on Athlete Tracker, the marathon's servers crashed. Surely they knew her mother would be sitting in Iowa wanting to know where their daughter was on a Sunday morning?

They didn't hear my screams. I was so frustrated, I sent a tweet out about her at the starting line, and fortunately a friend of mine was able to log on to the site, scream "GO! GO!" at her computer monitor while on the phone with me, and send me screen shots of her progress late in the race.

She crossed the finish line, sent me a text saying she survived, bemoaned the hills, and made me proud - again. What grit. She later said she about threw up with 3 miles to go.

"I think it was the Snickers bar the guy handed me on the course." That's my girl. Never lure a dietitian with chocolate on a marathon course.

Here's a shot of her finishing up in Central Park, dressed in a green bubble suit. Doesn't she look fabulous? (You may need to click the image to view her).

They are always your babies, aren't they?

Image courtesy of PhotoBucket

Happy Birthday to Nick the Geek

2009-10-26T06:59:00.001-05:00

Let's face it - I liked Nick the Geek long before I knew he was younger than 2/3 of my kids. If you found my blog today, it's because of him. If you got lost and directed somewhere else, it's because of him. Most things are his fault, good or bad.

Nick is Super Youth Pastor who has gotten me out of more than a few geek-type jams. He has also gotten me in a lot of trouble, but we won't go there. Go follow him on Twitter, because I need you to take my side on a few arguments like using the NetiPot (not geeky enough for him, it simply uses the wonderful forces of gravity), eating more fruits and veggies, and supporting my Hawkeyes in some way, shape, or form. He will argue with you, simply because he can.

He keeps his finger on the pulse of geekdom at all times.

I really wanted to give him these for his birthday, but I didn't. I'm of the "It's the thought that counts" mentality, so...

He.Got. Nuthin'.

He even has his own action figure. I've heard his MIL has one, but she's ripped the head off. For the love of all that's good and holy, I can't understand why.

Nick has a huge heart for the youth in his community, and I'm waiting to see him on AFV one of these days sporting his T-shirt cannon which he has promised to use to spew my ashes across the Mississippi. (Hopefully not soon).

Swing by Nick's blog and wish him Happy Birthday, or leave a comment here - I'm sure he'll stop back to make sure this random rambling is still online.

Tea today: Young hyson

One Word at a Time: Trust

2009-10-20T08:30:00.012-05:00

I'm joining sweet tweep Bridget Chumbley today in her "One Word at a Time" blog carnival.

Today's word:
trust

We are born trusting souls, dependent on someone else for our every need. As we mature, our human failures become all too obvious. Who and what can we trust?

The first thing that came to mind when I heard this week's word was "Guard your heart..." Seriously, how trusting is that?

It's so easy for us to distrust both people and things.

Inanimate objects are very easy to distrust, because we half-way expect them to let us down. A flat tire. A broken dryer. Mere "stuff" is known to fail us on several levels, even if it works all the time. In the end, it's still stuff. Stuff with no heart.

When people let us down, the failure goes much deeper. It's heart failure.

"Guard your heart..."

And therein lies error of our ways, because our hearts are not perfect. People, no matter how close they are to you, are simply not perfect. Worse, we are unmistakably flawed. And only the ultimately perfect can be trusted.

Our most trusted friends have let us down with gossip, greed, or envy. Our families will let us down with broken promises, little white lies, disrespect, and less-than-full disclosure. Trust that takes years to build can be destroyed in a moment.

Trust me on this one.

Because I have been that friend.
That wife.
That mom.
That daughter.
And though I'm as loyal as white on rice, there have been times that I know I have let others down in their eyes and they felt some level of betrayal, no matter how unintended it was. I'm a work in progress.

With our relationships, we take the risk of rebuilding and regaining that trust. It demands faith, hope, and guts. And a bit of heart-guarding until you feel safe and secure again. We want and need to trust again. We will trust again. In order to do so, it begins with reminders of sim ple scrawled words of a small child, and a lot of help from Above. Because only the Perfect can be implicitly trusted.

Tea today: green with lemongrass

Death Stinks

2009-10-13T21:50:00.006-05:00

If you've been hanging out here for a bit, you may remember Harold. He's nearing 50 years old and has been with us for over 30. He's far more than a jade plant - he's family. With our below-freezing temps, it was time to snuggle him in for the winter.

Sadly, I think we were too late. The frost hit us hard the night before. Though we brought him in while he still looked healthy (actually, Ron Burgundy brought him in and I supervised), his limbs are starting to brown and wither and I fear that he has seen his last days.

Jade is also known as a friendship tree, lucky plant, or money plant. Through the years I have been blessed with dear friends, a wonderful puppy named Lucky, and a good job. I don't see it as an accident that Lucky went to the Rainbow Bridge this year, and it now appears Harold might join him, or wherever it is that plants go to die. It is not a coincidence that in the past 3 months I have also seen 3 old (yet young) tennis friends go to Heaven's gates.

God is never surprised - I shouldn't be either. But the plans are His.

And Harold stinks. Stinks like death. As in compost. Unfortunately, his winter home is right next to my bed and it's the last thing I smell at night and the first thing I smell in the morning. This air can't be healthy. Compost was meant for the outdoors.

Harold may surprise me again. He's rallied before, just like Lucky did many times after being given his death sentence by the vet. But Harold's gigantic pot is cracked, and I can't find another one to fit him. Consequently his nourishment is limited, and I can't find the right way to patch a clay pot. The only saving grace is that he has an offspring in my kitchen window that is thriving. Perhaps little Harry will live on and carry Harold's legacy.

I'm just not quite ready to see him go yet. But that smell can leave any time.

"The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever."
~Isaiah 40:8

Tea today: cheap generic green from somewhere but it's good.

The Octopus Elliptical from Hell

2009-10-12T21:21:00.000-05:00

I sauntered into the gym yesterday as I have done for the past 20 years, with all the confidence my saggy T-shirt could give me. “2002 District Sectionals.” The multicolored tennis balls on my shirt were cracked and faded, but yes, I had been there. Once.

A perky thirty-something on one of the machines caught my eye. Perhaps it was her toned, tanned Barbie-like arms. Or maybe her Barbie-like blond ponytail swinging with each graceful stride. Or was it the glistening sweat rolling past her trendy UnderArmour onto taut Barbie-like hammies? I watched her with that “I’ll have what she’s having” look and decided it was going to be a tough workout.

I know the gym equipment as well as the crow's feet in my 10X mirror. I had been involved with the initial start-up for the Wellness Center. My very first request was for petty cash for a Jane Fonda aerobics album. Album, as in vinyl. Legwarmers. Terry cloth sweatband. That was when we were jumping and stretching to Billy Ocean, Jimmy Buffet, and Boz Scaggs. Hawt. And we served punch after class.

We eventually got real gym equipment and I became quite comfortable with it. Treadmill: forward and up. Elliptical: forward and back. Cybex: up and down. Barbells: uh and oh. I had pretty much christened every piece there. Most of them were my friends and had served me well.

But Barbie was on a new torture device, and it intrigued me. I couldn’t wait until she left for the stretching corner so I could hop on this new-fangled machine, because surely I could capture her same stride. I situated my iPod earphones. Right ear - check. Left ear (no sound, but lets me hear the right ear better) - check.

My first step up (way up – it was a tall machine) was a surprise. The foot piece went straight down, not forward as I had expected. I managed to catch myself after whacking my elbow on what was apparently an upright hand grip. I firmly planted the other leg into place. There were a dozen buttons on the console, none of which said “defibrillator” so I was fairly certain I wasn’t on a suicide mission. There were three different places to put your hands, and I envisioned this would be quite simple for an octopus, but now I had a decision to make. Straight in front and stationary? Down to the side and slightly pumping? Or swinging at my side and really trucking along?

I started stepping, but the up and down motion was something that was not in my muscle memory. I tilted sideways to the right and nearly fell down the 18 ~~stories~~ inches to the ground. I hit my hip on a railing, but kept stepping. My stumble had forced me a bit to the left and my hip bounced off the railing on the other side. I now have matching hip contusions, all to the tune of TobyMac singing “…fall to the earth like a crashing wave...” in my right ear only, of course. My pride wouldn’t allow me to stop stepping, so I forged ahead.

I started getting the hang of it, but after 90 seconds, my quads were screaming for mercy, and I realized then that I had the machine on the highest resistance setting. I hit a few more buttons to relieve my suffering. I switched my iPod to some Andy Stanley for a little inspiration and perhaps some divine intervention.

I’m in the groove now, and it’s time to be like Barbie. Let’s see what these guns will do with the other arm options. I reached up to grab the gliding arm things and lost my balance again. This time I lurched forward, and my right foot slipped off the foot piece, which in turn made me whack my right knee on the middle rail piece some brilliant engineer thought was necessary to put there, just because he could. And I’m sure he’s in cahoots with the orthopedic surgeons in our town.

Keep moving. Just keep moving.

I’m settled into a groove again. Me, Andy, and the Perky Octopus Elliptical from Hell. My right foot is getting sore, mostly from compensation because of the wad of gauze that I use to pad a thin spot in my well-worn shoes. The gauze is now wadded up in the toe. And Andy’s in my right ear telling me “don’t judge and measure God by your circumstances.”

Oo--kaaay then.

That’s when Barbie walked by and gave me a perky, toothy smile. “Don’t you just love that machine?"

Have I mentioned how I hate “perky?” And that youth is so wasted on the young?

“It’s great,” I lied, perkily. It’s amazing how much energy you can ~~fake~~ muster when someone is actually watching you.

I very quickly found out that speaking, even two words, while stepping and arm-gliding and balance-keeping and message-listening – two words were enough to throw my rhythm and balance off again. Clunk. I fell forward, this time whacking my left knee on the same doggone rail. My arms flailed in the air, grasping for anything that would hold me upright, but I wasn’t smart enough to stop stepping and as such, the right arm handle came back and whumped me in the forehead (which could only mean I was doubled over in pain before it hit me). Praise God nobody had given me a stick of gum. This could have been ~~ugly~~ uglier.

Barbie skipped out of the gym and I glanced over my shoulder to make sure she was gone. I stopped the machine. Four minutes and fifty-five seconds of being thrown under the exercise bus.

I went to the stretching corner and licked my wounds. Caught my breath. Told Andy to take a hike. (He was not meant for such a time as this). And when I was able to move again, I adjusted my high-tech shoe gauze and went back to my trusty treadmill - my safe, happy place. Forward and up. To the tune of “Burn for You” (thanks, Fee Band), fire in my bones and all.

This morning I woke up in the middle of a dream where I was playing at Wimbledon in a pair of steel-toed work boots. It was one of the most painful crawls out of bed since Jane Fonda bellered “Feel the burn?”

I hate perky.

Tea tonight: Young hyson

My Furnace Filter

2009-09-26T15:30:00.006-05:00

This is my medicine cabinet, straight from the Farmer's Market. It seems that some of my family and a lot of my Twitter friends have already been hit by the flu bug. This morning, Ron Burgundy woke up with a sore throat. I'm hoping that I can fight it off as I have for the past few decades, but you just never know. Stress, lack of sleep, and hanging around infected people can certainly knock you down. Perhaps I should check into a motel.

My friend Nick tweeted me a while back "Why don't you ever get sick?"

I guess I never expect to. Nor do I have the time. It's not on my calendar. Plus, I have a few years of immunity built up that Nick doesn't have. Like almost 30 more years, because he 's but a mere child.

I do believe in feeding my immune system. With functional food. And a yearly flu shot. I once had an elderly patient who was a dietitian, and she told me some fascinating stories about how they fought illness and treated infections before antibiotics.

Before all the flu shot haters come out and bash me, don't bother. If you say "I don't mind getting the flu" or "I'm going to get the flu anyway" you are also saying "I don't mind giving this nasty snot and pneumonia to all my coworkers and those I love the most."

Just sayin'. It probably wasn't nice to say "snot" in a post about food. Sorry/you're welcome (in the words of Katdish.

The vaccine will not give you the flu. However, you may incur a serious head injury if you're prone to passing out from needles. So lay down first. There's my disclaimer.

Since a few of you loyals think I should do food posts (rather that food Tweets, which are much easier), I thought I'd show you some of my fuel over the past few weeks. Not all of those Twitpics are food, of course. There's a mighty bloody finger in there, so beware. It was a "Hey look...Shiny" moment while chiffonading basil. I really shouldn't verb that elegant word chiffonade.

Here are my fueling staples. You'll notice I love color. Lots of color. And I don't like ingredients that I can't pronounce. Hence, I make most of my own salad dressings and try to use whole, unprocessed foods as much as possible. That makes me sound like a hippie from 1969-1973. I guess that's where it all started. (But I wasn't). I even had a "Make love, not war" keychain back then. (Didn't do that, either).

I drink a Zola nearly every day. I loved açai juice long before Oprah even knew what it was. And only Zola - I've tried them all. Follow them here or on Twitter. It's a lot cheaper than going to Brazil and shakin' those berries down yourself. That would probably be my dream vacation - to shimmy up an açai tree in Brazil.

I love fiber and lots of texture. I'll spare you the details on the benefits of that. Things like wheat berries, nuts, and things that go "pOp" in your mouth like a plump grape or a pomegranate aril just make me giddy. Note to self: pomegranate season is only a month away!

I'm pretty much an herbivore but I love fish and seafood. I have nothing against meat. Lean meat is great healthy protein. I just have this little phobia about ruining my meal by coming into close proximity with a blood vessel. Or a stringy thing. Or gristle. Ewww.

I like tofu. I don't eat a lot of it - once or twice a week maybe. It's all in how you fix it. And I love the texture - you just have to cook it right. And you'll never run into a blood vessel. I can munch steamed edamame like popcorn. And yes, I do.
I dug through my pictures for some tasty treats that will antioxidize you to the max. Or at least it seems to work for me.

Breakfast: one of my favs - a chocolate breakfast oatmeal "cookie" with fresh fruit. Fruit can get pricey, so I use frozen if I don't find good deals.

Or perhaps you'd prefer a bowl of oatmeal with fresh peaches, blueberries, and toasted almonds?

Or oats with bananas, blueberries, walnuts and chia seeds? Breakfast really is the most important meal of the day. Your mother was right. My kids still don't believe anything I say, however. God bless 'em. I'm sure they'll inscribe "she always ate breakfast" on my tombstone.

I pack my lunch for work - either leftovers from the previous night's dinner, or a random salad. I throw just about anything I can think of in my salads. A Mexican theme here.

A sweet & savory theme there. Or just a vegetable bin clean-out. I fell in love with sunflower microgreens this summer. They have awesome flavor! I will definitely be growing these next year, not buying them!

For a pick-me up in the afternoon before exercise, I usually have yogurt with fresh or frozen berries, granola, and almonds, or an apple with almond butter, yogurt, and a sprinkle of flax,or a smoothie like this one with mango and banana.

Perhaps an almond yogurt smoothie (yes, I garnish with fresh mint - it has overtaken my pond and is really a weed) and pretend I'm eating at some fancy-schmancy diva spa instead of throwing on my old Nikes and trudging down the hall to my near-death in the gym.Or a Green Monster.
You will NOT (hear me out, here) NOT taste the spinach in this. Just ask my friend Beth, a recent convert to Green Monsters and Banana Whip Heaven!

Sometimes I skip dinner, because if I get home late, I'm just not hungry and I hate to go to bed on a full stomach. I lay there like a beached whale and end up having weird dreams. About food. And it didn't hurt this guy any to skip a few dinners.

But when I do fix dinner, it's something like this saa-weeet cajun shrimp with mango, avocado and black bean salsa (I ate cold leftovers the next day, it's that good),yummy spinach/mushroom/tofu lasagna that Ron Burgundy ate three helpings of and said he hated, throw together a copy-cat Chipotle burrito bowl, complete with cilantro rice (brown rice only, thankyouverymuch) or toss these veggies with some EVOO and balsamic or tamari and grill with a chicken breast. The leftovers make great wraps for lunch the next day. How about this gorgeous burger? Imagine the possibilities! And nope, not a smidgen of meat in it, yet it's a complete protein.I was so excited when Ron Burgundy agreed to try my pumpkin oats this morning. He actually liked them. Or lied. His comment? "It tasted like oatmeal. And pumpkin." He's such a food snob. Didn't even mention the sugary crunch of the walnuts or zing of the orange zest. I told him they would make his sore throat go away. The power of suggestion....
This food post has killed me. The real food bloggers must have some shortcuts because this took me forever. Perhaps my anticipated move to Wordpress will make things easier.

Now I'm starving. What would you like me to fix for you?

Oh, and if I get sick this winter, I'll be eating crow.

Tea today: green citrus

Giving credit where credit is due

2009-09-24T20:15:00.003-05:00

This is an apology of sorts. Or not.

I've been praying for something for several months now. Lots of things, actually, but also for, shall we say, a "situation." Praying for something not to happen that I didn't want to happen because I didn't feel it was in the best interest of the parties involved. "Please Lord, don't let..."

My prayer was answered - this time the answer was Yes. This "situation" went away. Apparently God felt the same way I did.

But in the process of my prayer being answered, a heart was broken. Or at the least, bruised. How could I humbly thank Him for answering my prayer when I was listening to someone tell me about their grief, their heartbreak, their lost hope? I really struggled with this one. Relieved, yet guilty.

Exchanging my relief and gratitude for the another's heartbreak is not exactly fair trade.

At church last week Pastor talked about forgiveness. That's it! God will forgive me that I had caused someone heartbreak. Whew. I knew there was some sort of biblical step I could take that could absolve me of my guilt. My confession commenced.

Then the booming voice from heaven said...ok, really, it was a whisper of the Holy Spirit..."Just who do you think you are that you were in control of this situation? I knew what you wanted. I knew what needed to happen for the good of all involved. It just so happens, young lady (yes, I do believe He called me that) that we were on the same page this time."

Who am I to take credit for something that I never had control over in the first place?

God wants us to grow and become more like Him, and after my decades of experience, I know that this process most likely involves some pain, perhaps suffering, or at the very least an uncomfortable, restless heart. All of which are necessary for us to once again realize how much we really need Him to help us heal from the sometimes inevitable collateral damage.

And He gives us more resilient hearts for the next time.

Tea tonight: Tazo Zen

Where Were You 9/11/01?

2009-09-11T07:06:00.007-05:00

I will forever remember the entwining of heart, mind, and body that day.
I was at work, and we had a whole room full of patients exercising, and the TVs were on as usual. Then the announcement came of the initial plane crashing into the World Trade Center.

The patient's blood pressures and heart rates shot up to levels that made it unsafe to exercise. It was a powerful display of the physical manifestations of the stress response that all too often our heart patients ignore, but were literally recorded on paper that day. After all, that stress response is partly what brought many of them to us in the first place.

Never doubt the body's physical ability to respond to the feelings in your heart and the thoughts in your head. You can read about it in self-help, peruse research, and study the chemistry. But when you actually see it happening, see it in their eyes, and palpate it in their hearts, you understand how real it is.

Praying for peace today.

Tea today: Citrus green

Seeing Random Red

2009-09-07T21:40:00.005-05:00

Ron Burgundy and I went to a football game this weekend at the college where our "baby" is the head athletic trainer. The game wasn't pretty (as in, they lost badly) but it's always fun to see your kid work. To see those hard-earned college dollars that put you in the red, actually come to fruition, like wearing a red shirt and mopping up red blood.

How appropriate.

I came to the conclusion that this kid excelled in the course "1001 Ways to Be an Athletic Trainer Using your Mouth and Teeth." Apparently he forgot about our sizable investment in orthodontia back in high school. (Sorry for the ultra-grainy zoomed video)

1. You fill a bag with ice and suck the air out so it's easier to mold around a traumatized joint

2. You rip open a gauze pack with your teeth because your gloved hand is contaminated and who can rip paper with one hand?

3. You talk a lot, drink a lot of water, and carry a ginormous man bag (fortunately, not in your teeth).

4. You have never been able to kick that jock habit of chewing and spitting sunflower seeds.

(I'm sparing you the video - the spit was gross)

5. You show your pearly whites to the camera, while hugging your maw (who needs a haircut).

(And new tennis shoes).

To cap off the Labor Day weekend, I rode through the formerly verdant trails this beautiful fall afternoon and saw more red than I've ever seen before.

Except for this guy, who would have terrified me if he let go of his dinner long enough to fly my way.
Our Lord paints with a brilliant brush, doesn't He?

Tea tonight: White cantaloupe

Happy Birthday, Helen!

2009-09-02T07:20:00.001-05:00

Today is my friend Helen's birthday. My very good friend.

However, I've never met Helen.

At least in person.

We've emailed, exchanged tweets, and have prayed for a lot of the same things: Big Al, ill parents, struggling children, safe travels.

Ron Burgundy frequently makes fun of my "imaginary friends" as if they were all of the Snuffleupagus variety. But this Big Bird knows Helen is real, and someday soon I hope to meet her IRL. I know she really exists. Who would pretend to be a hilarious Hungarian Catholic bookworm?

We share the love of laughter, good food, and snarky friends. We differ in the fact that she cooks Hungarian foods. I have Hungarian paprika in my spice drawer, but I have no idea how to use it.

Once again she has been caught salsa dancing in the grocery aisles. Stop over at Random Musings and wish her a happy birthday!

Happy Birthday, Helen!

Tea tonight: Genmaicha

Strawberry Sunflower Fields Forever

2009-08-14T21:44:00.000-05:00

Last week I attended funeral visitation that was literally like a bad SNL skit. Lest I sound disrespectful, even the family of the deceased was in giggles.

My co-workers and I are a tight-knit bunch, so when the father of one of them passed away after a prolonged illness, we wanted to pay our respects. The week had been a long one, with said co-worker off tending to family affairs and another taking vacation. So between long days with high-maintenance patients and a high case load, it stands to reason that a 2-hour road trip to a visitation after work could get a little slap-happy.

The road trip was beautiful. We got started an hour later than intended and I was starving from skipping lunch. My friend (a pantry pack-rat) packed a bag o' goodies and away we went. Not too far from our destination, we were distracted by a sunflower or two on the way to Decorah, and had to stop for photographs.

At first they were a bit on the shy side, and turned away from my camera.Then I made friends, and we got up-close and personal.My friend casually reminded me to be careful traipsing through the field "so you don't break an ankle." She's sort of my sister from another mister and knows that clumsiness is one of my spiritual gifts.Once they understood we were only there to admire their beauty, they introduced us to their friends. Have you ever seen so many sunflowers on such beautiful rolling hills?

I had looked at the obituary of the gentle man who passed away. Beautifully written, it depicted this man of the cloth (retired Lutheran pastor, to be exact) and a loving family. The address for the funeral home was at the bottom of the obit, so I copied and pasted into Mapquest. We didn't miss a turn. Smooth sailing all the way.

Upon arriving at the funeral home, the greeters ushered us in, quietly whispering that they were in the middle of a prayer vigil. I dropped a sympathy card in the designated box. We didn't get a program (or flyer, or what ever you call those things), and stealthily tiptoed to the back of the chapel to a row of chairs along the wall. The lector was reading scripture.

My first hint that something was amiss was that I didn't see our friend or any of her family. Hmmm.Odd.

The second hint was that the entire row in front of us was gentlemen dressed like this.We just saw them from the back, and the white ostrich feathers (I think) were fabulous, though not very Lutheran.

How nice, I thought, that the Catholics and Lutherans can come together in such mutual respect at a time like this. It's small-town Iowa and that's what we do.

Two elderly gentlemen sat on the other side of my friends. Not fair. They got programs. So my friend leaned forward to the left to peek. And leaned. And leaned.

She practically leaned out of her chair, but managed to read "Judge Joseph...." on the program.

Just as the lector was saying "Joe really would have loved this scripture."

She sat upright. I gasped. Yes, we were at the wrong service. And we were becoming increasingly late for the other because of, well, sunflowers and all.

We quickly stood and walked out, and asked the men outside about Pastor Peter's service.

"Oh, he's at our other location." He gave us directions and we were off.

And very embarrassed. But not embarrassed enough for me to run back in the funeral home to ask for my sympathy card back.

Our dear co-worker was delighted to see us - "It's so nice of you to go to all the trouble..." Then we told here where we'd been. We all just howled. That's what I want to happen at my funeral. Giggling and howling. Remember, it will all start with this. And probably go downhill from there.

As a rather tragic (but we're all still laughing) footnote, my friend whose father died stopped at the sunflower field on her way home after a few days with her mother. She wanted pictures, too, as she had been driving past that field for weeks as she waited for her dad to go home to Jesus.

Walking across the ditch, she stepped in a hole. And broke her ankle.

Hence, the long time between blog posts. I've been working a lot!

Tea today: Republic of Tea White with Orange Blossom

Faith, Hope, and Beaded Bracelets

2009-07-29T06:33:00.010-05:00

It had promise of being an exhausting weekend, starting with a high-anxiety work week. I lumbered home on Friday evening even later than usual to prepare food for Saturday's family reunion.

Chop. Dice. Stir.

I come from a tomato and cucumber family, so artichokes, avocado, and palm hearts get picked out and shoved aside. Nothing says "It's great to see you again" like pasta salad with vegetables that nobody recognizes.

The reunion was pleasant albeit not well attended, with merely an occasional mumbled snide remark. My 94 year-old aunt had moments of lucidity, but not too many. After visiting with my mother (her sister) for several minutes, Mom walked away and Aunt B said "Who was that woman, anyway?"

And twice she asked Ron Burgundy how long he's worked at the TV station and twice he said "Over 35 years" to which she finally replied "How come they let you stay there that long?"

Out of the mouths of babes - and the elderly.

I attend these family gatherings to put a little "fun" in dysfunctional. I didn't do such a bang-up job this time. The planets just weren't lined up properly or something.

By Sunday I was spent. I was running on about 6 hours of sleep for the week, and had this creeping anxiety about the work week ahead. And my heart was aching a bit for various and sundry reasons that would be a whole other post that probably won't be written.

I went to church alone on Sunday morning. Rather than my usual pre-claimed seat, I sat way back in the balcony. I'd never gone up there before, and I knew with my current state of exhaustion and emotion, the tears would flow with the first song. I really just wanted to sit alone and let the snot run. It's one of my spiritual gifts.

A young family with three beautiful little girls came and sat next to me. I was fine with that. They were well-behaved and polite, and other than the fact the little one next to me had her Crocs on the wrong feet, they were quite Rockwellian. I love how little girls swing their legs incessantly when their feet don't hit the floor.

Pastor gave a short spiel on the mission trips some of the congregants had taken, and at the end, the ushers passed pails of baggies containing a hemp string and two beads. We were to put together a bracelet this week, with the green bead representing Kenya and the blue bead representing the Czech Republic. It was a simple prayer reminder for our brothers and sisters who are being disciples to other nations.

But to the little 7 or 8ish year old girl next to me, it was craft time.

"Would you like me to tie your bracelet for you?"

By this time we'd been through 3 songs and I'd soaked as many kleenex. But I didn't want to be rude.

"Sure," I said. "You'll be better at jewelry making than I am." I'll admit it. I faked being nice. I was too selfishly absorbed in my own thoughts & emotions to really feel like being nice.

"Well, we just can't do these things by ourselves, you know. I'll tie yours and you can tie mine on my wrist."

I felt my heart soften. She had the most gorgeous long sable hair, and eyelashes with which you could sweep the kitchen floor.

She showed such innocence, such confidence, and her sweet little fingers swiftly tied the beads and knotted the string. It was apparent she had done this before.

I then proceeded to tie hers. She carefully directed my every move in the kindest of ways as my clumsy gnarly fingers tied her bracelet together. I resisted the urge to pull it tight using my teeth like I would have in private.

"Now we should wear these all week you know," she instructed, "to remind us to pray for the mission people."

She was so proud. "What's your name?" she asked.

"Candy."

"That's awesome! I don't know anyone named Candy! I can't wait to tell Mom but she wants me to be quiet in church."

This little girl in the span of a half hour had given me such a lift, such a light to a dark week, that I couldn't help but feel her genuine delight over simply my name, which when you think about it, is pretty silly for a mature woman. I was feeling a bit more hopeful about the rest of my day and the week ahead.

As the service ended and we started to depart, she grabbed her little sister's hand and started walking out.

"You never told me your name," I said.

"It's Hope.....and this my little sister Faith."

Somehow, in the midst of worship music and bracelet tying, I knew that.

Tea today: Snow Water Green Cloud

Lean Not

2009-07-26T19:00:00.021-05:00

I clearly remember the day this was handed to me by chubby, sticky fingers on a Sunday morning about 24 years ago. Sunday School fingers were always sticky from rice krispie treats and glue. "Pick off the Elmerts, Mom. My fingers feel funny." This little one was always creeped out by his fingers feeling funny - he even got the heebie-jeebies when I trimmed his nails.

"I made this for you, Mom," he said as he proudly reached up and handed it to me.

I loved it instantly. Proverbs 3:5 has always been one of my favorite scriptures, and now it was etched in my heart forever, conjuring up memories of ice-blue eyes and perfectly parted and combed platinum hair.

The overlapping red hearts are now faded to a light rose color. For a few months this had its place on the fridge, but as the artwork got rotated and things were moved to storage bins, I couldn't put this one away just yet.

I moved it to a place I would see it often. Three small children allowed me to frequent the laundry room several times a day (some days I actually went there to do laundry and not just hide), so the appropriate place seemed to be next to the detergent shelf where the stray GI Joes and Barbie shoes were safe after being rescued from little pockets.

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart."

Throughout the pre-pubescent years, the unending laundering of athletic gear, and loads of "boat towels," this verse washed me clean with every visit to the Maytag.

By the time we built our home and moved 13 years ago, those fingers had morphed from chubby and sticky to adolescent gnawed nails that could palm a basketball. And testosterone-laced rebellion and pride had reared its ugly head. The verse had found a new home above the door of our bedroom closet, and I still read it every day as I get dressed and grab my shoes.

Every day.

I don't remember what the argument was about, but no doubt I had given a firm "No" to a request to do something that "everyone else was doing," And thinking in my head that I was not going to use the "if everyone else jumped off a cliff...." line like my own mother had used. But I probably did.

And he was furious. After storming through the house and taking down all the pictures I had displayed of him, he went into my closet and ripped the gift of Proverbs off the wall - and out of my heart.

I groveled. I begged. No matter what, I needed that verse. "Do with the pictures what you will, but I want that verse. I'm begging you."

He relented. I got the verse, though a quarter of it had been torn off in the ruckus. I remember sitting in the closet crying my eyes out, taping it together, and for a couple of days I hid it in my underwear drawer.

All precious things are safe among the granny panties, aren't they?

A few days later, it took up residence again in its proper spot in our closet, taped securely to the wall. It has been there ever since.

Last Thursday, I opened the closet to find the verse had fallen off the wall and landed stuck between the hangers of my pants. Not thinking too much about it, I stuck it back to the wall, noting that even in a closet, old construction paper continues to fade.

The words do not.

Friday, I opened the closet door and it fell down again. As I tried to catch it, it floated out the door onto the dresser, propelled by a vigorous ceiling fan. I took the Fun-Tak off the wall, re-molded it in my fingers, and firmly replaced it.

Yesterday, after a fitful, discontinuous 1 1/2 hours of Friday night sleep, I opened the closet door to grab a pair of socks, and the verse had dropped off the wall again. This time it landed on the top of my sock box.

Of course. God likes to get our attention that way.

Once again, I replaced it. Scotch tape this time.

This morning, I opened the closet to grab clothes for church. My first step was smack in the middle of the dry, cracked construction paper.

OK, Lord, I'm listening!!

He is painfully aware I haven't been listening enough. There are no accidents.

I replaced it this time with electrical tape firmly taped in circles on the back. I could care less what residue and gunk is left on the wall. Next time I may have to use duct tape.

Like that would make a difference when He wants to get His point across.

⁵ Trust in the LORD with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;

⁶ in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.

⁷ Do not be wise in your own eyes;
fear the LORD and shun evil.

⁸ This will bring health to your body
and nourishment to your bones.

Thursday Wanderlust

2009-07-23T22:25:00.002-05:00

Two things eluded me today - sleep and blog fodder. Up at 3:45 am. Huh?

I asked a couple of my Twitter/blog friends @katdish and @billycoffey (and if you don't follow them, you should because one is going to be famous and one is ... hey look, a chicken!).

Their ideas? Tea. And pictures.

So I left work early and captured a few....

This is what greets me in the morning. Choices, choices.

White cantaloupe is one of my favorites. Sweet without sugar. Yes Billy, I said without sugar.And I love all things pomegranate. Even my tea.

I'm not a tea snob, but I've loved green and white teas for years. It's chock-full of healthy antioxidants which you all know and love. Plus a little caffeine if you feel you need it. Or not.

I prefer the loose leaf variety. It's fresher, gives you a better flavor, and if a leaf escapes the tea basket you have something really special to pick out of your teeth and save for afternoon tea. Loose leaf tea has a woodsy flavor and aroma that can't be steeped from bagged tea. More than one person has looked suspiciously at my "stash." I swear to you, it's T-E-A.

And look at this awesome one! It's called Green Peony and the leaves are so long they tie them together like a flower and when you put in in the perfectly off-boiled water, it turns into a tea ball. This is particularly tasty and works well as iced tea because there's a LOT of tea in this bundle.I got this quaint tall mug I got for my birthday from someone who claims me as their mother - it's my favorite size and the woodsy pattern on it is fabulous! OK, so I used "woodsy" twice in the same post. Too much tree bark and woodland creature food for lunch I guess. If I'm feeling really special and ~~Ron Burgundy isn't here to give me a foot rub~~ need to pamper myself, I use this little pot/cup combo that my sister-in-law gave me. It's gorgeous porcelain, so please, Hands. Off. Only I am allowed to break it.Let's grab our tea and go outside and look at my new hummingbird feeder and garden stone that were also birthday gifts. No, Snickers, you can't come out. And Lucky's not coming back (insert sad face emoticon here)See the humming bird? Yeah, me neither. I think it flew behind either the yard waste bag or the kitty litter bucket that I seem to be focused on here.Can't wait until these are big enough to dredge and fry. I love me some fried green tomatoes. They've grown so slow this summer, and nearly got frostbitten a couple of weeks ago. Global warming has escaped Iowa.

The fish are in school this evening. And the water hyacinths are ready to explode into bloom.

Anybody know how to read tea leaves? I never got into that. I'll read this instead. Makes perfect sense to end the evening with cup of tea and a little Malachi.

Tea tonight: Genmaicha

Tragedy Averted

2009-07-19T21:45:00.003-05:00

It's been too long since I've posted, so knowing we were going to be spending the weekend at the river for my traditional birthday celebration, I figured I'd wait and show some of the traditional birthday festivities.

Mom loves to go all out. Remember when I wrote about the money "shirts" and the gifted cemetary plot at Easter? I knew I'd have another story to tell after the weekend. But never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be this. But let's start with a picture of the view from Mom's living room window, because the weekend started out beautifully serene.

The amazing grace of God entered a riverside park in Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin as we completed our church service this morning.

It was a beautiful, though unseasonably cool summer Wisconsin morning, and St. Peter Lutheran Church (the one Mom attends while she lives at her ~~trailer on the river~~ summer home in Wisconsin) was having its very first outdoor service. There were about 200 people gathered in the park and under and around the gazebo. The praise band was at one end of the gazebo, their backs to the river, so the congregation watched them and the pastor's message whilst the Mighty Mississippi lazily flowed and the lush trees on the Iowa side of the river served as a gorgeous backdrop.

My mom, Ron Burgundy, Abby (my new daughter-in-law) and I pondered where to sit. At first we were going off to the right side of the gazebo, then Mom spied some friends off to the left, so she wanted to sit behind them. We parked our lawn chairs and it was a perfect spot. Little did we know at that time how perfect it would be.

About 20 feet of space stood between the band and the wrought iron fence that served as a guard rail to the river, which was about a 50 foot drop below. The way the river is dredged and the retaining wall is built, there is no shoreline. The river is very deep, probably as deep as the main channel, which is about 9 feet - deep enough to allow for barge traffic.

After the band played their final song, pastor said "Go in Peace, Serve the Lord," Abby and I got ready to stand and immediately heard a horrible crashing sound. Within seconds, we saw a car quickly heading down the hill on our right toward a crowd of people, crashed into a picnic table next to the gazebo, splintering wood everywhere, swerved and drove behind the band, hit the iron fence leaving an open gap, then quickly turned toward the crowd again, as if going in an out-of-control circle.

And then, just a foot away from another picnic table it stopped. People were running and scattering everywhere. I called 911 on my cell phone, and when the operator answered I told her what had happened. She asked me where we were and I went blank, but I looked up and right in front of me was a sign on the gazebo "Lawler Park Shelter Reserved for St. Peter's Church..." I don't remember seeing that sign earlier, but it was obviously there in the picture.

Fortunately, only one person was hurt - an elderly gentleman who had wandered over to the park from the Fireman's breakfast to visit with friends. He was pretty shocky and was having a lot of pain in his legs and hip. RB sat and held his right leg and others sat there also trying to calm him while we waited for the ambulance. The lady driving the car was very shaken, but apparently not hurt. As expected, she felt horrible about the incident and couldn't explain what happened.

Had we put our chairs in the initial location we chose, we would have been directly in the path of the runaway car.

And had Floyd, one of Mom's friends, not spotted Ron Burgundy across the gazebo and was making his way over to greet him, he would have been in the exact spot where the side of the gazebo was smashed.

In no way do I consider this a brush with death. Merely another brush with life.

Oh, the plans God has for us.

When I think of all of the children who were there just seconds before the car went through, the youth group we prayed for as they head out on a mission trip, the elderly who couldn't move very quickly to get out of the way, and how that lady's car avoided going straight down that 50 foot rock wall into the river, it's nothing short of a miracle that only one man was injured.

I'll leave you with a few more light-hearted birthday memories that pale in comparison to the relief we all felt when the park incident was over.

Mom baked me a birthday pie instead of a cake. I don't eat cake much. Actually I don't eat pie either, but the special peach pie was mostly for Ron Burgundy.

Rather than the traditional "shirt," Grandma had way too much time on her hands and decided to tape my birthday bills together end-to-end. Abby and I tossed the roll back and forth across the room to see exactly how long a ribbon of 58 bills is. Very. Long.

Ben joined us this afternoon on his way back from a softball tournament. That little boy (I don't see him as a grown man with a bride just yet) sure loves the river! I still see him toddling down to the dock with Grandpa and his fishing pole. I think he does, too.

And then a final parting shot on the bluff before we hopped in the car and drove safely home.

Tea today: Tazo Zen

Solitude

2009-07-05T23:11:00.001-05:00

Is your head ever so full of thoughts and emotions and intentions that you become totally separated from the world around you? What do you do when your mind is spinning?

Sometimes family will say "What are you mad about?" or "What's wrong with you?" when I am lost in thought. I can't chat because my head is just too loud and I'm trying to quiet it.

I was like that today.

After an extremely emotional church service and beautiful worship music, I just felt like my head was going to explode. It was one of those messages you want all of your kids to hear (and anyone else in your life), just to share the common awe. What happens to me is that when I continue to reflect long after the message is over and the tasks at hand have begun, I become very quiet.

This is not the usual me. I'm known to just blurt out random things, but not this time. My head (and heart) were reeling and I felt the need to be with those thoughts. Not alone, just with God and what message he was so strongly sending me, about how he cares more about my character than my comfort (thanks, Rick Warren), and I wanted to soak all that in. It was one of those Sundays when you wonder if the pastor was peeking into your life and brain all week, and he knew what you needed to hear.

Ron Burgundy and KT went for a run this afternoon and I was shortly behind on my bike. I rode the 21+ miles up to the labyrinth and back, alone with my thoughts. Sort of - I listened to the last of the "Q" series again, like twice wasn't enough. I can see why someone hacked Pete Wilson's Twitter account. I'd like to hack his brain.

My ride was pretty quiet - said hello to lots of people, gave directions to the A&W to one couple, then ran into an old friend who demanded a stare-down with me. I won. She ran quickly into the woods as I tried to take her picture without the zoom. Didn't help that my hands were shaking. I don't think she knew I was more scared of her than she was of me. Truth be told, we're both pretty harmless. And then I found some of that "knee high by the Fourth of July" corn we grow here in Iowa and sort of dreamed about walking into it and disappearing like all of Shoeless Joe's friends did in Field of Dreams. For the record, I'm standing up in this picture. I did walk into the field, but came out the same person, in the flesh. And sweat. Imagine that.
It was all in all a good day, though I'm still feeling rather pensive. RB and I worked on some budget items tonight and he's crashed in bed after a long, hot 8 mile run. KT has gone back to her home away from home, and hopefully tomorrow we'll all wake up after a peaceful night's sleep and remember that it's a new day and God is the same as he was the day before and the day before that and the day before that....

He's got everything covered.

Tea today: green with pomegranate

Oceans and Mountains Iowa Style

2009-07-02T07:32:00.000-05:00

Ron Burgundy and I took a business-type trip with some clients last weekend aboard The American Lady for a dinner cruise down the Mississippi. A quick trip - one of us packs intentionally; the other packs randomly in an old leather satchel with a zipper that doesn't work. Any guesses who's who?

It wasn't exactly "down the Mississippi" as we know it - rather it was down a little then back up, in about the time it took 50 people to go through a buffet line of iceberg lettuce, canned corn, have a few barley pops, and enjoy the sunset.

Nothing like the day-long trips we used to take. With Twizzlers. And Chex Mix. With three sunscreened, life-jacketed kids.

Just the two of us, on the road toward the river.
And the obligatory stop at the Dyersville DQ.
We have spent weeks, maybe months, on the river over the years, if you add up all of the weekends of boating we did when the kids were little. We just haven't gone much in the past few years.

As they grew up, we heard "Can I bring a friend?"

Then a couple years later "Do I have to go?"

Then a couple years later "I'm not going to go."

Now it's "Dad, I'm taking the boat this weekend."

Left behind.

RB doesn't want to sell the boat because he's waiting for that time warp to take us back to when the kids were 8, 6, and 5 again. So for now, it pretty much sits as a driveway ornament, and ~~we'd~~ I'd certainly sell it if anyone made us an offer. Unfortunately, nobody thinks our good memories are worth as much as he does. This boat has never been my favorite one, even though it's a beautiful watercraft, and it barely has 100 hours on it.

Sleeps four. Head. Stove. Sink. Make us an offer.

It might be possible that I don't like it because he bought it a few years ago without telling me. And it's just too dang big for my liking.

"I gave the guy a low-ball offer and he took it. What was I supposed to do?"

Change your mind? Good thing I forgive easily.

He had to borrow a vehicle from the local dealership to go pick it up because we didn't have a big enough truck to tow it. And then next, understandably, we had to buy a truck to tow it.

So boatless but river-bound, we arrived at our hotel to be greeted with a gift bag. Is there anything as cool as a gift bag? And a great room in a historical hotel?
We boarded and cruised, I just kicked back, knowing I wasn't the one paying for the boat gas (though I would, just to catch a whiff of that smell...) and took in the beautiful Iowa/Illinois scenery. We often missed that as we were skiing, tubing, or eating Twizzlers. There are beautiful huge bluffs along the river. Iowa's mountains, if you will. And the sunset as the background to the IA/IL bridge. The lock and dam system that keeps the water at just the right depth for the barges to do their hauling is simply an amazing engineering phenomenon. And the beautiful width of what appears to be a calm water, with the raging current underneath. You can never have too much respect for the current in the Mighty Mississippi. It will send you down to the next dam faster than you can say Mark Twain if you're not paying attention. We went back Sunday afternoon and just gazed over the river, walking along the rocky shore. Ron Burgundy became pensive. Or prayerful. Or both. And then we drove home. Well, he drove. I slept.

He drives well with his knees, don't you think? I always need a foot rub.

Tea today: Tazo Zen

Final Goodbye

2009-06-30T00:01:00.000-05:00

Coach Thomas praying with his team before the West Marshall game 2008 - the first game after an EF-5 tornado destroyed much of Parkersburg a year ago, including the high school and Coach's home.

Today our community said goodbye to Coach Thomas. Not just our community - friends, former students, and former athletes from all over the country. College coaches. Local farmers. A US Senator and our Governor. The tiny town of Parkersburg, Iowa was transformed into a grieving sea of people from all walks of life.

Ron Burgundy, Rick Coleman, and I stood in line for 3 1/2 hours last night to pay our respects to the family. The visitation was supposed to be from 3:30 to 8. We went at 7:00 and the line snaked through the tiny town of P'burg. Around 8:15 a friend of the family wandered to the end of the line and said "The family will stay until you have all been through. They want to speak to each of you." We got home at 11:45 pm.

The Thomas family literally held up every one of those mourners as they went through the line. Only God could give them that strength.

We're talking thousands of people here, folks. People from every walk of life. People from every demographic. People of every race, creed, and color. Those are the people Ed touched. Most of them were not football players.

While we waited in line, we saw old friends and shared funny stories. It was impressive to see the players who played for Coach and are now in the NFL come back to honor him as pall bearers. The chatter became more somber as we neared the church, and the sight as we entered was breathtaking. Flowers, plants, photographs, and memorabilia everywhere. Coach's life flashing in front of our eyes.

As we stood by the casket, the largest of two strong, burly, kick-boxing men I was with was reduced to tears. Sobbing, shoulder-shaking tears. I always carry Kleenex, and Rick didn't have his man-bag.

Ed's wife hugged my two companions who had been a part of Ed's life like she would never let them go. Like she couldn't let them go. Their lives had been intertwined for many years. The church is quite small, and only family and close friends were given invitations to sit in the church for the funeral. The family asked Ron and Rick to be among them. The overflow would be in the community center and available via video feed.

Not wanting to take seats away from family, these two humble men hemmed and hawed, but the family insisted.

As we walked the 6 blocks back to the car, Ronnie said to me "I don't think I've ever been so honored by anything in my life." That's saying a lot. After all, this guy has a key to the city and had a street named after him, among other things. All of those things paled in comparison.

Because this honor was all about relationships. And love. And God.

And a relationship with a loving God.

They had that in common more than anything.

At the service today, Ed's eldest son said "You can be sad the rest of the day, but come tomorrow, once you wake up, it’s time to get going ... There’s a lot of work to be done in this town.” That's what his dad would have wanted him to say.

You can read more stores and memories about Coach here.

I still don't understand, but after listening to Pete Wilson's final "Q" series tonight, I was l left refreshed by a couple of Pete's comments:

"There are simply some questions that don't have answers."

"Sometimes I think that the most powerful learning that we have in our lives doesn't come from the answers; it comes from the pursuit of the question."

"It's possible I may not get answers to some of my questions this side of heaven."

Ron put together his final tribute to Coach Thomas tonight. You owe it to yourself to watch.

Now let's get going. Coach would want us to.

Tea tonight: green with acai

I Just Don't Understand

2009-06-24T19:30:00.002-05:00

This little blog post will go buried in the searches on ESPN.com, CNN.com, and FoxNews.com, but I'm feeling a need to let my own heart grieve through my keyboard.

A year ago I posted here and here about a small town just a few miles from us that suffered devastating loss of life and possessions from an F-5 tornado. There were so many hurting people, and the Cedar Valley rallied around them in support.

In the midst of the rebuilding, the local football coach showed his exquisite leadership as he led his team in the reconstruction, vowing to have the football field ready for the first home game, despite the fact his own home and the school had been leveled. Football has been the cornerstone of this small Iowa town, and what better way to acknowledge recovery than to have their champion team back on the field, fondly known as the "Sacred Acre," with the entire town in the stands on that September Friday night celebrating their survival of a natural disaster.

Today, Coach Ed Thomas was shot and killed by one of his former players.

This man was a legendary football coach, the 2005 NFL High School Coach of the Year, he shepherded 4 players who currently play the NFL, and was above all, a man of God. A deacon in his church and a mentor to thousands over his 34 years of coaching and teaching in Parkersburg, his goal was to make sure his students and athletes were the best young men and women they could be.

It was well known that his priorities were
1. Faith
2. Family
3. Football

He never put those in any other order.

I knew Coach Thomas as "the formidable opposition" when my boys played football. When I took the leap to be a high school tennis coach, he was an encouraging and inspiring teacher in my coaching certification class. Coaching and mentoring young people was his passion. But he was an inspiration to this non-traditional student as well.

Tonight my heart aches in so many directions. Like my daughter told me tonight, God knew this was the plan long before it happened. I know I will find more comfort in those words as time passes.

The father of the young man who shot Coach T serves as a deacon in the same church as Coach and is a friend of the family. He played on Coach's first football team in Parkersburg in 1975. The accused's younger brother is a senior on the A-P football team this fall. Coach and the shooter's father often prayed together for the life of turmoil this young man was leading. The collateral damage of this troubled young man's actions is unmeasurable - the ripples go far beyond this small Iowa town of 3,000 and extend across our nation because of the number of lives he has touched over the years.

In a news conference today, Coach Thomas' son Aaron so eloquently asked for prayer for his family, as well as a request to keep the shooter's family in our prayers. And Ron Burgundy put his whole heart into this tribute to Coach Thomas.

I just don't understand. But I have faith that someday I will. Tonight I will wrestle with either Jerry Bridges or Harold Kushner as I try to put some perspective on this.

But for now, I just don't understand. And I think God's OK with that, because it literally brings me to my knees - again.

Waiter, There's a Fly Man in My Soup Room

2009-06-23T21:59:00.000-05:00

I don't surprise easily - I'm always so keenly aware of my surroundings and all. Or at least I thought I was until the fall of '99.

Since the early 90's I've been an active member of a national professional organization - not because I had so much to offer, but because I had so much to learn. I talked about it in my Keepsake Moment post here. Every year I've gone to the annual meeting, and this particular year I was asked to speak, which coincided with the same year I was selected as a Fellow in the organization.

So one day I wake up and someone thinks I'm kind of a big deal. Huh?? I was so humbled, because other Fellows before me were the very same ones whose brains I had picked for years. I'm certain this was a product of 1) the element of time (I've been in this field a long time) and 2) inquiring minds (mine) want to know - and ask until they get answers.

Ron Burgundy wanted to come along for the trip and to see the presentation (a piece of paper), but I said no. It would be too expensive for him to fly out there, and frankly, I enjoyed the time with old friends and a few days away from him. (You all know that's normal - don't judge me!) Four days of lectures, meetings, and breakouts, juggling PowerPoints, flash drives, laptops, and taking notes. So why in the world would he want to go there? Just to see me get a certificate with a dozen other people? I had effectively discouraged him. Whew.

The new Fellows are honored at the banquet, which is the highlight of the week with 1500 in attendance. Really important and famous physicians, nurses, exercise physiologists, and researchers (in this professional circle) had other more prestigious awards bestowed upon them and my friends and I always sit toward the front so we can rub elbows with them. It's a nice formal dinner, with tuxed waiters and the whole nine yards. And it's a time when we Iowa folk need to be on our best city behavior for a change. But now and then we still throw food.

The waiter assigned to my side of the table was a disaster - and he really creeped me out. From the time I sat down, he would brush up against my back, tousle my hair, and even get real close behind me so I could feel his breath on my neck. He would touch my shoulder, sprinkle water from the pitcher on my back, and in general be way too touchy-feely. Ugh. I mentioned it to the friends on either side of me, and at one point after he breathed on my neck I made the comment to my friend Janie that I was "afraid this creep is going to be in my hotel room tonight." Early on, I made it a point to not make any eye contact with him. I certainly didn't want to egg him on. He was always behind me, which made me squirm even more.

About 30 minutes into the dinner, the creepy dude not only slopped water on me again, but proceeded to trip and fall on his face behind me as he stumbled into me and my chair. Glancing at the legs and torso, sprawled on his belly, I just wanted to crawl in a hole. This guy was sick. I was feeling stalked and starting to get a little paranoid. I couldn't wait to call Ron Burgundy when I got back to my room and tell him of the experience.

The head waiter then approached me and said that my waiter was new, and if he was offending me or causing me any trouble he would ask him to leave and assign me a different one. Then I felt terrible. Here this guy's probably working for minimum wage and just got the job - how could I possibly have him kicked to the curb? I told him not to worry about it - it would be fine, and I would just continue to ignore his aggressive, inappropriate behavior. I could be civil about it without making a scene.

My entree arrives. There was some massive plate shuffling and I waited patiently as my waiter placed my plate in front of me, but the plate just sort of hovers in my face. I glanced up at him and....

AND LEAPED OUT OF MY CHAIR.

SCREAMED: "YOU IDIOT!!"

Yep, there he was, Ron Burgundy, in the flesh.

My waiter.

My shock and awe could not be contained, as captured in the video below. He was obviously having the time of his life, constantly hamming it up for the camera like it was his job. Well, I guess in reality, it is his job.

This was a one hour video, condensed down to a couple of minutes so you can't see me pick the food out of my teeth, or snort uncontrollably at the jokes coming from across the table. Note the hysterical restrained laughter of my friends, who were all in on the prank, as were the other waiters. RB even went to a pre-dinner waiter meeting, got fitted for his waiter tux, and conspired with the head dude. Then he planted his video camera behind a fake fig tree and had it on autopilot whole time.

Note how gracefully surprised I am, and how inconspicuous I was in the room when I realized what was happening.

I was right, that "creepy waiter" ended up in my hotel room that night, then promptly flew back to Iowa the next morning. The lengths that silly boy won't go to in order to pull off a surprise.

To this day, when I attend the annual meeting, the first thing people say to me isn't "How is the ~~sucking up~~ lobbying going?" or "What's your committee up to?" People just point to me and say "You're the one whose husband dressed up as the waiter in Phoenix..."

Yes, I'm famous in that circle - famous for making a fool of myself in front 1500 of my esteemed colleagues.

But wasn't that the sweetest thing in the world? It is one of his proudest moments!

Tea today: Genmaicha

Praying on Wheels

2009-06-22T21:48:00.000-05:00

It was one of those days - I felt like I was the complaint department, a procrastinator, and a whipping post, all rolled into one. I started out the day with a delightful to-do list, and by 5:00, a half-hour after alleged quitting time, I multitasked quickly, eating my leftover yogurt, berries, and granola leftover from lunch at my desk. And stared blankly at the list with not one thing crossed off.

I apparently got paid to work a day for which I had nothing to show except a few satisfied people. So in reality, I worked with all my heart. It had to be good enough, because I could work no longer.

I needed a bike ride - badly. Quiet time, away from my phone, my computer, and out in the beautiful sun that kept peeking through the window of the exercise lab while all the patients moaned "how dad-gum hot it is out there."

Grabbing my stuff, I hopped in my car. This was going to be one cool ride. Surely a bike ride would be better than the first 10 minutes in a car that was probably 120 degrees, because this is what my thermometer said it was like outside. It was only a few months ago that same thermometer read -21 degrees! For certain, I had not had enough water yet today.

I hit the bike trail and listened to Louie Giglio, then Fee, then a little Andy Stanley. And I rode up to my favorite place, the labyrinth. I love walking through there and praying, and recalled how many times I've done that in the past few years, and trying to recall what was weighing on my heart at the time. Whatever it was, it had passed.

~~It was usually one of the kids.~~ It's always at least one of the kids. Because you never stop worrying about them and you pray for them incessantly.

Other than the rocks in my bike sandals, it's such a peaceful place to be. One foot in front of the other.

Time escaped me, as it often does when I'm lost in prayer, song, and scripture lessons. I headed back a little later than I had intended. The darkness doesn't scare me, but an empty water bottle and feeling like I had a blood sugar of about 30 does. My yogurt wasn't sticking to my ribs much at this point. And yes, it was very, very HOT.

I pulled into our neighborhood weak, tired, dehydrated, but feeling much more peaceful than when I left home. Sometimes I pray very hard for people in my life to see things the way I think that God wants them to see. Or maybe for them to just view circumstances with another set of eyes. To have faith in God's vision for their lives rather than their own vision. To let go of the plans they have and to submit to His plan. And in the process to stop and thank Him for a sunset that you might have missed if you hadn't been paying attention.

How many sunsets have you missed without paying attention to them? He painted them just for you, you know.

Tea tonight: are you kidding me?? Water, water, banana, shower, and bed! No tea for me!

Happy Father's Day, Chuckie

2009-06-21T07:11:00.005-05:00

Copping out with an old Father's Day post. Because nothing has changed between you and me since then. Except I'm drinking cheap tea today.

I miss you, Dad!

**UPDATE**
Forgot to tell you about my Father's Day present - Ron Burgundy bought me a new camera - a Canon something-or-other. Need to read the instructions yet. I just love it! Perhaps my slamming the old one against the wall too many times gave him the hint. Hopefully you'll notice fewer blurry photos and a bit more color. Woo Hoo! I told him he could use it as his Father's Day present, too.

Tea today: Green with lemongrass and spearmint

Beautiful Saturday

2009-06-20T10:38:00.001-05:00

I thought this weekend would never get here and finally the sun's out after an entire week of rain! Lots of lists to get to, but started out the day picking the lettuce that has been going crazy in my salad garden because of the cool temps and all the rain. It will take me all day to soak and clean this, and there's at least that much left out there to pick!

After pulling a few weeds and arranging a few pond plants, I made a late breakfast. Just wasn't into toast and fruit today, but thanks to Katdish and her Twitterhea, I decided to make some oatmeal with goji berries, almonds, coconut and a drizzle of honey. It will stick to my ribs for a very long time. Oatmeal fills me up for half a day.

Now it's back out to the yard, errands to run, but had to leave you with a parting shot of my fishies who are apparently in school today at the bottom of the pond. The water is crystal clear after Ron Burgundy cleaned it all out yesterday. There was no way to stop that beautiful reflection of the Hawthorne tree! And my creeping "whatevers" look better than ever this year,as does "Stella."

Isn't God just the greatest artist ever?

I spent some time with the neighbor boys who thought I needed ONE MORE FROG that he found down by the creek. Didn't have the heart to tell him he probably came from our pond to begin with. Then we had a little lesson on Lucky's grave, why and when puppies die and that it's all a part of the plan.

And then I wanted to have a little frog-catching, puppy-loving boy living at my house again. And a frog-loathing girl.... {sigh}

Tomorrow I will post about the best Father's Day present I ever got. Bet you can't guess what it is!

Tea today: Young hyson with some of the chocolate mint that is taking over the pond!

Moving On: The last Lucky post (perhaps)

2009-06-14T21:14:00.014-05:00

My friends, (including the bloggy "imaginary" ones), coworkers, family and extended family have been totally awesome as I have spent a fitful, sleep-deprived, starving week of missing my precious Lucky. This will be my last post about him, as I am determined to live with the wonderful memories and not dwell in misery.

Move on.

I never thought I would miss him so much, particularly since his last few days he was struggling so. But with Ron Burgundy always working evenings, it has been Lucky and me, just the two of us, all the time for nearly 15 years. In his able years, evenings were our walk time, snuggle in bed time, discipline time, ~~bite realtors in the crotch~~ bark at the doorbell time. Remember, he was terrified of people who wore sunglasses.

These last few months it was simply nurse and patient. Loving, palliative care given by former. Looks and gestures of sincere appreciation by latter.

It was a bond that was all too familiar, as so many of these interactions conjured up thoughts of my dad as he lived out his final years in the throes of Alzheimers. I think my dad always knew more than he was able to communicate. I could see it in his eyes.

There were some real God moments that got me through this week.

Lucky put his head back and looked me straight in the eye as his pupils dilated, his heart thumped its last beat, and he crossed to the Rainbow Bridge. That puddle of pee was probably his final hurrah for me, too. But in that moment, his cataract-covered eyes became that deep chocolate brown again and appeared instantly healed. I didn't think much of it at the time. It was probably just a physical change that was occurring as life left his frail body. I was too selfishly distraught at that time to cry out to God and thank him for eternal healing of those beautiful expressive eyes.

We bundled Lucky up like a baby in one of the boys' old bedspreads to bring him home to his resting place. The vets and their staff, all teary and compassionate, ushered us out the back door to the truck. When we got in, Ron Burgundy's lip trembled a bit as he recollected what a loyal friend Lucky had been. I slowly uncovered Lucky's precious face and held him like a baby. "The tumor on his nose seems like it's hardly there," I offered. I'm not sure RB was paying attention. I stroked Lucky's ears and nose all the way home, and we proceeded to dig his final place of rest.

RB went back to the garage to get a different shovel, and sitting beside the lifeless bundle, I lifted the bedspread back one more time. His face was so perfect. I stroked his ears. His open brown eyes did not freak me out in the least. They were clear and beautiful.

And then I stroked his nose. His perfect nose.

I swear, as God is my witness, there was no tumor there.

I didn't say anything to RB and we proceeded with the burial, but the vision of that perfect nose will forever stay with me. A few hours later when talking to my son's girlfriend, I told her. Good ole Rachel, she got to be the first one to bear the brunt of my post-mortem meltdown crazies. I hesitantly told her about the tumor being gone.

"He's healed now," she said. And she didn't think I was crazy at all.

Yesterday, a letter arrived from my mom who is up at her ~~trailer on the~~ ~~river~~ summer home in Wisconsin. She had run across a disposable camera with expired film that she decided to get developed last week. She included three pictures that were on that film.

We have no idea when they were taken, at least a year ago, but what a bittersweet thing to receive them. Just another God thing - she never really wanted to waste film on the dog.

Wasn't he beautiful? Look how his ears are perked up! That was his healthy self.

Almost as healthy as he is now as he is perfectly healed.

No. More. Tears.

Tea tonight: Genmaicha

Love from LuckyPuppy at the Bridge

2009-06-08T10:00:00.024-05:00

Dear Mom and Dad,

I'm at the Rainbow Bridge now. It's so beautiful here - I know you are very sad and your tears feel like the soft, gentle rain that fell while you were burying me this morning, swaddled snugly in the boys' old bedspread. Please know I'm running and playing like a puppy again. I have no pain. I don't limp or fall and the rabbits actually let me catch them up here! But I just play with them, because up here, they are special, too. All of God's creatures are free to run and play without fear. And I am no longer afraid of people with sunglasses.

My nearly 15 years of being a part of our family were the best any puppy could have had. I remember well the day Mom and KT came to pick me up after my birth mom was killed by a car and I had to fight my brothers and sisters for food in that barn. Yes, I was the runt, but KT knew right away I was meant for our family. She and the boys loved me so much; they never turned away my kisses. I always hated it when you sniffed my feet though. I never understood why you thought my feet smelled like Fritos.

Dad, the time we spent together was precious. Like sleeping very late, especially on cold winter mornings. And playing in the yard while you worked so hard to get the pond in tip-top shape for Mom. It's fitting that I should be physically buried in a place we all love so much. I loved laying under the crab apple tree and just feeling the cool grass on my tummy. (And while you were digging today, I heard you say you felt like Tony Soprano. Stop it, Dad, - not even close)!

I'm really sorry for the "stink bomb" I left on your new suit that day you took me along when you interviewed President Rawlings, just because I was a new puppy and you simply didn't want to leave me alone. And for all the "pupkiss" I left on the windows of your truck (except I agree with Mom - you never really noticed it). I just wasn't a very good traveler, but I sure loved being with you! I loved boat rides! And that present I left in your truck on our way up to Dr. Taylor's today? That was one last special gift to you!

Mom, you were the one who always walked and walked me. Wasn't that fun? I never got tired! Oh, the places we'd go! And when I got a little lame, you so gently carried me home, even though at almost 60 pounds, I know I was a bit heavy for you. But you just kept saying "You're not heavy, I'm your mother!" Remember when I ate the entire WonderRoast chicken you bought for Dad, bones and all? And how about when I ate all of Ben's graduation mints while you guys were at church - and threw them up all over the carpet just before the party? And yet I always felt forgiven, loved, and pampered. Especially these last few months when you made me chicken and vegetable stew since I couldn't eat my dog food. Not too many puppies have a personal chef. Those sweet potatoes were my favorite!

Yes, you are the best family any puppy could ask for.

You will hear my tags jingle, even now that I'm gone. You are not imagining it. I'm shaking them for you, just to tell you I love you, and to keep your chin up. I know you miss me terribly, and I miss you, too, but really, I am at peace and romping just like I did in this beautiful video Dad made in my honor.

Thank you for all of the gentle, loving care. A puppy was never loved as much as I was.

My paws are together in prayer; we will meet again.

LuckyPuppy

Tea today: Green with lemongrass

The Hummus Among Us

2009-06-06T13:18:00.002-05:00

I've had precious little time to cook this week, and seemingly even less time to eat. Lunch meetings, on the road, tons of little things to do that challenge my ability to pay attention to anything for a prolonged period of time. Which means, I don't think we sat down for a meal once this week. Lots of salads, nuts, beans - all the stuff the most carnivorous husbands don't like much.

Especially mine. Don't get me wrong, he'll eat anything. It's just that he likes himself a little meat and potatoes now and again. Last night I thawed and sliced a frozen grilled chicken breast and threw it on his salad. "There's your meat for the week, honey."

Today he's at a meeting, I've been pin-balling amongst my to-do list items of Craigslist and eBay item listings, correspondence that is long overdue, and cleaning out the pantry and freezer, trying hard to ignore the banter and hype and lust of the Palm Pre that bombarded me from the moment I woke up today from my bloggy and Twitter friends.

Because I really, really want one.

But I really don't need one.

I do need to eat, however, so the good Lord provided a distraction when I found an overstock of garbanzos that literally cried out "Pulse me, blend me, any way you want me..." I've been eating hummus all week since it's a quick and dirty way to eat, so why not continue? No dishes, no prep (well, once, quickly), easy to eat in the car.

Wednesday it was spinach artichoke. I think it's my very favorite. I munched on it the rest of the week.

And after today, I may need a new food processor. (But I still want a Pre).

By noon I had made a yummy chipotle hummus, a fresh lemon hummus, and a roasted pepper/sundried tomato/pine nut hummus masterpiece. I cleaned out the freezer of my frozen pitas and made a boatload of whole wheat and oat bran pita chips. There are neatly labeled containers filling the fridge with four kinds of hummus, two drawers of fresh veggies, and not one smidgen of meat.

When Ron Burgundy returns tonight, he will open the delightfully full fridge and say "Don't we have anything to eat?"

And on the Eighth Day, God created ~~the Pre~~ hummus.
Tea today: Genmaicha
(Photo: Photobucket, but a Pre would have taken a nice one)

My Keepsake Moment

2009-06-04T12:10:00.008-05:00

Alix at Casa Hice gave me this precious award last week. Be sure to swing by her blog and check out some of the others on whom she bestowed this “Keepsake Moment” honor! If you haven't visited her lately you might not recognize her - she is a mere shadow of her former self and deserves a pat on her skinny little butt. Nicely, of course.

Now that I have allegedly bagged this award, ~~I must~~ I'm supposed to follow these rules:

Post a funny or sweet keepsake that tells something about myself.
Pass the award on to 10 other bloggers that I think are keepers.

I'm all about rules. Or not. I have so many blogs in my reader that many days that go unread. There. I said it. Sorry, friends - just being honest.

My charge is to write about someone or something that will forever be kept in my memory. It wasn’t hard to come up with one that totally blew me away.

Actually I came up with several ideas, but now I have some blog fodder. And boy, do I need prompts. Instead of being a Proverbs 31-type wife and writing about Ron Burgundy like I did here, or being supermom and writing something sweet about my children like I did here and here and here, or being the doting daughter and writing about my mom or dad like I did here and here, today, it's all about me.

Sort of.

It took a very long time for me to figure out what I do at my job. I mean, I know what to do, but as soon as I get good at it, things change. Since I’m in health care, the only thing that remains constant is change. Things like blood and vomit and pee are pretty constant, and fortunately, I only spent a few years dealing with that. Or rather, getting paid to deal with that.

And heck, you don’t even need to know how to make a “hospital corner” on a bed anymore. Nursing students today have no idea how bloody those fingertips can get if that quarter just doesn’t bounce high enough off that bed.

Because now they have fitted sheets. Whaaat??? (Here's where I start showing my age).

My current job landed in my life about 20 years ago by default. That’s politically correct terminology for “We’ve eliminated your position and you can take this other one or leave it, thankyouverymuch.” They didn’t want to pay that “high nurses salary” (ahem) to run a health promotion and wellness program and keep people from actually getting sick. So they put me in charge of the cardiac rehabilitation program. They apparently thought I was trainable. Or a sucker. A trainable sucker.

I leaped from teaching healthy people how to prevent heart disease by eating nuts and twigs and exercising to a 33 1/3 rpm vinyl album featuring Jane Fonda in bad legwarmers with a matching sweatband, to teaching people how to take 18 different over-priced medicines, pry themselves from the Lazy-Boy, while living with the #1 killer in the United States that was going to blindside them on a Monday morning and kill them anyway.

It felt like I was being pushed off a ledge. Or choosing to leap before I was pushed.

Did I mention I was a wife, mom of 3 elementary school kids, working part-time, and going to grad school? Details. I was kind of busy. And stressed. And feeling very inadequate.

This was a paradigm shift, to be certain. The scary part was that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. (Here’s where you pause, Reader, and say “Praise the Lord I wasn’t her patient back then…”)

I did what any good nurse does – I panicked (but on the inside only - iced saline in those veins). Then I proceeded to the local University library to research every article I could find about the clinical practice, but not reading the articles. Back then a young Al Gore was just getting started with the internet in his garage and “google” was something you did on the beach at some ridiculously immodest person in a badly crocheted bikini.

I gathered piles of research articles. I immediately went to the back of each article and perused the researchers/authors names in the reference lists. After several articles, I had compiled a list of people who were obviously in-the-know.

The Big Kahunas.

The Really Important People in the Specialty Who Were All That.

The “Published.”

And I called them. Yep. On the phone. Long distance. Land line. Five cents a minute. Zach Morris’ cell phone wasn’t even in beta then.

The first two calls got me through to assistants of assistants and I was unable to talk to the actual person, who was either a physician or an exercise physiologist. Twice I got “I’ll have him call you back.” Uh huh. Then I called the office of Dr. Pollock, one of the foremost pioneers in the field. His name was on nearly every article I'd collected. The phone rang twice, and then this lilting friendly male voice said “Hi, this is Mike.”

Wrong number? I stumbled and stuttered. I had expected “Department of Cardiology, may I help you?”

“My name is…uh.. and…uh… I… would…uh...like to talk to Dr. Pollock for a few minutes about some basic clinical cardiac rehab questions. Would you be so kind to help me arrange a brief phone conference?”

“This is Mike Pollock, Candy. What can I help you with?”

COLOR. ME. TOTALLY. UNPREPARED.

“Oh my gosh, Dr. Pollock, I didn’t expect you to answer the phone! (Talk speed, 0-60 in 3 seconds)…. You see, I have this new job in cardiac rehab and I have no idea what I’m doing but I am a nurse and I think a pretty good one and I have always loved exercise and I’m taking exercise physiology in grad school and I see you've done lots of research and written a dozen books and now I’m told I have this job in cardiac rehab and I have absolutely no clue where to start and what to do with all TWO of these patients but we’re hoping there will be more someday but….”

“Whoa, Candy. Slow down! Let’s start from the beginning!”

I always wondered what he really thought. After all, I wasn't the ditzy college co-ed I was acting like. I was a mature non-traditional student with a family, having a panic attack. On the phone. With a renown researcher and professor.

He was so calm and patient. He recommended several “How To” resources and told me where to get them cheap. He gave me a list of the things I needed to know about now and things I need to research eventually, like diagnosis codes and reimbursement and Medicare regulations and involvement in professional organizations that support my impending career and on and on... It was a clean, neat list of where my professional life would be headed for the next 20 years.

I just didn’t know it at the time.

I was writing fast and furiously, my questions became more sensible and hopefully I sounded less panicky as the conversation went on. Wow, I had a good start. A plan. Some goals. And a mentor. Several mentors, actually. He dropped some names for me and said to “tell them I gave you their name.”

As our conversation was coming to a close, he asked “Would it be helpful if I came to Iowa to speak with the physicians in your hospital to help you support this?” Long story short, he came to Iowa from Florida in the middle of winter. And he charged for his expenses only.

As he hung up he said “Call me anytime - you’re going to love this job!”

I had my doubts. I felt like an old dog and this trick was horribly new.

Over the years, I studied, practiced on my patients (did I really say that?), graduated (again), took additional certification exams and clawed my way up the cardiac rehab food chain. There really is no top, no end to the learning process, never an end to the advancements in the treatment for heart disease. I know so much less than most of my colleagues, but the important thing is that I now know them, have fostered some incredible personal and professional relationships, and I know they are merely a phone call away. Some of them are pretty darned snarky (as in blog-like snark), have no idea I dabble in blogging, and have threatened to publish my emails. I really should be more careful.

All because a brilliant, famous, but mostly humble and gentle man with a big heart said “What can I help you with?”

And he never forgot my name.

It was a "Keepsake Moment" to learn that you should never be afraid to ask questions that you think may make you look ignorant or foolish. There just might be a brilliant scientist on the other end of the phone who would love to answer and even come to visit you in Iowa in the middle of winter.

Mike died unexpectedly about four years after I met him as he was preparing to give one of his infamous lectures. Rest in Peace, Mike. You were the best.

And you were right, I love my job.

This post will be continued one day with “Iowa Girl Goes to Arizona and Turns into a Fellow.” It will be a fun one, but Ron Burgundy has some serious video editing to do in order to appreciate it fully.

Who am I passing this on to? Rules, I hate rules! I have a terrible sense of obligating people! Look at my followers list and if you're there, I like you, too! As well as a heckuva lot more of you that I follow.

If you've stopped by on a whim and would like to share a "Keepsake Moment" kindly lift this award for your blog and don't forget to leave a comment! I'll stop and visit!

Tea tonight: Young hyson

Our Waterfront, er, back Property

2009-06-01T22:25:00.004-05:00

After many years of family boating and spending day after day on the water, it was always in the back of our mind that someday we wanted some waterfront property. When we built our home back in 1996, it came to pass. Sort of.

All I really wanted was the sound of running water outside our bedroom bay window on a cool evening, relaxing me to slumber. Little did I realize how much that sound conjures up the urge to get up every hour and pee.

With the house, I no longer had the passion for another place to keep up. What about a small pond with maybe a fountain and a couple of fish? Puh-leeez???

We had our landscaper plot out the pond and estimate the cost. Ouch. $4K for the sound of running water in my sleep was a bit too steep. So we borrowed the blueprints and said we'd think about it.

Ron Burgundy doesn't do anything small. Or easy. Or quickly. Bless his heart. The gradual hill that lingered in our back yard provided a vision that was not to be squelched. "How about we just build it into the hill a little? And have a little waterfall?"

"It's just a hole in the ground. I can dig it." Always the optimist, that boy. But dig it, he did.

The curious neighbors would come over and say "You're digging that with a shovel? Most people use a backhoe! Or at least a bigger shovel!" He'd smile and sweat and say "Almost done" while mumbling "It really needs to be deeper."

And deeper it got. When one waterfall didn't seem like it captured the corner of the yard quite right, he decided on two. He went around the neighborhood collecting huge rocks from lots that were being dug for construction. And he made a trip to Stone City for limestone, loading and hauling 2 ton of rock in a 1 ton truck, pulling a trailer.

All. By. Himself.

Our pond as an infant.

And at its midsummer best.

We added lots of plants, including carpet roses that have looked worse each year, I had one little corner for an herb garden (which has moved to patio pots except for the chives and spearmint I can't kill) and we bought two Koi and a baby fantail goldfish. Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. Fish have to have names, and these fish had personalities. You knew who was whom.

It took about 3 weeks for the disciples to follow, and after that, well, you know The Story. Literally thousands of followers. Including frogs.

Mary, and Joseph made it about 6 years - pretty remarkable considering our -20 degree Iowa winters (the temp below the frost line is a constant 50 degrees - so glad RB kept digging)! Jesus lived on, and after that we went with just fantailed goldfish - they were 19 cents a piece as compared to $30 each for the Koi. Only a few bit the dust by getting sucked up in the pump. But Jesus' legacy of thousands of fishes prevails. Haven't seen any loaves, yet.

Last year RB did a major overhaul when the liner tore and we lost most of our water, but amazingly, very few fish perished. So we he started over. He put in a bottom drain, new liner, new pumps, and restructured all the stone, including adding stone edging. It's a teenager now (like the bags of mulch?), full of fish (take some, please), thousands of tadpoles, and more chocolate mint than you can shake a weed-whacker at. Whew, that smells so good, especially when grows in the rocks by the falls. You can smell it all over the yard. You can come take all you want of that, too. But like a growing child, this project needs some serious discipline.

My obligatory Lantanas, the unknown plant in Luke's old football shoe for old times sake, and a new variegated sweet potato vine are about all we added. Other than a truckload of mulch. It will take a few weeks for the switchgrass to grow up, but my favorite part is the thornless hawthorne tree at the top. It has a unique clumped trunk and a perfect shape for shade.

This all puts my salad garden to shame - a simple two-foot strip behind the garage with mesclun, banana peppers, jalapenos, 2 heirloom tomatoes and one Better Boy.They usually don't make it to a state of ripeness because of my insatiable passion for fried green tomatoes. But we will have salad all summer for a 59 cent pack of seed. It's all we need.

Well, other than my herb pots! Can't live a summer without fresh Italian parsley (half of which I've already used so it better grow fast), cilantro (my favorite herb-crack), rosemary, oregano, thyme, chives, and of course basil to help flavor my favorites - wheat berry salad and barley-mushroom salad on grilled asparagus.

Tonight, I'm blessed with the lingering presence of LuckyPuppy, who is probably spending his last summer laying under the crabapple tree. With sweet potato still on his nose from lunch.

He's a little embarrassed to have his picture taken, being he's in such a morbid state. But despite the tumor on his schnoz, lack of meat on his bones, spring in his step, and sparkle in his eye, he knows he's loved. And he knows that once again tonight Mom chopped and peeled and stewed his vegetables for his wonderful homemade chicken soup. He even closes his eyes when you ask him to look at you, because then he thinks you can't see him.

And no doubt he's muttering "Why did I have to wait nearly 15 years and be so near death for her to feed me table food?"

And the two of us sit out there, listening to the waterfalls and think there is no more perfect refuge in the world today. There's no more perfect place to pray. Maybe that's why he has his eyes closed.

While his veggies were stewing, I slammed down half a Zola acai juice and I took a quick bike ride. On my way home, the sun was slipping behind the clouds, and I caught beautiful reminders of the One who gave me all of this exhilarating place I live. My legs were shot - I had not one smidgen of glycogen left by the time I hit the last hill for home, so it was a quick smoothie made with vanilla yogurt, blackberries, the other half of my Zola and a little ice. I guess that was supper. But these views, and returning to the sound of my running water made it all worth it.

Is this heaven? Pretty darned close. It's Iowa,

Tea tonight: Jasmine