Lizzy's Christmas

Since Christmas is a time for presents, I thought my cat might like a little something under the tree (figuratively, of course, since Lizzy bites, scratches, and in general destroys anything actually under the tree). At first I thought maybe she would like new toys: a ball, a mouse, some string… However, after a thorough cleaning of my apartment, I discovered many of Lizzy’s old toys hiding out under the sofa and beneath the bookshelves and so forth. Lizzy eyed the toys with newfound joy in her little green eyes, as if she had never before played with them. As any good parent knows, there is no need to waste good money on new toys when old ones will suffice.

I moved onto Christmas present idea number two: catnip. What better way to say “Merry Christmas” than with a little kitty crack. One hit and Lizzy would mellow out and forget about her ongoing war with the Christmas tree. She would hang out on the couch and start using words like “dude,” and “awesome,” while insisting the floor is moving and admiring the “pretty lights” dancing in front of her eyes. Catnip would bring peace on earth and good will for men (or, at least, for woman. Specifically, me.) Alas, the catnip was nixed when I learned that the stuff may not affect cats less than a year old. Oh well. Next year, perhaps.

What to do now? Christmas was fast approaching and I was out of ideas. I chatted with Lizzy, but she was not helping at all. She insisted she didn’t want anything, but I knew better. She ALWAYS wants something. Just as I was about the throw my hands up in despair, the perfect idea presented itself. A co-worker was looking to find a good home for her 8 month old neutered male cat, Rufus, a Pixie Bobtail who had the unwitting talent of making his owner’s allergic husband sick. The price was right (free) and so was the situation (fixed, shots current, gets along with other animals). Hmm…What better way to celebrate the holidays with my property-destroying, rambunctious cat than by getting a SECOND potentially property-destroying rambunctious cat! I am a genius!

Before you question my sanity (as indeed, I have done in the last 24 hours), I must explain the conclusion I finally came to. Cats are like tattoos. The first one is a huge commitment. You fret about the permanence of it all, attempting to imagine said tattoo after 60 years of wrinkles and sagging skin. After perfecting the speech you will one day give to your future children about why mommy has a sun on her ankle, you finally take the leap and get inked. Once you are marked for life, it’s all downhill from there. The decision for a second tattoo is made in the tattoo parlor as you wait for your younger sister to get her belly-button pierced. Forty-five minutes later, you have a pair of permanent commitments. No big deal. They can keep each other company.

At this point, I should say that like tattoos, cats do have their limits. More than two tattoos can carry the implication of white trash. More than two cats… Well, you may as well hang a sign over your door reading “Beware of the Cat Lady. She was once normal, but her house now smells of tuna and dirty litter.” As no one I know personally is all that fond of white trash cat ladies whose houses smell of tuna and dirty litter, I think two tattoos and two cats will be my personal limit.

So, what does Lizzy think about her Christmas present? I talked it over with her last night and explained that she will soon have a brother. I made sure she knows that mommy has enough love for everyone. Lizzy is wary, but I do believe she is willing to give it a try. We shall see, when I bring Rufus home with me tonight. Until then, this story is…

To Be Continued…

Uesdentnrd Tihs

The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid: Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Amzanig huh?

Lizzy vs. The Tree

What do you get when you put a six month old cat and a Christmas tree in the same room? A Battle of Wills (cat) vs. Strength (tree).

Day 1: I assemble the Christmas tree with full and complete knowledge of the forthcoming battle. I have not been lulled into believing that this same Lizzy, who has destroyed a pair of dress pants, a bathroom towel, two glass candle holders, the cover of a book, and several pairs of socks, has magically reformed overnight. However, I will not be held in Scrooge-like, tree-less captivity to a mere cat. I seek to strengthen my position by screaming like a mad-woman every time she approaches the tree. Alas, my efforts go unrewarded, and the day ends with Lizzy dangling from the tree by a ribbon, looking down unconcernedly at a broken ornament on the floor. I scold Lizzy and she looks at me, all “Hello. Ribbon. Cat. What do you expect?” Lizzy: 1. Tree: 0.

Day 2: I come home from work to find two ornaments lying on the ground, one directly beneath the tree and one across the room. They are both intact and unharmed. Lizzy: 1. Tree: 1. Lizzy’s response to her foiled efforts at tree destruction:

Day 3: I wake up and immediately head to the living room with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The night before, Lizzy had become more brazen in her attacks (having the audacity to assault the tree while I was still in the room), and I half-expect to find the entire thing on the ground. As it is, two branches have been pulled out of their sockets and a string of lights hangs limply in empty air. The tree skirt no longer performs the function for which it was intended (namely, encircling the tree), but instead huddles in the corner, a lump of maroon and gold disappointment. Lizzy: 2. Tree: 1. Lizzy’s reaction to my disapproval:

Day 4: I wake up. All is quiet and still. A peace has settled over the apartment. I go into the living room to find the tree standing tall, no ornaments on the floor, all lights in place, all branches attached. Lizzy is looking at the tree with a sort of resignation in her eyes. A tacit truce has been called, with the score tied at 2 to 2.

We’ll see how long that lasts…

Crazy Faith

I recently read the blog of Erich Vieth (http://dangerousintersection.org/?p=1734#more-1734), a non-Christian who, in his own words, “like[s] to go to church while playing the role of ‘anthropologist.’” I initially read the blog because Vieth, as an “outsider,” posted a review of my church, The Journey. While Vieth took issue with Pastor Darrin Patrick’s interpretation of Proverbs 1:7 (“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge”) and the terminology of “God’s children,” his overall impression of the Journey was fairly positive. Vieth had good things to say about the attitude of the leaders and members, saying that this was a church “not based upon fear, oppression, or bigotry.” (Vieth also took note of the above-average looks of our congregation members. Had I not been in attendance the Sunday of his visit, I would have said his observation was humorous bordering on superficial; as I was in attendance that Sunday, I think it is safe to assume he was talking about me.) Vieth went on to say that he did not believe in the truth of Bible stories, but “despite the many assertions about God, crucifixion and heaven, I am convinced that those who attend The Journey include lots of good-hearted and decent folks and I’m glad for them that they have each other and that the community receives the benefit of their good works.”

While his comments about my church were interesting, I was more intrigued by Vieth’s declaration of his own beliefs. He advocates for a church that gives up “oxymoronic beliefs” to form a co-op strictly for the purpose of community outreach: “Why assert impossible beliefs? Why claim that dead people become alive and that invisible beings concern themselves with our lives?”

Unlike Mr. Vieth, I hold tight to the “oxymoronic beliefs” of the church. Theology was practically fed to me through my baby bottle. I take Jesus’ virgin birth, crucifixion and resurrection as a matter-of-fact, rarely considering the absolute absurdity of such beliefs. I mean, who believes in a dead-man-waking or a flood that covered the entire earth? The answer is, of course, crazy people. No wonder Erich Vieth and millions like him can’t accept Christianity. It’s a religion for the insane.

When I stop to think about it, I see that the beauty of Christianity is actually in the insane. There is something awesome about a holy, all-knowing, all-powerful God desiring a relationship with me so much that He will break all the rules to make it possible. Walk on water? Sure, if it means You will trust Me. Raise the dead? In order to save you from eternal death, you better believe it! Christianity is crazy, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Christianity is “insane,” and it is also all too often a haven for the lazy. In the words of Mr. Vieth: “I’ve…noticed a nonchalance among most ‘believers.’ They chant fantastic beliefs in the pews, but rarely talk about these things once they are back home after church. How often have you heard a Believer exclaim, in the middle of a dinner or movie or baseball game: ‘I am just so happy that Jesus died on the Cross for me!’ If they really believed this, it would come out all the time, I believe.”

Vieth could be describing me. He is, in fact, describing the attitude I have most of the time. I am so focused on what I might lose in following Christ that I live a sort of half-life, immersed in fear of God’s requirements and missing out on the joy of complete surrender. When an “outsider” looks at me, he sees a virtual slave following a mad religion. If that’s not a turn-off to Christianity, I don’t know what is.

The first step towards correcting any problem is recognizing the existence of said problem. I have subconsciously known about the intellectual roadblocks to Christianity for a long time, but I have up until now successfully brushed them under the rug with a simple, “God is in charge.” God is in charge, but that does not excuse my culpability. What right do I have to bemoan my struggles with sacrifice and say the Christian life is too hard when so many others struggle with truth itself? I know in my soul what is true and right. I never lose sleep wondering which religion I should follow, if any. I know God died for me and saved me from myself. All I have to do is let go, and that with the power of the Holy Spirit.

I know the Holy Spirit is available to unbelievers as well as Christians (or else no one would find Christ), but it seems to me that those not raised with a conviction of the validity of the church’s claims have so many more hurdles to overcome. While I have my problems and idols and questions with God, I ultimately trust that He is there to finish the good work He started in me. When I start to feel sorry for myself, I need to remember those who have no relationship with a personal Savior, no hope that this life has a purpose or that there is a life beyond this earthly one. Obsession with my struggles is really just disguised pride. Looking beyond myself is the only way to see what’s going on in the rest of the world. Seeing the world, inserting myself into the world, testifying of Christ to the world: that is my mission. Faith in action is the only proof strong enough to convince the Erich Vieths of the world that the Bible and, subsequently God, can be trusted. That is the way God designed it to work; since He is the Supreme Being and all, I should probably take that to heart every day.

Scare-dy Cat

Happy Halloween!

Blue Like Jazz

When one person recommends that I read a certain book, I smile and nod. I might think about putting it on my long “to-be-read” book list. When another person recommends the same book, I smile and nod some more, and then write the name on the long “to-be-read” book list. When a third, fourth, and fifth person touts praises for the book, I break down and buy a copy on Amazon or head to the library. More often than not, I find that the book lives up to the hype. Such is the case with Donald Miller’s book, “Blue Like Jazz: Non-Religious Thoughts On Christian Spirituality.”

Blue Like Jazz is highly engaging; once you begin reading, the book is hard to put down. Miller’s stories are both witty and insightful. He paints a picture of God and Christianity in a light I had never before imagined, drawing from his own life journey as the child of a single mother, a partying teenager struggling with the concept of God, a young Christian on a godless college campus, and a single guy coming to grips with his fear of intimacy. A book that entertains, convicts, and encourages all at once is a rare find. But don’t take my word for it. Here are a few of my favorite fun passages (you’ll have to read the book yourself to find the deeper nuggets of truth):

** “Some of my friends have left their churches and gone Greek Orthodox. I think that sounds cool. Greek Orthodox. Unless you are Greek. Then it sounds like that is where you are supposed to go, as though you are a conformist. If I were Greek, I would never go to a Greek Orthodox church. If I were Greek, I would go to a Baptist church. Everybody there would think I was exotic and cool.”

** “I understand you can learn a great deal about girldom by reading Pride and Prejudice, and I own a copy, but I have never read it. I tried. It was given to me by a girl with a little note inside that read: What is in this book is the heart of a woman. I am sure the heart of a woman is pure and lovely, but the first chapter of said heart is hopelessly boring. Nobody dies at all. I keep the book on my shelf because girls come into my room, sit on my couch, and eye the books on the adjacent shelf. You have a copy of Pride and Prejudice, they exclaim in a gentle sigh and smile. Yes, I say. Yes, I do.”

** “I know from personal experience that you should not keep telling a girl that you like her after she tells you she isn’t into it. You should not keep riding your bike by her house either.”

** "Living in community sounded so, um, odd. Cults do that sort of thing, you know. First you live in community, and then you drink punch and die. It was [Pastor] Rick's idea, though, and he seemed fairly normal in all the other areas of his life. He never mentioned anything about a spaceship traveling behind a comet. He never asked us to store weapons or peanut butter, so I figured the thing about living in community was on the up-and-up...The other thing is that, at the time, I was pushing thirty and still not married. When you are thirty and not married and you move in with a bunch of guys, you look like you have given up, like you are a bunch of losers who live together so you can talk about computers and share video games...Rick kept bothering me about it. I was living way out in the country, about 30 miles from town...He asked if I had the chance to minister to anybody out there in the country. He asked if I was having any influence on the cows. I told him I was having a lot of influence. I wrote books. He laughed. I sat there uncomfortably while he laughed. "Books," he said, "Brilliant! You write books for people." He couldn't stop laughing. He was being very annoying."

I Have No Words Today...

...Just watch and be amazed:

http://birdloversonly.blogspot.com/2007/09/may-i-have-this-dance.html

The SPSRT

Once upon a time, there existed a phrase within the English language that stirred inside me a sense of elation and exhilaration. A phrase representing freedom and spontaneity. Six beautiful words I could not say no to: “Let’s go on a road trip.”

Ah. The road trip. A sweet, blissful rambling off the beaten path. A car carrying a cooler, a map, and a tent. No agenda. No plans. Just you, your friends, and the open road. How I used to love to hear those words, “Let’s go on a road trip.” How I prized my naïve belief that the phrase “road trip” suggested the use of an actual road: a highway or byway with a yellow line and speed signs and asphalt, a pathway to real freedom.

Then, one fateful day, my simple dream was shattered. I remember it well: the first time my boss asked, “Would you like to go on a road trip?” My heart beat faster, my eyes lit up with excitement. The physical response to the words “road trip” was natural, like Pavlov’s salivating dog. I could no more control my reaction than a baby can control his bowel movements. A solemn ceremony of fast food, rest stops, and getting lost had been engrained inside me, body and soul, since college.

Alas, my joy was short-lived. The boss followed his question with a request to take a report to the fourth floor. The fourth floor of this building? Yes. You mean, the building that I’m standing in right now? Yes. So, there’s no actual road involved in this road trip? That’s right.

No drive in the car. No cheesy picture taken at the state line. Nothing more than a tedious task involving a walk just beyond the five foot perimeter of my cubicle. My vision of the road trip had come crashing down around me.

Many months have passed since that first encounter. I became so used to the boss’s blatant disregard of such a sacred phrase that I became numb from the pain. I didn’t so much take issue with him asking me to help him out (even though the mail room is very efficient in same-day delivery. But, I digress). What hurt me was the sullying of the words “road trip” with such a lowly, commonplace connotation.

My healing process has been slow and riddled with setbacks. I could not go to the source of the problem, as the likelihood of me addressing my concerns to the boss was about the same as monkeys flying up from the center of the earth to knit booties with their lizard friends who play the violin. Instead, I enrolled in an intensive program of therapy to recapture the true meaning of the road trip. However, I was forced to quit when the therapist began calling my visits to him “road trips,” effectively destroying all hope of injecting freedom and irresponsibility back into the phrase. Finally, I took action and formed the Society for the Preservation of The Sacred Road Trip (SPSRT). My steps towards recovery have since been slow, but I know complete healing is not beyond my grasp.

As I continue on my path to victory, I ask that you, my family, friends and future co-members of the SPSRT, lend me your support. Do your part: reclaim the lost meaning of the road trip! Don’t become part of the problem by saddling those beautiful words with drudgery and responsibility! Pry that sense of adventure away from the jaws of the mundane!

Take back the road trip!

One Less

Did you know there are still people in the world who have never been to Panera Bread? I once believed that, with the current ratio of people to Paneras, this was a statistical near-impossibility. Surely, with no less than four Panera Bread restaurants within a two mile radius of my workplace, there can be no such thing as a Panera Newbie. My recent lunch experience has taught me otherwise:

12:15. (15 minutes left of my lunch break) I park my car at Panera Bread, excited to snag a spot close to the door. I feel pretty good about my odds of getting a bagel and cream cheese to go with plenty of time to spare.

12:15 and 30 seconds. I head over to the bakery, where two people are standing in line: a young lady and her boyfriend/date/companion/whatever. Perfect. I will be in and out in no time.

12:16. I scan the bakery window. I decide on a blueberry bagel with raspberry cream cheese.

12:17. I notice that the young man in front of me has finished ordering and is waiting for his girlfriend/date/companion/whatever. The young lady wants a sandwich. Only bakery items are listed on the bakery menu, so the lady behind the register gives her a sandwich menu.

12:18. The young lady asks the Panera worker for sandwich suggestions. The worker gives her a few ideas. The young lady studies the menu. The young man glances in my direction. I look at my watch. I still feel pretty good, as work is less than five minutes from the restaurant.

12:19. The young lady wants to know the difference between two sauces. The worker walks over to the sandwich counter to get samples.

12:21. The worker brings back the sauces and the girl declares that she doesn’t like either of them. I look at my watch. If I don’t get my bagel in exactly four minutes, I will be late.

12:22. The young lady selects a sandwich. She asks her boyfriend/date/companion/whatever if she should choose an apple, chips, or bread for her side item. He looks as if he could care less. I glance compulsively at my watch every 20 seconds, as if time will stand still by my mere effort. I grudgingly accept the fact that I will be late.

12:24. The young lady decides on chips. She is now faced with a beverage choice. The possibilities seem to overwhelm her. I tap my foot on the floor, the last of my patience failing.

12:26. The worker lists all café drinks, their ingredients, and how they are prepared. The young lady chooses lemonade.

12:27. The worker totals the lunch: $16.45. The young lady looks up at the young man. “Shoot. $16. Are you kidding me?” The young man shrugs and pulls out a twenty. He pays the worker. The young lady continues to marvel over the cost of lunch.

12:28. I order. I get my bagel and cream cheese and pay. My order takes less than 60 seconds.

12:30. I head back to work at the time when I should be at work. I attempt to comfort myself by the thought that there is now one less Panera Newbie in the world. To that young lady, I would like to say: Welcome to a world where you can get hopped up on caffeine, fattened on pastries, and robbed by salads and sandwiches you can make at home for half the cost. May you be fortunate enough to one day break in your own Panera Newbie.

Oh, and to God: You can stop laughing now. I’ll never ask you to teach me patience again.

The Person That I Used to Be

I was cleaning out my filing cabinet this weekend when I found a stack of old college term papers and high school play newspaper clippings. Anyone who has ever stumbled onto a piece of the past while cleaning knows that what should have been a simple, half hour job suddenly morphs into a multi-hour process. When faced with a choice to continue working or take a leisurely stroll down memory lane, I chose the latter. (To be perfectly honest, when faced with a choice to clean or do almost anything else – say, alphabetize my DVDs or count the number of people walking past my apartment in the space of twenty minutes – I will inevitably make my choice based on the thing that least resembles work.)

While my weekend “work” didn’t really achieve anything tangible other than covering a perfectly clean floor with piles of junk, my jaunt back to the past did teach me quite a few things about the person that I used to be. For those of you who didn’t know me 10 to 15 years ago, I present to you a little enlightenment:

§ I was short. Evidence: A fellow cast member signed my play program with a running joke: “How’s the weather down there?” (People tell me that I am still short, but I have since come to the conclusion that the rest of the world is freakishly tall.)

§ I was interested in women in history. Evidence: Two college term papers titled “Women of the Protestant Reformation” and “Social Implications of The Salem Witch Trials.”

§ I liked to sound really smart. Evidence: The title of the aforementioned term paper: “Social Implications of the Salem Witch Trials.”

§ I was really smart. Evidence: All of the term papers received A’s. (Although, I suppose that is why I saved them. My conclusion is probably skewed based on selective evidence. No matter. My conclusion will stand because I am smart, and I say so.)

§ I was (am) a pack rat. Evidence: My original rehearsal schedule for The Sound of Music. (Yes, I was (am) that sad.)

§ I was funny. Evidence: A cast member’s note on a program: “You are funny.”

§ I was proud of my achievements. Evidence: the keeping of term papers, newspaper clippings, and notes from classmates telling me that I am funny, and then writing about them on my blog.

Waxing Poetic on Fall

Summer is a social gathering, a call to come out and play. Autumn is private…quiet…peaceful. She steels over the party, voice soft and firm. The noise and thrill of pool parties and baseball games and vacations melt beneath her touch, replaced by the secluded pleasure of reading a book by candlelight, keeping company with heroes and villains.

Summer exposes, with its cloudless skies and bright sunshine; autumn hides in the shadows of shortened days. Her weakened light casts a silent spell over the earth: a hush falling with the leaves, nature’s voices veiled to match the quieting landscape.

The sky feels her presence and turns cold. Humans take cover: tanned arms clothed in wool, summer sandaled-toes stuffed into slippers and boots. Crawling beneath warm blankets, they find a safe escape. Heads covered, chins tucked in close …they peek out at the world without the intrusion of the world peeking back.

Autumn sends out her invitation, a summons into the solitude of hibernation. She speaks with every cup of hot tea, every morning breath frozen in air, every step muffled by fallen leaves: “Slow down…Quiet each movement and thought and word…Hide away.”

Wisdom from Gilead

I recently finished reading the Pulitzer Prize winning book Gilead, a beautiful little piece of fiction that requires slow, contemplative reading. Marilynne Robinson writes from the perspective of a small-town Midwestern pastor jotting down letters to his son. While a slender plot does exist, the real treasures of the book are the words of wisdom and powerful prose sprinkled throughout the pages. It is very hard to leave the life of this gentle, Christ-centered narrator behind without being challenged or changed in some way.

Here are my 10 favorite quotes from Gilead:

§ “Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see.”

§ “Love is holy because it is like grace – the worthiness of its object is never what really matters.”

§ “People tend to forget that we are to love our enemies, not to satisfy some standard of righteousness, but because God their father loves them.”

§ “Every day is holy, but the Sabbath is set apart so that the holiness of time can be experienced.”

§ “Calvin says somewhere that each of us is an actor on a stage and God is the audience. That metaphor has always interested me, because it makes us artists of our behavior…How well do we understand our role? With how much assurance do we perform it?...I do like Calvin’s image, because it suggests how God might actually enjoy us.”

§ “Remembering my youth makes me aware that I never really had enough of it, it was over before I was done with it.”

§ “These people who can see right through you never quite do you justice, because they never give you credit for the effort you’re making to do better than you actually are, which is difficult and well meant and deserving of some little notice.”

§ “Sometimes I have loved the peacefulness of an ordinary Sunday. It is like standing in a newly planted garden after a warm rain. You can feel the silent and invisible life. All it needs from you is that you take care not to trample on it.”

§ “You can know a thing to death and be for all purposes completely ignorant of it. A man can know his father, or his son, and there might still be nothing between them but loyalty and love and mutual incomprehension.”

§ “There are a thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.”

The Art of the Post-It Note

Art is the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Art is an Ansel Adams photograph of Yosemite National Park. Art is a wall full of post-it notes.

Today I came across the article posted below. I added it to my blog because it reaffirms my belief in the dual nature of art: it can be as complex and colorful as an ancient tapestry, or as quiet and simple as a two sentence poem. One does not need to be a genius in sculpting or master watercolors or have the voice of Josh Groban to create art. All you need is a little bit of imagination.

Enough rambling. Here’s the article:

College Student Posts Colorful Creation
By Elizabeth Landau - CNN

For most people, Post-it Notes are disposable, ordinary office papers used for note-taking and reminders. But for 19-year-old David Alvarez of Leavenworth, Washington, they were the perfect medium for a 10-foot-tall mosaic depicting Ray Charles.



Using more than 2,000 of those ubiquitous brightly-colored sticky scraps, Alvarez composed a three-dimensional representation of the famous musician. The piece has just gone on display at Wenatchee Valley College in Wenatchee, Washington, where Alvarez is in his second year of studies.

"It's something so simple. You can still see the flaps sticking out on some of them," he said. "Naturally the Post-it Note just sort of flaps out."

While learning new techniques in Adobe Photoshop in a class, he experimented with taking a photograph of Ray Charles and making it look like a mosaic on the computer screen. He then translated this idea into the Post-it work.

He spent three months constructing the mosaic, sometimes sacrificing schoolwork for his art. At least one of his papers for his summer English courses suffered, but he persevered so that he could participate in an art show July 28 at the Stanley Civic Center in Wenatchee.

Originally, the Post-it Notes stayed in this unique format only by virtue of their manufactured stickiness, which does not hold up as well as glue, Alvarez found. When he displayed his work at the show, he monitored the project for 14 hours, continuously replacing notes that were falling off. The aspiring art teacher now uses glue to hold the notes in place.

For his next project, he is considering a mosaic using 4-inch x 4-inch notes, up from the 3-inch x 3-inch size used in the Ray Charles piece.

"Part of me wants to, part of me doesn't," he said. "It was so hard to align. It took a lot of time and patience."

The Offering

All I have to offer you is bitterness and pain,
A heart of deepest darkness, stained with blackest shame.
All I have to give to you is stubborn, foolish pride,
A will that had forsaken truth to follow tempting lies.
All I have to show to You: a broken, wounded soul,
Shattered in a million pieces, longing to be whole.
Nothing left to give away: an empty, wasted life,
An angry child of hatred imprisoned in my strife.

How can I give to you, the King, the worst of all I am?
How dare I come before you now and in your presence stand?
What right have I to plead for grace and speak your sacred name?
How can I beg for unearned help when I bear all the blame?

I wait in fear for you to speak, trembling with guilt and dread,
I expect the verdict that I deserve, but instead, you lift my head.
You gently wipe my tearstained face and whisper in my ear,
“Your guilt has all been swept away, fear has no power here.
Draw near to me, my precious one, and hear what you should know.
Your once-lost life has been made clean, as pure as fresh new snow.
Your stubborn heart, your life of pride, your sin and your mistakes
That’s all I ever ask for, that’s what I long to take.”

The Cost of Unconditional Love

Whoever said that unconditional love is free never owned a cat.

I had no idea how expensive love actually is until the day a tiny yellow kitten showed up on my parent’s back porch. Lizzy was one big ball of fluff, with a sweet little face and a tail two sizes too big for her body. You could hold her in the palm of one hand, and her pathetic “mew” wouldn’t frighten a cricket. She seemed so innocent, so perfect. This little beauty could not possibly be THAT much trouble, right? It took me exactly two hours to realize that this tiny life would create more-than-tiny changes to MY life.

My first inkling of a major change came when I set out to buy all those little odds and ends associated with owning a cat: carrier, scratching post, collar, litter box and litter, food, toys, nail clippers, brush, food and water bowls. Total cost of the first shopping trip: $80.

Rescuing a stray cat is all very noble, until you discover that your new bundle of joy has brought home a bad case of ear mites. Whoever came up with the name “mites” definitely got the terminology correct, because you “might” be able to kill them, they “might” not come back, and you “might” or “might not” destroy your sheets, clothes, curtains, and every other piece of material you own after multiple washings. I also must not forget the bliss of countless ear cleanings both at home and at the vet’s, which results in Lizzy glaring at me as if I had repeatedly smacked her over the head. This whole process is in addition to receiving two doses of Revolution parasite protection, which I now firmly believe causes the ear mites to grow back even hardier. Total cost of medicine and cleanings at the vet: $87. Total labor: I stopped counting after the 10th ear cleaning.




When Lizzy was 2 months old, I came home to the sad, pathetic sound of muffled crying. After a few minutes of searching, I realized that she was trapped behind the kitchen cabinets somewhere between the pantry and the dishwasher. Lizzy had somehow managed to open a kitchen drawer (without the benefit of opposable thumbs), crawl BEHIND the drawer, and get stuck behind the cabinets. I spent no less than 10 minutes crouching on my knees in a dress and heels, sticking my hand through the hole and calling to her before she figured out how to climb back out of the drawer. The next day I child-proofed every cabinet and drawer in the kitchen and bathroom. Total cost: $15. Total labor: 1½ hours, including the time it took for me to re-assemble a drawer that came apart in the process.


Next came the 3 rounds of shots that every kitten is required to receive. Leukemia, rabies, pet Alzheimer prevention…whatever. I have no idea what they do. I just know they cost a lot. Total cost: $240. Total labor: 2½ hours at the vet.

Last month, Lizzy learned to climb my dresser by sticking her feet into the handles. Just two days ago, she discovered that she is now big enough to jump up onto the bathroom sink and the kitchen counter. This means that every last refuge for my breakables is officially gone, a fact that became reality when I discovered a broken candle holder at the bottom of my bathtub. I have now begun showering in flip flops, a practice which I plan to continue until I am absolutely sure there are no more shards of glass left. Total cost: $10 so far… Total labor: 30 minutes and counting, as I am still finding pieces of glass…

Tomorrow, Lizzy will go to the vets to get spayed. The cost of the surgery is actually quite reasonable, thanks to the low-cost fixing program established by the Humane Society. However, the vet’s over-booked surgery schedule means that I must take her in on a weekday. Total cost: $29 and a ½ vacation day from work. Total labor: estimated 45-60 minutes for drop off/pick up.

At this point, any sane person would ask themselves if all this is worth the effort. Lizzy is just a cat, right? She will not make me a messy painting which I will pretend is a masterpiece at the level of a Monet. She will not throw her arms around me and give me a kiss goodbye on her way to school. She will not grow up to take care of me in my old age. Why pay the cost for a seemingly useless creature who will disobey me, get into almost constant trouble, and even ignore me on occasion? The long answer is fairly complicated and will not be understood by non-pet owners. However, I will do my best to explain:

Every day without fail (except for the day of the cabinet incident), Lizzy meets me at the front door, already purring by the time I pick her up and scratch her ears. She waits outside my bedroom door every morning and when I let her in, she clambers all over me and showers me with “kisses.” When I am reading, she unceremoniously plops herself down on my lap and wraps her little paws around her face before falling asleep. If I leave the room for an extended period of time, she always leaves whatever toy has her occupied at the moment to come look for me. She makes me laugh at least once a day, what with her obsession with the ceiling fan and cardboard boxes. The truth is, I don’t even count the cost when I see her sweet little face. She loves me no matter what, and you can’t put a price tag on that.

I suppose the short answer for why I bother is the same reason God bothers with us. No “sane” being would pay such a high price for people who mock him, spit on him, and nail him to a cross. But God’s love has no limits. He paid the ultimate “Total cost” when He sent His Son to die in our place. His “Total labor” is never-ending: As long as humans draw breath on this earth, He will be gently guiding us back to Himself.

Lizzy’s unconditional love can never compare to what God has done and continues to do for me. But my slightly insane cat has taught me this very important lesson: Unconditional love is not free. When it comes to my salvation, I thank God that I do not have to pay the cost.

The Ultimate Easter Egg Hunt

How cool is an Easter egg hunt? All you need to do to possess candy, gum, and money is simply LOOK for it. The concept is so awesome that I would like to be the first advocate for the institution of the Easter Egg Hunt Policy at my job: I go to work, search under my desk, find my paycheck, and go home.

So maybe the Easter Egg Hunt Policy won’t catch on in the workplace anytime soon. But that doesn’t mean we should give up on egg hunts, just because we aren’t children anymore. Let me explain…

I recently visited the Cathedral Cave, a cavern in the Ozarks first discovered by Fair and Everett Pinnell in 1919. When I walked through the entrance, I saw all the usual things associated with caves: drippy-wet stalactites and stalagmites, clammy walls, bats hanging from the ceiling. What I was not prepared for, however, was the absolute magnitude of the place. Cathedral Cave was a world all of its own, with gently sloping hills, rock formations shining with geodes, a collapsed bridge that once separated two different “floors,” and canyons plunging far beneath my feet. This secret society was host to many inhabitants, including Pipistrelles and myotine bats, camel crickets, wolf spiders, pickerel frogs, and the very interesting grotto salamander.

Our tour guide led us to a stream on the floor of the cave to look for the grotto salamander. These strange lizards are born with completely clear skin. Having never lived under the sun, the salamanders have no use for pigmentation. They are born with eyes, but as there is no light to see with, skin usually grows over them when they become adults. When our guide spotted a salamander, she instructed us to shine our flashlights slightly away from him; his sensitive system could not handle a direct beam of light.

An hour later, as we were trudging out of the cave and back into the bright light of day, I started thinking about the Pinnell brothers. They had been out exploring one day, never expecting that they would stumble onto an entire underground world never before seen in all of recorded history. Had they decided to stay home that day, the cave might still be another undiscovered mystery buried in the earth. All that beauty, wasted on the blind grotto salamander! I asked myself why God would spend so much time on a place that might never have been seen by human eyes. Then, it struck me: God is the inventor of the Ultimate Easter Egg Hunt.

Imagine God sneaking around the earth, giggling to himself as he hides a hollowed-out cave here or a waterfall there. He is pouring water into a ravine and touching His hand to a lake to make it sparkle, all the time anticipating the looks on His children’s faces when they discover his hidden “eggs.” He then sits back, folds his arms, and says to the human race, “Ready…Set….GO!”

Far be if for me to not take on the challenge of the hunt! I do not want to be like that grotto salamander, quietly going about my zero-pigment existence, never venturing out of my dark hole to visit the light-wielding world above. There is an entire universe of hidden “eggs” out there. God is smiling eagerly, waiting for us to find his extravagant, fabulous, beautiful wonders.

Ready, set….GO!

Life According to the Classics

As those of you who know me (which should be all of you, unless you are one who likes to read the blogs of strangers), I love to read. Despite what one certain person who calls me a book snob might think, I do in fact try to read a little bit of everything. I will, however, admit that my first love is the Classics.

The Classics are called the Classics for this obvious reason: they have withstood the test of time. Therefore it follows that the Classics are (mostly) worth the time and effort required to read them. Once the reader gets past the outdated language and the foreign customs, she will almost always find some valuable life lesson or useful tidbit of information. So as not to forget these hidden jewels, I have begun writing down my favorite quotes from the Classics. Here is a sampling of what I have discovered:

§ "Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly." (Elizabeth Bennett, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen)

§ "Let us laugh when we are laughy, as we sleep when we are sleepy." (Men's Wives, by William Thackery)

§ "Is it love to worship a saint in heaven, whom you dare not touch, who hovers above you like a cloud, which floats away from you even as you gaze? To love is to feel one being in the world at one with us, our equal in sin as well as in virtue.” (Sir Percy Blakeney, I Will Repay by Emmuska Baroness Orczy)

§ "He can hold his tongue well. That man's dumbness is wonderful to listen to." (Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy)

§ "Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage." (Feste, Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare)

§ “The destiny of Man is to unite, not to divide. If you keep on dividing you end up as a collection of monkeys throwing nuts at each other out of separate trees.” (Merlin to King Arthur, The Once and Future King by T.H. White)

I Don’t Choose Which Things Bug Me…

…but I do seem to have a rather long list. Here are just a few examples:

§ People who can’t perform basic functions in Microsoft Excel or Word
§ The voice of local radio show host Cornbread
§ Waiting in the “10 items or less” line behind some lady who is checking out her month’s worth of groceries
§ Skinny girls who wear clothes three sizes too big
§ Sunday drivers
§ Terrible books that make it to the New York Times best seller list
§ “Campers” who can’t leave home without their 200 foot RVs, tvs, air-conditioning, DVD players, and satellite dishes
§ “No right turn on red” signs
§ Green beans
§ Paying property tax at Christmas time

And not to seem too negative, I wrote down some things to think about when I am feeling irritated at people and life in general.

Things That Do Not Bug Me (And That I, In Fact, Love)
§ Self checkout lanes
§ The fast response time of my landlord when the AC breaks on the hottest day of the year
§ I-tunes
§ Co-workers who bring me food (you know who you are)
§ Autumn leaves and Starbucks chai
§ My cat curling up next to me in bed every morning
§ A library filled with books that do not suck
§ The friendly greeter at Wal-Mart
§ Down comforters
§ Friends, family, and a God who loves me despite my rather long list of things that bug me

Beer Bash or Tea Party?

One rainy afternoon not too long ago, back in those almost forgotten days before the heat wave, I sat on my couch sipping hot tea and watching the water pour down my living room window. Lizzy, my 4 month old cat, was quietly snoozing on my lap instead of her usual activities: climbing the curtains, eating flies, and falling off of bookshelves and counter-tops. As I sat there in that brief moment of quiet, I had this thought: Has my life been like a beer bash or a tea party?

The difference is, of course, obvious. A beer bash involves downing one drink after another until you are left standing in the middle of a room that keeps spinning, wearing a lampshade on your head and wondering how exactly it is that you got there in the first place. The enjoyment of each individual beer is not really important, because the real goal of a beer bash is the buzz – a high that lasts as long as the drinks.

A tea party is a much different affair. One must sit down at a tea party, because dancing with a boiling pot of water is not really all that practical. The tea should then be sipped slowly (chugging hot tea is neither safe nor socially acceptable.) The subtle flavors of earl grey, chamomile, and orange spice can only be discovered through this slow, deliberate process of enjoyment.

So there it is: the big question I pondered on that rainy day. Am I jumping from one thing to another for the thrill of the free fall itself? Or am I taking my time with life, savoring each day for what it holds? Instead of answering, I will simply turn the question back to you…
Are you living life like a beer bash or a tea party?

Pop Quiz

I would like to begin my very first entry on my very first blog with a pop quiz. Please answer the following questions (points will be deducted for cheating, making faces at the blogger, and complaining about reading long posts):

I started blogging because...

a. I like to share my thoughts
b. I love writing
c. I am bored
d. My cat stopped listening to me
e. Everyone else is doing it

The answer is: All of the above. I know, technically that wasn't an option. But if you answered correctly, then you are smart enough to be a reader on this blog. If you answered incorrectly, well, I suppose you can still keep reading because you were partially correct. Just know that you will now be moved off of the "preferred reader," "best friend of the blogger," and "VIP" lists. But you can redeem yourself by answering this next question correctly:

My screen name is tempest816 because:

a. 8/16 is my birthday
b. I love violent storms
c. I am sometimes known to create violent storms
d. Unvoiced thoughts in my head turn into violent storms
e. "Tempest816" sounds cool

The answer? "All of the above!" Are you catching on? Good! One more question:

This blog will include:

a. Favorite photos
b. Anecdotes about the crazy people around me (names may or may not be changed to protect the not-so-innocent)
c. Samples of what I am working on (poetry, stories, etc)
d. A running commentary on my super-fantastically exciting life
e. Whatever pops into my head

And the answer is.... "All of the above." If you got that one wrong, then I have one thing to say to you: In the words of my favorite local radio commercial, "You're too stupid to be here."

Until we meet again...