The Unbearably Beautiful Nuances of God's Strands OR The Ronnie Ripple Effect

It's been a hard few months... a bit of what I would call the "piling-on" effect (trademark pending).  There has been loss and change.  (Andrea Fun Fact:  Change is a funny thing for me... I think I like it and even love it, but when it happens I'm all, "Hey. whoa who,Change, take it easy and just slow down a bit and stop sweatin' me")   I have felt sadness, fear and peace bumping up against one another while I try to sort through lots and lots and LOTS of different strands of thought (they're like a big ole' ball of stringy blech). 

Today, God wanted me to stop barreling through and just hear HIM.  He eased me into it by giving me the gift of a timely phone call from a friend who knew just the way to my heart today.  She zoomed right to my scariest fear (which will always and forever be about being a good... nay great, mother to my most precious gifts) and took a baseball bat of love to it.  She smacked it right outta the park and it was going, going...gone. 

So next on the God agenda was a Nugget conversation... and those are always so full of excitement (no, for real...you never know what he's gonna say next).  I was getting him ready for his "men's day out" (his words) or as we in the mommy-industry like to call it..a play date.  During which a conversation took place that rocked me to my core....

Somehow the weird topic of the lottery came up...as will happen when you are having a conversation with a seven year old.  He launched in with, "Mommy, I wanna win the lottery".  I somewhat absentmindedly chimed back (all while trying to wrangle him to wash his syrupy face), "We don't need to win the lottery; God gives us everything we could ever need...and even some of our 'just wants', too". 

He squinted his eyes and put his pointer finger up...a SURE sign that he's gonna bring his side of the debate home with his big selling point.  "Yeah, but I could help tons and tons of people with tons and tons of money". 

"Yes, that's true", I say, trying to comb syrup out of his hair (don't ask...cause I have no idea how it got there either), " but you can still help tons and tons of people without winning the lottery". 

"Yeah, I guess".  (a big pause that usually indicates a SUPER DUPER deep thought is in the works).  "Mom, I bet God just lets people who love Jesus win the lottery cause He knows they'll do good stuff with it".

Ohhhh boy...These are the parental moments that have you scrambling with frenzied need through your mental scripts of appropriately "Godly-ish things to say in answer to your seven year olds super duper deep thoughts".  These are also the moments when you realize that in the interest of truth, you can only free-style this kind of talk ....and oh...ps.. a teeny tiny worm of panic slithers through you...or maybe that's just me...at the thought of the utter weightiness that the next 10 minutes or so will have on your precious son's view of his God and the world....so, you know...NO pressure.

I sat down in my makeup chair and took a deep breath and began the far-reaching  task of trying to explain Matthew 5:45 to my shiny-faced, spit-polished seven year old Nugget.

Matthew 5:45 ⁴⁵ That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for He  maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

"What that means, Nug, is that God loves us ALL.  He is good and gracious to us all...and none of us have done a doggone thing to deserve it.  Good and bad happen to both people who love Jesus AND those who don't want to know Him, and God wants us to show the same love and gracious giving heart to everyone, as well.  Whether they love Jesus or not. " 

And here's where things got really....well...just amazing.

"You know, it's like when we told you about Aunty Courtney's brother Ronnie...remember?  He loved Jesus, and he was killed while serving Him by people who don't know Jesus yet.  That's a sad sad thing, but sometimes bad and sad things happen in our lives so that God is always the center of the attention.  So that He is what everyone is looking at." 

Wait for it....wait for it...

"But, Mom, (pause for nose scratching) wasn't that ALL a good thing?", he asks me, with his eyebrows all scrunched up.  "Because Ronnie probably asked Jesus all the time for people to know about God and also when he was going to get to see God cause he wanted to be with Him, and so God said 'Okay you can come see Me now'...so actually, it's all good cause he got the both things that he always wanted the most... soooo good and good."

Feel free to sob and snot all over yourself here...cause I sure did. 

I was so absolutely blown away at the clarity of Christ in the seven year old heart, and I cannot express how other-worldly blessed I feel that God  intervened on my day in this way.  He reminded me that life is FULL of almost unbearably beautiful and sometimes heartbreaking nuances, and that they run together, sometimes all jumbled and bunched in what may seem like an indefinable mess to us.   BUT TO GOD...to God, that "jumbled mess" is actually His hand-picked stands of purpose ,and therefore joy, for our lives.  My boy's world has been FOREVER impacted by the strands life and death of a man he never knew.  Just hearing that Ronnie loved Jesus was enough for my boy to KNOW that it was all for good.  Ronnie's story strands have become a part of my son's world view and will now be joined together with Nugget's own strands.  It just makes you wanna jump for joy...doesn't it!!?!! 

And for me...well, it really helped me stop trying to unravel all those tangled thoughts and ideas and plans ('cause, quite frankly, it's been exhausting) and instead get back the basics of reading, praying and following God's strands for my life...one step at a time...wherever they may lead.

As I write this I am listening to my personal anthem ("As Long as You Are Glorified" by Sovereign Grace Music).  It has gotten me through MANY uncertain times.  I want to leave you with these lyrics because they really cut through all the emotional baloney and get right down to the defining moment of truth:  "

Shall I take from Your hand Your blessings
Yet not welcome any pain?
Shall I thank You for days of sunshine
Yet grumble in days of rain?
Shall I love You in times of plenty
Then leave You in days of drought?
Shall I trust when I reap a harvest
But when winter winds blow, then doubt?

CHORUS
Oh let Your will be done in me
In Your love I will abide
Oh I long for nothing else as long
As You are glorified

VERSE 2
Are You good only when I prosper
And true only when I’m filled?
Are You King only when I’m carefree
And God only when I’m well?
You are good when I’m poor and needy
You are true when I’m parched and dry
You still reign in the deepest valley
You’re still God in the darkest night

BRIDGE
So quiet my restless heart
Quiet my restless heart
Quiet my restless heart in You

I am so thankful today for my quieted heart...  may all ours hearts be quieted today and may God be continually glorified.

This post is dedicated to the memory of THE BEST-most sarcastic bus boy I ever worked with, Ronnie Smith;  and in celebration of the birth of his brand-new beautiful niece, Ronnie Grace... God's blessings on you all. xoxox

For more information on this man's amazing passion for God visit: 
Ronnie Smith's Journey

Saturday Sampler OR A Day in the Life of the Oakland County Farmer's Market

I’m perfectly cool and suitably warm all in the same Michigan moment, a small miracle in itself.  The sun sneaks under the shade canopy and warms my lower legs through my jeans as a sporadic breeze ruffles through my hair and carries the sweet smell of popping kettle corn to my nose.  I scan the ombre skyline as it fades into an icy blue covered in stretched-out, cotton candy clouds.  Nature shows off its many shades of green while every frill and shape of leaf wiggles in the breeze.  I stand directly in the sun and am filled with a bright, hot hope...until even my toes are more joyful.  I watch a parade of circus-colored bouquets march past, and their blooms nod their heads politely at me.

Kiddos in mismatched pjs suck on honey straws and follow the wagon train of their families’ vegetable carts, and sweet fuzzy-headed babies squint into the early sun kicking their chubby bare feet as they go.  Decades-old couples hold hands and shuffle along.  Their heads are bent together in oneness and, sap that I am, it never fails to choke me up.  A mother wipes the chin of her wheelchair-bound child, cooing “sugar bear” to him, as she brings a basil plant to his nose for him to smell, and I sniff at the heartbreaking infinite tenderness of her love.

I’ve loaded my iPod with heavily syncopated beats and I dance a bit to wake myself up, and as I take in all this and more, I consider myself crazy blessed to be a part of this weekend tapestry.  I’m one little strand in this scene; soaking up the sun and sounds and scents and feeling richer for it.

Drawstring Christianity or Dirty Dishes and Deep Thoughts

This Sunday brought revelations that would rival any Oprah-esque “ah ha” moment.  It all started when Pastor challenged us with four New Year’s resolutions:

1.        I will pursue joy…through purposeful prayer

2.       I will pursue gratitude…. through purposeful prayer

3.       I will pursue faith and hope… through purposeful prayer

4.       I will pursue love… through purposeful prayer

How shocking, New Year’s resolutions that have nothing to do with our collective waist lines or checkbook bottom lines?  These four simple phrases completely gob smacked me…or more accurately God-smacked me.  You see, for the last 3 weeks or so I had been ridiculously mad and discontent.  Just p.o.’d to beat the band (on a side note, is the band actually getting a beat down or do they get beat in a competition or something…note to self:  google phrase “to beat the band”.  Okay, back to deep thoughts).  I had misplaced my compassion and love.  My faith and hope had floated away.  My gratitude was on life support and my joy was so tied to the nonsense of everyday that it rushed in like a tsunami and receded like a drought.  There was NO consistency and not one piece of spiritual fruit to be had.

For a few days leading up to this message, I had been intermittently poking around my psyche trying to get to the root of the problem.  I washed dishes and gave it a poke; I made the beds and batted a few ideas around; I grocery shopped and somewhere between produce and the frozen foods section, I tried to sort it all out.  Of course, I failed.  What else could have been the outcome when I left God completely out of my “process” (I like to say it like the Canadians do with a long O sound..I think it makes me sound sophisticated).  Not once had I checked in with Him.  I wanted to “fix” myself and then come to Him and say “see…I’ve got it all handled.  I’ve got this…look what I’ve done”.  (Insert hysterical laughter and snorts here)  Yeah, ummm, right…good luck with that.  How in the world did I think I was gonna pull that off, I do not know.  And that’s when it hit me.  I had been practicing an up/down, in/out, push/pull, “drawstring” form of Christianity.

This particular brand of Christianity happens when you are purposefully not purposeful.  When you ebb and flow with the day instead of the Holy Spirit.  It looks a little something like this:  You start Monday off feeling “nearer, my God, to Thee”, all pulled up nice and snug and tight to heaven, eyes aglow with the saving knowledge of God.  It’s Tuesday, and you’re rushing headlong into the week and BAM you hit your first speed bump…could be a broken down car…could be a major to-do with one of your kids, but whatever it is, it loosens your spiritual grip and you slip a wee bit down your spiritual tether, but there’s no time to stop now.  Wednesday is here, and it’s gonna be a loooong one.  What with running around all day and getting the kids to church at night, you are exhausted and cranky by 9pm and slip just a smidgey farther down your line from God.  Thursday dawns, and you realize that there are about five things on your weekly “to do” list that haven’t even come close to happening; soooo instead of taking a breath and drawing closer to God, a tight ball of frustration forms and the self-whipping begins….slllllliiiiip farther away.  FINALLLLLYYY, it’s “TGIF”….only wait, you just realized that you have a house full of people coming over and NOTHING is ready.  You give your kids a crazed rendition of today’s itinerary (and they look at you like you are full-on nutcakes) and when they don’t move fast enough for your liking, you blow your top so hard that the roof actually lifts off its moorings and a weird meaney –faced cloud appears over your house that can be seen for miles around…..sllllllliiiiippppp to the basement.  Saturday opens with a clean but unhappy house.  Everyone is walking on egg-shells around mom lest the “cloud of ugly” reappear for all the county to see.  You are completely tapped by the time everyone arrives for what should be a perfectly lovely day.  You feel rather disconnected from it all and would love to just curl up in bed with a good book and absolutely no thoughts….slllliipppp down into spiritual depression.  NOW IT’S SUNDAY…lots of scrambling ensues (because you were too tired last night to lay out clothes) and there’s lotsa hootin’ and hollerin’ to get everyone out on time.  Your hubby gets some dirty looks shot his way (even if he is completely oblivious to them) because (and I quote from my own nasty internal monologue) “Why didn’t he jump in and just KNOW what to do to help get everyone ready…and FAR BE IT FROM ME to ask…cause I shouldn’t have to ask and so on and so on and…blah blah blah” and you can be heard uttering phrases like "I just wanna have a nice Sunday, please." ….sliiiiipppppp those last few inches into spiritual darkness.  Now you are at church, and you let out a deep sigh, settle in and ready yourself to be pulled in tight to God all over again.  ONLY…WAIT!  Maybe, just maybe, this whole cycle can be stopped in 2013.  Could it be?  Could there really be another way? 

Yes…the answer is yes. 

The cure for the spiritual life-threatening condition of “Drawstring Christianity” is purposeful prayer that leads you to victory in the pursuit of love, joy, peace, long-suffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.  Prayer is your inoculation against this dreaded condition.  Prayer that matters…not just the prayers we throw over our shoulders like salt for good luck, but rather, prayers that purposefully target our weaknesses and challenges and praise our God for deliverance from them.  No amount of self-speculation over frozen green beans will accomplish what purposeful prayer will.  I can make 2 million beds while trying to be better and do better, but without God in the equation, it is counted as all dross or in Italian terms “garbagio” (which is the Italian “Spanglishly” way of saying “nothin’ but JUNK”). 

Soooo…for 2013 I am resolute.  I will be purposeful in prayer.  I will let those still moments with God lead me to joy, gratitude, faith, hope and deep love.  I will leave my contemplations in the produce department for such deep thoughts as “should I go blonde again” or “is Joaquin Phoenix really a big nutbar or is he just a normal dude with the  great schtick of pretending to be crazy-cakes?”  (yeah…I know.  It’s like a carnival up in here *pointing to my noggin*)

Clean Up on Aisle Five OR When Your World Breaks Apart and God Shows Up

I walked through the grocery store listening to my Nugget chatter:

“Hey mom, ummm, did you know that I made a new mii on Wii and it has spikey hair like when I get out of the shower.  Also, I need a haircut; so can you tell grandma, cause I got crazy hair.”

“Mom, mom, hey mom, sometimes Jack gets sassy with me when I ask him too many questions, but then I say I’m gonna tell and he says you better not.” 

“Mommmmmmm, can I get a baby bottle pop?  Or some gum... or a Gatorade or…ummm, wait, do they have root beer here?  Cause that’s my favorite…ummm…oh and orange pop.”

“Mommmmy, are we almost done?  My legs are getting tired.  I think these shoes are too heavy.  Maybe you should get me new ones or maybe I could just wear my sandals at winter if I have lotsa socks on.”

Somewhere on aisle five, as I reached for a can of crushed tomatoes and with my back to my sweet six year old, I began to cry…silently sob really.  I tried so hard not to.  I pinched myself hard on the soft underside of my arm and stayed perfectly still willing that burning feeling in my nose to stop.  I gritted my teeth and squinted, but the tears came pouring out.  I pressed my lips together to not let a sound out while still shaking my head “yes” in that motherly way we do when our kiddos are telling us stories and factoids at the speed of light. 

Busy men and women, young and old, passed me with their grocery lists and determined eyes.  They took in my red shiny face and runny nose and we looked at each other with such understanding that it broke the rest of me apart into a million splintery mommy pieces.  And I knew they knew.  As each passing shopper looked down at my sweet, happy, talkative, bright as new penny boy, I knew I was not alone in this moment of intense grief.  I didn’t have to hide the rawness or apologize for being a spectacular emotional mess (Clean up on aisle five, please).  We quietly comforted each other with soft eyes and glimpses of the best part of ourselves.  In that small space, as time seemed to have been sucked away, my boy’s unselfconscious chatter and continual movement were the most beautiful things we had ever heard and seen.  In that moment, they were a healing balm for all of us on aisle five.  They helped us all make it to aisle six and then seven and then to frozen foods and eventually through checkout and home. 

I hugged my baby boy so tight that night that he said I was “smooshing the snot out of him”.  I smelled his sweet little neck and kissed him until he giggled and screamed “Uncle Milty”.  I pushed down the urge to sit by his bedside and stare at him all night.  Instead I just thanked God over and over and over again.  I thanked God for letting me see evidence of Him all over the place.  For giving me evidence of His reflection in everyday life…in my hopping, jumping, yelling, fighting, laughing boys; in the spectacular beauty of a December day; in the friends that I am beyond blessed to know; in the best family a girl could ever hope to have; in the strangers that I brush up against in a grocery store ; and most of all…in the hope and salvation I have in Christ.  For all of those …and all the others I am yet blind to…thank you, Father.

One of Those MMMMMMommy MMMMMoments OR OH NO HE DIDN’T!?!

So I have to start this post with some back story.  We’re just about 3 weeks into our third year of homeschooling.  It’s a great place to be…the third year.  There’s this lovely comfortable feeling that I’m enjoying this year.  However delusional it may make me…I kind of feel like the big boys and I have a handle on it and have this great rhythm going.  Because the big boys are busy with other  endeavors, I have really enjoyed all the one-on-one time with Nugget.  He’s really been cracking me up, and I’ve been amazed by how much he has grown up since last year.  In fact, just last night after he went to bed, I was practically breaking my arm patting myself on the back at how wonderfully it’s been going.  So yeah…here comes that other shoe...

A CAUTIONARY NOTE:  As a mom, just when you start congratulating yourself on something, DUCK!!!!!  Cause you’re about to get an emotional kick in the head...in fact, I’m pretty sure that it’s like a documented scientific law or something… I believe it's called:   Sir Isaac Newton’s MOM'S FIRST Law of DooDoo's About to Hit the Fan.

So here I was on Thursday morning doing a little work in the office with Nugget at my elbow, and in walks my middle guy…who we affectionately call “Bubba” or “Bubs” for short. 

“What’s up Bubs?”

“Ummm….Mom, did you see this,” he says holding a sweet little booklet from Nugget’s Wednesday night church class called “Jesus Can Help Us When We Ask”.  “Cause, ummm..I don’t think you did,” he adds in a sketchy voice.

I take the little booklet and start thumbing through it, not picking up on the fact that Nugget has gone completely still next to me.  He has written his little name on the front and the “J” is backwards (note to self…spend more time in handwriting).  Each page is a day of the week, and is set up something like this:  SUNDAY, I asked Jesus to help…  HOW DOGGONE SWEEEEET!  I go through each day until I reach Wednesday …which was yesterday…the day of my self-congratulatory party.  AND THEN I SEE IT!!!! 

Wednesday’s entry goes a little something like this:  WEDNESDAY, I asked Jesus to help…  “mom stop being  angry” WRITTEN IN THE TEACHER’S HAND.  WHAAAATTTTTTTTT!!!!??????  My eyes get as big as monster truck tires and I turn to look at Nugget.  He has, what in all candor, can only be described as a doo-doo eating grin on his face. 

“REALLY?” I ask completely flabbergasted… which he responds to by letting out a GIGANTIC belly laugh.

“Mom, it was kindda hard," he whines,  "And I hadda think of something really quick…soooo….I just did that”.  After which, not being a dumb boy, he ran out of the room and made himself scarce for the next ½ hour playing with Legos.

I sat there alternately laughing and being vaguely upset.  I looked again at the page and noticed that in addition to this  glowing endorsement of me, he had added a neat little stick figure picture of me with a bunch of connected mmm’s where my smile SHOULD be.  So not only had he outted me as “angry mom” but he had given me a puss that was nothing short of alphabetically horrific (so much for telling me I was the “prettiest mommy on earth” at nap time yesterday… you, son, have lost ALLLL your stock points)

So there I sat, staring at this this orange crayon depiction of my “funga-face” (an Italian term, that I have no doubt slaughtered in spelling, which means ugly face) and the little black crayon letters spelling out my flaws (written by some poor soul at my church who now, by the way, thinks that poor Nugget has a mmmmmeaney mmmmmonster for a mmmmmommy).  I wanted to be horrified, but I couldn’t quite muster it.  I wanted to be hurt, but my healthy sense of the ridiculous kept me from pulling the ole  “mea culpa, mea culpa” routine (an Italian Momm's plea of “oooh pooooor me, poor me”).  

I went back in time and wondered how many times my sister or I had committed some equal or greater atrocity against our own mother.  The only thing that came to mind was the time the Kindergarten teacher at our little Christian school (poor Mrs. Gilroy…I don’t think she was every the same after my sister's Kindergarten year) had to call my mom to tell her that my cherubic sister had brought maxi pads to class and displayed them on her little desk.  She thought they were Barbie Doll beds.  Oh, and there was that time that she put tampon tubes on the ends her fingers and came downstairs while mom was doing hair and said “Look at my fingernails, mommy”.  Other than that though, I couldn’t really think of any time we had “outted” our mom.  Maybe, as girls, we were just smarter than that (every recent study backs this up), or maybe we just knew that messing with Moni was a tactical error of EPIC proportions!  (Note 2. to self:  Up my game to prevent future incidents).

In the end, I decided that the feeling I was feeling was a feeling that I should be feeling…well..more.  Which is a confusing way of saying that I felt guilty because I didn’t feel more guilty.  Shouldn't I be swamped with fear that my little Nugget thinks I'm angry?  I wondered why I wasn’t being swallowed by some sort of guilt-tsunami washing over me as I read the words “angry” associated with “my mom” in the perfect penmanship of a stranger (who I will have to see EVERY Wednesday and EVERY Sunday, so thank you for that sonny boy).  I called my bestie to tell her about it and her guffaws grounded me and reminded me why I didn’t feel all that bad.  Because, ultimately, sometimes I do get angry.  Not like “Incredible Hulk” angry (with the exception of the microwave door that had it coming); more like “oh for the love of Pete” angry.  

Although I would much rather laugh my way through everyday wrapped in a rainbow that smells like puppy’s breath, that’s just not in the cards…not for me… AND not for ANY OTHER mommy.  Sometimes my mmmmommy mmmmouth does look like a series of lower-case m’s…particularly (but not limited to) when my 5 year old spills his lemonade, that I expressly told him to keep in the kitchen, within inches of my laptop and then cleverly uses my pillow to sop it all up. 

BEHOLD...the wonder:

So…I guess the take away here is that sometimes moms get mad…(which may or may not be tied to “certain times of the month”…I’m just sayin').  And while I would (selfishly) rather have my Nugget’s book filled with self-introspective things like THURSDAY, I asked Jesus to help…my brothers and I not fight over all the Legos wheels OR SATURDAY, I asked Jesus to help… me not throw a complete screaming meemee fit when I discover that all the left-over pancakes have been eaten by my teenage brother, I accept that I am the center of my Nugget’s world…for (hugs & kisses) better or (a wee bit angry) worse.  

Like all kiddos, he is quick to remember the times where he fell down and scraped his knee, the time he was stung by a bee AND the time on Wednesday morning when mom lost her marbles when he accidentally spilled his lemonade near her laptop.  Later, much later (somewhere in his late 20’s) he will also remember all the times we snuggled in bed reading books, watched endless hours of Veggie Tales and the time his mom almost asphyxiated herself wearing his yarn necklace to bed to show him how much she loved it. 

Ps…Later that day, in a moment I’m not so proud of, I heard Nugget screaming like a banshee and called all the boys downstairs for an intervention.  Apparently the big boys physically detained Nugget when he played “Godzilla” to their Lego city (yes…we play Legos alllloooot around here), and Nugget showed his displeasure by screaming loud enough to alert his grandparents 45 minutes away.  After taking all the details in, I handed down a Solomon-like sentence that concluded with “Hey Nugget, maybe we should grab your little book and you can ask for help not screaming like a maniac every time you don’t get your way”.  To which he replied, “Mmmmmooommm, enough with the book already.”

Such Beautiful Little Things OR Why Facebook Can Be a Gift from God

Don't you just love those days when all the pretty things around you are all that you can see.  When a little www address is the portal to awe inspiring joy.  So in honor of all those lovely threads of beautiful things, here is a list of all my exhilarating views on the world today via Facebook:

I love that I log onto FB to answer a quick little message and am treated to a Flashmob performing Ode to Joy by Beethoven.  My arm hairs stood on end as the music swelled and tears crept out as I watched the crowd be visibly moved by the majesty of music.  I got to see a little girl, another continent away, hanging from a light post and raising her arms in joy, throwing a kiss filled with gratefulness to the musicians.   I watched a little boy in the crowd, completely taken over by the music, conducting his own symphony with such joie de vivre that it made ME want to be six again (and trust me, six was not a great look on me).

I click through pictures of a brand new, fresh from heaven, baby boy whose mama I've known since SHE was a baby.  I remember thinking that she was the cutest thing I'd ever seen as she twirled around in her puffy dresses, lacey ankle socks and white patent shoes, and now, magnificently... she's a mama herself...what indescribable JOY to have a view on all that wonder!

I read an uplifting update about a boy whose life is filled with challenges and blessed by the unrelenting love and formidable care-taking of his parents.  His mom and dad were high school sweethearts when I was still in elementary school, and I remember watching them and thinking that they were THE perfect couple.  She:  so sweet and gracious and just lovely, and He:  so kind and manly and above all, gentlemanly.  And those qualities stand them in good stead as they live everyday with their sweet boy, walking every step with God.  How ridiculously blessed I am to read about their lives and be moved to better places by their faith.

I see amazing miracles of families that are grown COMPLETELY by God and in His time and by His path.  Girls I've known who have grown to women who fight and pray and push forward to have the families they've always dreamed of, only to be given a double portion by God for their unyielding faith that HE WILL MAKE A WAY!!  Oh, God, thank you for allowing me to see these things, read them, soak them in and forever make them part of me and my faith.


I get to share in change with friends who are moving far and wide and starting new chapters in their lives.  I have a court side seat for all the excitement and nervousness and plans and to do lists and eventual settling in that these great migrations will bring.  I am given the privilege of offering words of encouragement and even allowed  leeway to be a wee bit maudlin about it as well; and, ultimately, I get just so doggone excited to watch all the awesomeness yet to come. 

I write Happy Birthday messages to people I don't often (if ever) get to see and wish them every good and lovely thing on their birthday; and, if only for this one day because life's hectic pace , they stay on my mind and heart while I work my way through my day.

I am treated to clever and funny posts about kids and pets and politics, and well, just about everything AND the kitchen sink, and enjoy barking out loud with laughter!!  So, thanks friends for the endorphin rush, it's always needed and greatly appreciated.

Finally, FB old friends/acquaintances/new friends I consider myself magnified by sharing in all your tidbits and blurbs and pics and status updates about your lives because, DOGGONE IT, it's good to get outside of yourself and share in the laughs and joys and burdens of other people.  It's what keeps us grounded and loving and loved.

Status Update:  Gonna clean my kitchen for the 12 billionth time and then think on these things:  whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, with your status updates & pics & posts, by golly, I'll get to read allllll about these things.

A Love Letter to My Folks OR Mom, You Always Said I Should Be a Comedian.

So...there is no other way to start this out than by saying that my folks are THE BEST doggone parents a girl could have...literally.  They were and are loving, but very (read very very...like one shaved head/habit shy of a convent) strict.  We were blanketed in affection & coffee cake.  Even running to the store earned us kisses all around, and does still to this day.  On Sunday afternoons, we had these great picnics in the back room.  Mom would spread out towels and we would enjoy a feast of White Castle hamburgers (a fast food choice that appalls my hubster, calls them "Monkey Meat Sandwiches", to no end)  They brooked no nonesense from me and my sissy (up to the college years...then I think we just plain ole wore them out)  (well...maybe a little less from me and a tad more from "new baby"..but you other first-borns know what I'm talking about, don't ya...ps, I love you new baby..xo ).  And as good parents should, each one brought a different skill set to the parental goulash that is growing up. 

My dad kind of raised me to think like a dude; which, while being a super fun party trick on girls night out, can tend to make me a bit of an oddball...okay, okay...that'll be enough from the peanut gallery (But wait, hold on, I just gotta ask... what is a peanut gallery anyhow? Is it a bunch of rooms filled with well lit exhibits of extraordinary examples of nutty legume perfection? OR...is it, as I imagine it, just a big ole theater filled with row after row of Mr. Peanut impersonators all hooting and hollerin' out their two cents worth....yeah that one...let's go with that one.  Okay...now back to the show).   When I talk to my dad about some emotional dust-up or another that I've gotten into, he shakes his head and gives me that pained look that clearly says "please, for the love of your father...leave off all those itty bitty girlie details that are important for nothing except making this excrutiatingly detailed scenerio last longer and keep us from a.) finding the right solution to this straight-forward problem and b.) getting me back to my war movie / home-improvement show". When we talk about business, he regularly tells me to take all emotion out of the equation, and just deal in facts.  He is THE BEST that "man" has to offer.  He loves his wife, girls, son-in-laws and grandchildren fully...with nothing held back, no "love" stone left unturned.  He is quick to laugh and slow to anger with us.  He is EXCELLENT at exotic accents and is full of corny jokes (much to our communal chagrin & his unending delight).  He is the first one to tell us when we've gotten off the path and the first one to come to our aid to help us back on.  He has been given by God the power of disernment and wisdom...if John tells you something, I promise you, it would behoove you to listen...for reals.

Conversely, my mom did everything in her considerable power to make us the girliest girls that ever did girly things on planet super-girlie...up to and including teaching me how to curl my eyelashes in the 5th grade, how to utilize "Sun-In" as a beauty aid and making my sissy and I wear ridiculously-ruffled matching Gunne Sax frocks (regardless of the fact that we were 6 years apart, and that while empire-waisted dresses, trimmed in ribbon, with a mile-high lacey collars look ADORABLE on 1st graders, conversely, your 7th grader would rather not look like a piece of 1980's confection on picture day and, oh joy, for all of posterity....I'm just sayin').   She taught me everything I know about relating to all people.  She is dedicated to making people feel special and cared for.  She ALWAYS remembers special days and our favorite things, she unfailingly writes notes for EVERY occasion, and she loves phrases like "how do you feel?" and "what can I do for you?"  She is all things good and true and honest in womenhood.  She is beautiful inside and out (which is to say she's still a total hottie), clever and artistic.  She takes such great care of our dad (she still makes his lunches everyday...and even for my hubster when she comes to spend the night...he gets sooo doggone spoiled) and loves us girls, our hubsters and her grandbabies to distraction.  She is the epitome of the "mama bear" if ANY of us is even remotely poked at..she WILL cut you and drop you like a bag of cement.  She is ABSOLUTE about her beliefs and opinions and would win, hands down, any debate team nationals, given a chance.  She is pretty much to motherhood what Sean Connery is to hot Scottish men (and if you know me at all, you know of my undying love for Mr. Connery and what high praise this is indeed).   (and ps...yes...I have come to terms with the fact that my days with Mr. Connery are numbered and am currently interviewing extensively for a replacement...I'm told Gerard Butler is waiting anxiously by the phone for my call).  My mommy is the real deal...all the way.  She has been given by God the gifts of mercy and faith.  She worries for nothing and is unflagging in her belief that God will make a way...NO MATTER WHAT!!

So...the upshot of all this is that we (me and Mar-bear) have all this great stuff from our folks that has been mashed up to make, well...me and my dearest sissy, different and alike both and both a slightly unique interpretation of our mommy and daddy in all the best and weirdest ways.   My personal "Daggles / Moosie" sides can sometimes play nice with each other, and at other times...well, let's just say it can be like a not-so-fun scooby-doo haunted carnival episode up in here (pointing to my medusa-like too curly red-head.   Incidentally brought to you by:  new layers plus MI humidity). 

So, thusly, my "Uber Girlie-girl Artsy" side can mix it up a bit with my well..."2nd generation Italian Vietnam-vet Contractor" side (you can see how this could be troublesome).  It tends to make me VERY resolute (read...stubborn) about the things I believe, crazy-super-duper opinionated (you're shocked, I know) and also a wee bit "dude-ish" when dealing with overly emotional situations.  Which is to say, I don't love them and tend to zone out and begin scrambling for the escape hatch asap.  That "guy(ish)" part of me can be heard saying things like "well...you're just gonna have to toughen up buttercup" and "suck it up...what the heck did you expect to happen?"  While on the other side of the carnival grounds that is my personality, my "diva-artsy" side does things like wearing her pajamas all day and hiding away in her studio "creating", wearing false lashes and hot pink eye shadow to the grocery store just for the love of it and befriending random elderly Italian couples in hospital waiting rooms and becoming fast and busom buddies.

While this tug-o-war with my parental units' input used to fluster me a bit, I have learned to give in to the dichotomy that is "the eldest daughter of Johnny & Moni".  Not only give in really, but actually relish...run toward and even groove on.  To really take a beat and fancy all those pieces parts.

Delightedly, 15 years ago, God picked out the perfect guy for me who loves almost all of my idiosyncrasies.  Some, admittedly, he adores an itsy-bitsy less than others (as there are a few that are just beyond the pale by anybody's standards). 

He is eternally cool with being the romantic in our relationship and the one who always remembers special days and anniversaries.  He greatly appreciates the lunches  I make for him (somewhat sporadically) & (complete with lettuce and tomato on his sandwiches, which for some unknown reason pains me greatly and seems like a LOT OF WORK for the meager healthy payout) and acknowledges with humor how it goes against my baser instincts to do so.  He accepts that our bathroom is frequently full of girls of all ages and doubles on a moments warning as a hair salon/makeup artist studio; and that my hair color/style changes as habitually as Katy Perry's.  He doesn't crab or turn down the music when I have it cranked to an abnoxious level as I sing and dance around the kitchen while I clean...stopping frequently for my (badly done) break-out solos. And as if all that wasn't already cake & icing...he acquiesces almost every time when I ask him, as we girls are wont to do, what he loves most about me . He answer is always the same, "Your eyes."...to which I maddeningly whine, "no, not physically...what do you love about 'me the person'"...his every-time reply:  "Your tenacity".  Which I then follow up with the predictably girlie-ish trick question of "and what do you love the least about me?"..to which he again, just as consistently, replies "Your tenacity".  So there you have it folks... 

So thank you again, Mom & Dad for the mash-up that made me.  It's a gift I'll always be greatful for and just a wee teeny bit leery of.
Tenaciously Yours,
Andi

Why Midnight Snacks Lead to Scary Stuff OR Can a Graham Cracker Really Do Alllll That?

2 things I NOW know for certain:

1.  Even one stinkin' graham cracker before bed  can give you some seriously funkadoodle nightmares/dreams AND

2.  YOU NEVER NEVER EVER want to be caught walking through a combination...

  a.  Aquarium ...where they have the guests, kids included, throw big ole Flintstone-sized raw steaks to the sharks when they jump out of the water onto the deck...while all the other guests are contained safe and sound behind cages, and there are shallow ponds filled with pirana with signage which encourages you to "pet them".

  b.  SLASH petting zoo ...which includes an exhibit of a human lying on a circular bed holding a baby gorilla (who was sooo crazy cute, the gorilla..not the human) while they cuddle up to a female lion as the male stalks free around the enclosure AND where a miniture stegosauruses keeps trying to butt your legs (because you later realize that you are wearing one of those puppet hand dinosaur thingies that McDonalds gave out in their happy meals like 10 years ago, and so probably brought the whole leg-butting thing on yourself).

  c.  SLASH weirdy university (contained completely inside the aquarium/petting zoo), with dorms that actually look like doll houses with no back on them and that have crazy "recruiting" posters everywhere that feature people you used to know (even a girl from your high school basket ball team, who is apparently giving rave reviews for the "university's" communications department... and who is now also sporting a lovely full mustache in her photo) AND where you run into a "whose who" of who you've dated for the last century..going allllllllllll the way back to your first "boyfriend" in the 8th grade (using this term loosely here as, at that age, you can only really make googly eyes at each other between classes), some dude you really only mostly dated by phone in the 10th grade and took to one family wedding; as well as, an assortment of other characters you have known through time (most of whom you were never very tight with but in this aquarium slash petting zoo slash weirdy university, are strangely very chatty with you as you stand by the "chimpanzee lounging with a white tiger and some other crazy animal I can't quite remember by the end of typing this because I am now sadly, completely awake (but feel strongly it might have been a mythical creature)" exhibit.

Just trust me on number 2 here folks ...cause it just happened to me via one wicked graham cracker...and it weren't pretty (having jerked upright in bed, slightly sweaty, and looking wild-eyed around the room for that pesky little miniture stegosaurs)

so... be warned , no amount of graham-crackery goodness is worth wondering why your kind-of ex is living in a room with no back and doesn't apparently care or being cornered by people you barely know (who may or may not be sporting lush facial hair) while trying not to get your shins bruised all to heck by a smallish dinosaurs...I'm just sayin'.

On that cautionary tale and having now effectively expelled any residual scary stuff, I'm off to recheck all the door locks and try to force myself back sleep (with any luck...minus all zoos, marine life, extinct/mythical creatures and past beaus).

ps...please excuse all run-on sentences and other grammatical errors...that's just the kind of shoddy grammar you can expect from a dream sequence.

Waffle-gate or How You Know When Your Five Year Old Is Smarter Than You...

‎6:45 am. Nugget to VERY SLEEPY Mom: sooo mom, you know there's these monkeys with really big noses and lots of stomachs (Proboscis Monkeys).

MOM: huh, oh, uhuh...shhhh.

NUGGET: sooo....if I had lots of stomachs I'd have one for just pickles, one for regular eggs, one would be for breakfast burritos and one for cheerios and raisins...wait I want 16 stomachs...so how many do I have left

MOM: uhhh 12 I think...shhhhhhhhh

NUGGET: okay 12, soooo anyway..... (insert extremely long dialogue about various foods and mom making appropriate "paying attention" noises all the while trying to fall back asleep..unsuccessfully)

MOM: sighhhhh....why don't we get up now and make waffles

NUGGET: yeah...thats what I was thinking all along

MOM: I believe I have just been played

NUGGET: ---big smile-----

The Fearsome Sir Focus

Soooo... I got into a chicken fight my seat belt alarm today. Because it's repetitive high dingy noises drive me to the brink of insanity, I usually only have to hear it once to force my compliance, but today my friends I looked that little bugger right in the eye and sat firm as I drove across a VERY BIG parking lot to my next stop. I made it 5 whole series of increasingly alarming dings & pings....

 Sadly, this is not a story of victory for the underdog. I lost this battle of wills with my little focus and could be seen by Starbucks patrons clumsily buckling my seat belt as I was PULLING INTO my parking spot.

I tip my hat to you Sir Focus...you have bested me yet again.

The Disenfranchised Right Hand

I always feel a twinge of liberal guilt for my Right Hand.
 

It leads the life of a red-headed step child...disenfranchised, left out in the cold doing menial tasks like steering the car in winter, click click clicking away on the mouse in a drafty library (oh..okay..drafty starbucks) and frantically scribbling class notes. All the while Lefty lives in the lap of luxury swaddled in a coat pocket o...r tucked up fast asleep in a sweater sleeve. Even their names signify their lots in life: the ever stoic "Right Hand" and the jauntily name "Lefty".

Will there ever been an end to the Social Injustice....

RISE UP Right Hands! Rename yourselves things like "Right-io" and "Right On" and Occupy Pockets, Fur Muffs and Hobo gloves EVERYWHERE!!

We are the 1%...ummm rather...We are the 50%. unless you've had an unfortunate weed whacker incident in which case Right-io....I'm sorry to say, but you're on your own.

"Chronicles from the College Years" OR "Just Another Tale from My 2 1/2 Year Stroke"

I have considered, at times, changing my name to “Lucy”.  I’ve always had a bit of a knack for getting caught up in (sometimes through bad choices and sometimes just by breathing) ridiculous exploits.  One (me) would have hoped that those "Oops I did it again" moments would have faded away and just become my "twenty-something" tales, but sadly...no.  Well on my way to the ripe ole age of 41, I still provide myself (and my family and my friends) with a bountiful array of capers.  Certain tales from the Andi-side are relatively harmless and can be retold almost immediately; while others need time to age until the rough (read mortifying) edges have smoothed down to just another facet of my gem of a life.  (and no Dawn...I'm not ready to write about "Andi & the Oakland County Sherriff" just yet)

Those brain addled years that I affectionately call my “college years” (I use this term ridiculously loosely and should really just come clean and call them my “Living in Virginia off Government Cheese & Chocolate Covered Espresso Beans Era”) has provided me with gobs of raw material.  Call it a curse, a gift, or a calling, whatever…but here it goes...

Sit right back and I’ll tell a tale; a tale of a goofy girl that’s had more than her fair share of 3-hour tours.  I like to call this one…"Chronicles from the College Years" OR ”Just Another Tale from My 2 ½ Year Stroke”

( in preparation for your read, you may wanna click the link for a little theme music :) 

So it seemed like a really good idea (as often it does when one is in serious “like”) to climb up a steep hill, in the dark, through the snow and sneak onto the campus (of my very conservative non-denominational university) after curfew (quite a few of my college antics came from not being at a sanctioned place at an approved of time) to pick up a “friend” (code for “dude I was really into that was only vaguely into me”).  As I loped across the rode separating the girl’s dorms from the guys, I saw campus security up the hill.  Unfortunately, their headlights bounced off of me at the same time.  So…like all the other perps you’ve seen on COPS, I hit the deck in a ludicrous attempt to evade the campus fuzz (who was actually just a guy that sat next to me in  geography... unfortunately, our class time interactions were never the same after that).  As I belly crawled around the end of a late model Buick, I remember thinking to myself that maybe, just possibly, this wasn’t the highest and best use of my time. 

As the high beams of the security car made a beeline for my last know location, I played possum.  Laying inert in the thin coating of snow, I felt a car pull up and heard the electric buzz of the auto window.  A voice laced with a world-weariness disproportionate to his age asked, “Are you okay, Miss?” (I’m pretty sure he knew the answer).

"Well, yeah...ummmmm (buying some time here) you see I dropped my keys in the snow (all 1/8 inch of it) and they slid under the car." (because you know it’s just sooo icy this time of year in Virginia).

“What are you doing out after curfew, Miss?”, my geography-mate asked me. (Hmm…I believe I detect a note of disbelief). 

"Oh, welllllllll (stalling again)…uh...actually I live off campus (true).  But my, uhhhhhh, car broke down in the Walmart parking lot (conveniently located down the hill and across the road) (false), and I thought if I could use a phone on campus I could call a friend to come help me out (false...but now, suddenly very very true...PLEASE SAVE ME, ANYBODY PLEASE)."  As I stood up and earnestly brushed the “mounds of snow” off my barn coat, I know I have played the last card in my hand, and am waiting to be busted.  I am also throwing myself mentally on God’s mercy, Who, to this point, I have seen fit to leave back at my rented farm house (or possibly back in my first dorm room 2 years earlier).

My fellow daytime scholar had mercy on me and Campus security brought me back to the laughably named “guard shack” (which was really just an outpost to stop people from skipping chapel) where I called my friend (who was in ROTC, and not thrilled to have been woken up at midnight the night before drills) to pick me up because, as I communicate in my most stilted / sketchy voice, “my car isn’t, ummmm, starting (wink wink)”.  Being an astute young lady (and being a street-smart Jersey girl didn’t hurt either), she arrived in record time to collect me before the thumb screws and water boarding began.  I held my breath as we exited campus over the bridge, and I promised myself never, never, never again to act like a kook (some promises are reallllllly hard to keep), and especially not over some guy (even if he IS a singing, guitar-playing athlete with the soul of a poet…I mean seriously…guys like that are like college-girl catnip).  My friend read me the riot act like only a girl from Jersey can, and in the end just shook her head.  I think she knew this wouldn’t be my last dust-up with bad choices and “I Love Lucy” worthy capers. 

As the next day of classes dawned, I resolved to do better and be better.  I would be so scholarly I would make Ben Franklin look like a slouch.  I would be steadfast in reaching my goals (which were fuzzy at best and having something to do with teaching; which was unfortunate seeing as I didn’t particularly like kids.  And yes, fellow homeschooling moms, the irony is thick).  I would see the “dude” in question and give him a freeze so deep he would have to report to the campus clinic for frostbite & possible multiple amputations. 

Regrettably, I did not run into said “dude” for several days (one would think this was deliberate), and my indignation cooled.  I continued to be uninspired with my choice of future vocation; while conversely, I was unrelentingly challenged and thrilled with every other aspect of “college” life.  Not one month later, the object of my...whatever, shared with me that he had found “THE ONE”.  He extolled her virtues, lauded her accomplishments and demeanor (I’m gonna go out on a limb and say she wouldn’t have belly crawled away from campus security) and compared her to his mom (does anyone else hear that death knell?).  He said (in his most intense "sharing" voice) that he just knew she would be the future Mrs. "Singing, Guitar-Playing, Athlete with the Soul of a Poet”. (true…they married, had a passel of kiddos and are together still.)  (Oh and ps.. if I forgot to say it then; as I was in shock and gape-mouthed and paralyzed with mortification, Mazel Tov!!).

This scrape served as a potent reminder to me of the girl I had once been...pre-college me.  That girl wouldn’t have crossed the street to see a guy let alone re-enact an episode of “COPS” with campus security hot on her (belly) trail in the snow .  It was, mercifully, near the end of my college time and a great catalyst for me to get it together.  Shortly thereafter, I returned home & got a real life (much to my parents’ great joy).  I still know a few people from that time (thankfully very few) and we can giggle over my youthful antics…all the while all knowing and accepting that there will be more;albeit healthier, not-so-youthful ones to come.

Happiness Is... OR... 10 Things I Forgot To Stop And Love

Okay...I have to admit it, I've been a royal grouch for the past couple of weeks.  There's really no good reason for it.  I could try to chalk it up to stress and worry and (my personal least fave) change, but that would be unspeakably lame; because...news flash...life ALWAYS has change.  So, I'll just call this one likes I sees it...I have stopped seeing all the lovely things God has blessed me with.  In short, I have been a schmuck.

When you've realized you've been a schmuck, it can set you back on your heels a bit while you figure out how to, well....de-schmuck.  A good way to do this is just to pull your head out from the self-involved hole you've stuck it in and look around at God's provisions and blessings.
 
And so...without further ado...

Happiness is ... OR 10 Things I Forgot to Stop and Love:

1.  Happiness is finding a Bible verse that makes your eyes water because the truth hits you so hard and so wonderfully.

Mark 11:23-2423.  "I tell you the truth, if anyone says to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and DOES NOT DOUBT in his heart but BELIEVES that what he says will happen, it will be done for him.  24.  Therefore, I tell you, WHATEVER you ask for in prayer, believe you have received it, and it will be yours."

2.  Happiness is belting out an old favorite while cleaning your decimated kitchen (yet again) to help keep the joy in your heart pumping through you...even in the face of baked on gunk.

3.  Happiness is being asked by your hubby to sit watch tv with him (even if it is an NCIS rerun) and holding hands the whole time.

4.  Happiness is hearing your kiddos oooo and ahhhh over how cool you are cause you know how to make caramel sauce from scratch to pour over their popcorn.  (who knew melted sugar would make me such a rock star)

5.  Happiness is picking green beans and cherry tomatoes with your boys, rubbing them on your t-shirt  and eating them right off the vine.

6.  Happiness is surprise flowers brought to you by sweet girls that you love very much.

7.  Happiness is listening to your son's voice change from boy to man, and regularly confusing him for his daddy when you walk into a room.

8.  Happiness is when your nugget jumps in your bed at 7a.m. and squeezes your face and tells you "Mommy I love you the whole wide world and outer space" as he kisses your nose.

9.  Happiness is a kitchen windowsill full of the spoils of summer...as the season glides away.

10.  Happiness is the ability to recognize what happiness is...
As the school year starts and new challenges come, I'm sure I'll have new happinesses to add to this list...and may God keep reminding me to stop & love every one!!

Considering the Concept of Catharsis or Don't Go All "Pet Cemetery" About the Dead Stuff

     So I've been thinking about the idea of catharsis lately. You know, looking at old things, sometimes painful things, right in the face and poking at 'em a bit to see what pokes back. I think the older I've gotten the more I've learned to live without this whole "process". This could simply be that I am too tired to invest any sort of real energy to this sort of "disinterment". Energy that could be better used washing underwear and cooking dinner (not necessarily in that order, and definitely not together).

     Or it could just be....wait for it...wait for it...that I've just gotten more mature (audible gasp). I have also noticed the older I get, the exponentially slower I am to be offended. I would like to chalk this up to growing up, but I have to admit there's also a healthy dose of just not wanting to have one more thing on my plate that needs to be cleaned up. So, the question is...Is the "exhumation and examination" (as a fellow philosopher has dubbed it) of the past a good & healthy thing (which, goes without saying, is not as enjoyable as a "Good and Plenty" thing...mmmm yummm...good and plenty's ...uh, sorry.) or is it, instead,  just a bunch of self-indulgent moments peppered with alotta  touchy-feely big words?

     Well, like every other doggone thing in the world, there is no easy answer (with the notable exceptions being: dating your girlfriends ex-boyfriend; whether to bring your babies to a rated "R" movie; or eating any, and I do mean any, sort of meat that has been left in a hot car all day. The answer to all of these is Always, ALWAYS, NO!).

     So, I guess it's a balancing act. If your need to unearth and open up the past is so great that it has you having imaginary (possibly ranting) conversations with yourself (what..don't act like you don't do it too), then maybe this is a good time to hand it to God and walk away. Let Him worry about the fixing and mending, and you just be about the business of living right now...here and now.  Stop mucking around in the pigpen slop pit of yesterday (Cause, honestly, have you ever driven by a pig farm? You need a cauterizing iron and a HAZMAT spray down to get that stench off of ya, and who wants to walk around giving off that odor?) and maybe just Let It Lie, Lucy (for now, anyhow, hmm?).  I guess I've gotten to the point that when I most feel like I need that "catharsis" is the exact time I should walk away from it and give it to God, and later (sometimes much much later; and possibly never) God will deliver the "catharsis" to me...long after I've actively accepted that the only doggone thing I need for comfort and healing is Him. 

     However, if you have way more than moved on, and catharsis comes to pay a call, I say...let it in, brew a cup-a and settle in for a gracious but candid visit.  You need the candor because graciousness by itself isn't gonna cut the mustard.  In the interest keeping things all nicey, nicey; graciousness may only exhume a work of revisionist historical fiction that probably isn't all that true to the original story.  And where would that get ya but a whole lotta no where.  And graciousness?  Well you need that because we could all stand to be a wee bit more forgiving,  loving and kind to one another, don't you think?

     The real trick is to just remember to give that long dead stuff a proper RE-burial and send it all back from whence it came.  Because, while a little sojourn in the past is okay (and maybe even fairly purgative), the here and now is where we should be camping out to make our tomorrows.

     Oh and PS...I do soooo love my Good and Plenty's...they leave this ghoulish white and black gunk on your tongue that you're just not gonna find anywhere else...what's not to love!! :)

Icebergs, iPods & Creamsicle Light OR How to Banish Those Stinky Brat Blues

Being grateful is a bit of an art. It takes practice..sure, but I have also noticed that some folks have a natural aptitude for it...as for me...I do it with considerably less panache. It has come easier to me since having my babies, as most moms will tell you. Any mention of sick babies, starving kids or abused teens has us running for our own babies and giving them bone-crushing hugs and sloppy kisses.


Still, I have to admit, that I can be slow to see the glory of the place I stand in, and far too fast to "lack to marvel". This week in particular I was having a righteous case of the "are you kidding me's". Really...snow again? REALLLLLYYYYY!!!! I mean sure, it's okay to look ahead to the magnificence of spring, but to throw a foot stomping (not that you could hear them stomping because they were still wrapped in wool socks) fit was a bit much, yes? But God decided to handle me like He always does...by being REALLLYYYY obvious...because honestly, I can be crazy dense.

So...I woke this morning feeling royally miffed as my blanket-warmed feet hit the cold floor. I schlepped my way to the kitchen, with my eyes obstinately squeezed shut, to pack my husband's lunch. I'm sure I looked like a mole as I rooted around in the fridge for anything that even remotely had the shape of ham and bread (poor hubby...I still don't know exactly what he ate for lunch that day). I opened the kitchen curtains before I grudgingly sat to read and pray. AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW?....There...laid out before me was an absolute banquet of beautiful...

The sun was so bright my eyes watered and the sky was so hard and cold and brittlely blue that I just knew had to put on boots and stand under it. I ran to the office and grabbed my camera and threw on my coat as I slipped out the back door...literally. Overnight, our whole yard had been turned into an icy wonderland. I felt my breath push out of me and fall right to the ground around my feet. Every surface was smooth with ice and the trees were dressed in white swags with frosty trinkets and charms. Sliding down the hill, I started clicking my camera; driven by an anxious feeling that I just had to capture it all. I pushed the button again and again until my fingers were too stiff.

When I looked back toward the house, I saw my boys' faces smashed against the kitchen windows. I crunched my way back to the house, and the very clear vision of myself this summer fault-finding with Michigan's dreaded heat and humidity had me laughing out loud. Yep, I got it (I mean even I have my limits of denseness ): Find the joy in every moment. The rest of the day had me wringing every minute of extraordinary out of it.

As evening comes now, the boys are all doing their nighttime things: my oldest is playing guitar hero (dreaming of his own band someday) and my middle guy is watching AFV (which is ALWAYS on somewhere in the world) and giggling at the babies and pratfalls (unless someone gets hurt and then I hear him say "hey, that's not funny"...which I love about him). My youngest has already been tucked into bed (protesting the whole way that he isn't sleepy), but is breathing evenly and completely silent by the time my foot hits the bottom stair.

The shadows are falling now as I swivel in my office chair and I turn my face toward the creamsicle light and wait for the last of it to melt down. I close my eyes so tightly that I see turquoise flashes on the backs of my lids like my own personal light show. I listen to Asia "Heat of the Moment" on my iPod with old school walk-man headphones (caught indefinitely between 1989 & 2011 and loving every minute of it ) and I shut out the sounds of the house behind me... the doggies, the dishwasher and the extra spin cycle of the washing machine. I can feel the dimness coming and my smile fades with the light...like the setting sun controls the corners of my mouth. But before the sun sets for good it flares one more time into brightness and my mouth curls up again and I delight in the idea that there's always something to be joyful about if I'd only just open my eyes a little wider.

ps...no surprise here, but our pupper got the right idea long before me... :)

BUT WAIT...THERE'S MORE!!

I was gaffawing and almost spit water through my nose this evening when I read the following online headline :

"Celine Dion's Exercise Trick"

Umm...ohhh....oooo, me...me... pick me.. I know what it is!!!  SHE'S CRAZY HORSE RICH AND 10 FEET TALL... For the low low price of $19,950,000.99 per Vegas show and a painful and costly surgery to lengthen my stubby gnome-like legs, I too can have Celine's Secret Exercise Trick...

Remind me to add that to MY workout regimen tomorrow morning!!

(ps....itty bitty disclaimer here...I never did actually click the link to see what the "trick" was....I was to busy trying to save myself from drowning in my own glass of water)

(pss...yes, yes...I know... she seems like a perfectly lovely woman...not hatin' just sayin')

(psss...in the interest of full disclosure...I was also making short work of a ginormous chocolate/peanut butter filled Easter egg ((that was the a demo for my son's youth group sale)) while reading this little ditty...don't judge....it was either that or gluten free crackers...I mean...come on!!)

"The Right and Wrong Way to Deliver Funeral Arrangements" Or "The Day I Almost Got Rubbed Out"

Sit down children. I want to tell you a little story. A story that shows that even in times of great loss; there can be great laughter…well, for my sister and me anyhow.

Picture it: Sicily, 1932....no wait, that's another short Italian...

Oh yeah. Eastpointe, 1995....

My uncle got my sister and me a sweet (pun intended...cheap but it was there) gig delivering flowers on Sweetest Day. We were working for a big florist in the Detroit area (starts with a "V" and ends with an "iano"). It was easy, really...wearing a uniform of jeans, sweatshirts and work boots; we would pick up and drop off flowers all day long. We got to drive a gigantic white van with sketchy steering. If you wanted to change lanes, you had to twirl the wheel about 3 times...it was very entertaining; almost like the witch's wheel at Cedar Point.

Things were going great. We ate and drank and laughed, all punctuated with the joy of delivering flowers to sweethearts across the Metro Detroit Area. What girl could ask for a better day? AND...To top it all off, I had called in sick to my regular J.O.B. for this little sanity break. The day was all rainbows and flowers and Big Macs and Lattes.
UNTIL...we stopped back at the shop for our next delivery.  My uncle seemed a little harried...which is saying something because he's usually so laid back you'd think he was high on his "Macho Man"cologne. Anywho, there seemed to be a lack of drivers and there was an important delivery that had to go out to a funeral home. My sissy and I were standing off to the side out of the way of all the commotion when my uncle spotted us (apparently there's only so much big hair you can hide behind foliage).

"Hey, you two, Come 'ere. I wants you two to go take these flowers over to "Super Italian Name Funeral Home". (The name has been changed to protect the aunt and mother of my children)

Sounded reasonable...so we nodded our heads okay and started loading up the truck. We were given directions and no further instructions. Easy ,peasy chicken pleasey...no problemo...just another delivery by the professional drivers from "V's" florist.  On our 25 minute drive we talked and laughed and had no inkling of the foolishness to come.

When we pulled up to "Dearly Departed Guido's are Our Business" we kind of scoped things out. I parked the van in the front row, and we hopped out and grabbed a bunch of the arrangements. We knew this was a somber occasion and we put on our best "condolence" faces. We walked through the front doors and looked for the little sign that said "Old-as-Dirt Italian So and So in here". The parlor was to the left, so we headed in with arms full of flowers. We quietly went to the front, so as not to disturb the wailing mourners, and started arranging the flowers around the casket (which either held Yoda or someone's great grandma).

There were various pillars and stands, and Mary and I conscientiously placed each arrangement for the maximum effect; debating the merits of one stand over another. We made sure each one is a little slice of paradise in its own right. As we worked, I realized the strident wails have died down. It's right around now that my Spidey senses kicked in. Mary and I shared a look that said "do we turn around?" We cowgirl up and did to find all twenty-ish people in the room staring open mouthed at us. The "Wailer" (every good Italian funeral has one) on the couch has her hanky over her mouth and she's shaking her head in confusion looking at us and then back to "Grandma Yoda" and back to us, and I now knew that something is probably not right.

Because Mary and I have the uni-mind, we circumspectly put down any un-positioned flowers and begin to back slowly out of the room. We spied one of the relatives marching back toward the office. Now I was sure some thing's off. We turned and booked it to the door with the funeral director in hot pursuit. I jumped in the driver's seat and started to take off as Mary hopped in the passenger's seat. The big van lumbered out of the parking, lot mostly on two wheels, and I put the pedal to the metal and went from zero to 35 in ...well like 2 minutes honestly, but we made our not-so-clean get-away.

Yep...something was definitely wrong with the execution of that delivery. We drove all the way back to "Vs" (in the "no cell phone smaller than a Buick" era) and asked my uncle exactly where and how one delivers funeral floral arrangements.

It seems that there is a door AT THE BACK OF THE FUNERAL HOME where one drops off arrangements to the blooo-bi-dee-blah FUNERAL DIRECTOR!! Drivers do not, in fact, arrange flowers around the casket themselves; however conscientiously and enthusiastically they "undertake" this task.
In my minds eye, I see Grandma Yoda's family laughing about this in the years following; praising us for bringing levity to a difficult day. "Thank God for those girls", they say over cannolis and coffee. "If we could only find them thank them personally."
In truth, my sister and I were saved having to move out of state only because we know people. I have never gone back to "V's" Florist. I have, in fact, been back to "Bring Us Your Deadiano's" funeral home. I just kept my hanky over my face while crying softly, "mia culpa, mia culpa".