Does Your Gum Lose It's Flavor On Your Bedpost Overnight?

When I was a little girl I used to love gum and chew it almost compulsively, (not much has changed). I would even put a fresh piece in right as I was going to bed and my parents were coming to tuck me in. After a bit of whining, pleading, and some bargaining, we would come to a compromise. In an effort to choose his battles, my Dad would tell me to/allow me to put my gum on my bedpost overnight. I could then pick back up where I left off the following morning with a slightly stale, slightly used, and slightly disflavored piece of gum. I was in heaven.

I chewed that piece of gum right to the last morsel of flavor was gone. It became hardened, flavorless, and just plain gross. I loved every minute of it.  Why you ask, am I sharing this unimportant tidbit of my life?  No clue really.  I started this post months and months ago, and now can't remember where I was going with it due to my overly-hormonalized (is that even a word?) brain.  Thus, we come to the present, where I sit--no lie, on the couch, doing a 5 point turn just to roll over and lift my self-imposed basketball/beach ball/watermelon into a standing position.  I'm due in 5 short but, ever so long days, with no real clue when it will officially "happen".  And for the record, I've not only lost all sense of punctuation, grammatical prowess, or internal spell check, but also bladder control...so bare with me. 

 

 

Awhile ago I was asked to write a contributing article to favorite blog of mine, both flattering and nerve-wracking, and have yet to do it.  I did however, begin a potential article for them I have yet to finish, perhaps never will.  That particular post would be very appropriate right now though as it deals with some of the marital pregnancy woes...woes to which I am completely boycotting as of now (as well as the last several weeks, too much information?).  Let's just say some things are better left undone if you know what I mean.  And despite his compliance, the hubba lubba is none too thrilled, to say the least.  I am rambling at this point with no real point.  I really think this post is a waste of writing and I am just idly killing time waiting for this little girl to make her appearance.  I will do just about anything to avoid any real work at this time...even if it means playing hidden object games online at all hours of the night to simply avoid the work of trying to sleep...purely a hypothetical scenario.  Who plays games online?  Who plays hidden object games?  Who then writes about it?  Get serious, I am way too cool and mature for that.  I am 30, enough said.  Looks like I have killed 5 more minutes.....hmmm maybe I should eat my weight in peanut butter chocolate bars?  NO, I already did that today AND yesterday, single handedly managing to gain 3 pounds in a week, but who's counting?  Oh right, my overly conscientious nurse who pointed out that increase from last week as I pointed out I had not gained this week.  I was really proud, which may show just how desperate I am getting at this time, if I am proud of not even an entire week, but more like 4 days of no weight gain. 

 

Anywho, I am going to puke now, both from nausea at how much I have eaten and at whatever I just wrote in the last 10 minutes.  Plus, I have to go find a game to play...do some laundry.

Ultrasound News

Sad. Brokenhearted. Grieving. Dreams shattered.....Disappointed.

What are you thinking right now? Someone died? Diagnosed with a rare terminal disease?

Probably not, a perfect ultrasound of a perfect little baby....GIRL? One that I had expected and hoped would be a picture of a boy? Nope, probably not what you had in mind. Those all seem like harsh and extreme words to use when discovering the precious little one you were blessed with in the first place is not who you thought HE should be. Instead HE is a SHE. Sounds ungrateful, selfish, wrong. And yet, those are the exact words I would use to describe the way I felt yesterday upon reading that one little word on the ultrasound screen....girl.

That's what it looked like. That one little tiny unassuming word in all lowercase letters, absently and deftly typed in with the ease of a million sonograms. One word that should have made any other normal person happy. Happy, just to know, happy just to see, that their little one was so perfect and healthy and had an identity now. Yet, was I that person? No. Instead, that one little word ruined my entire afternoon and the following night's fitful sleep. As I read that word, one silent tear slowly seeped down my cheek.

Believe me. I know how all this sounds. It sounds like anything and everything I have said until this point,(if you've ever heard me talk about this subject) I am now retracting and going back on. It sounds as though I have completely forgotten that I once had trouble myself conceiving, once miscarried, and now carry a very real burden for those who struggle in that area. Basically, it just sounds like I'm a b***h and have completely taken for granted, a blessing so precious of that of carrying and creating new life, that I have the nerve to be pissed off about getting a girl when I wanted a boy. I know it sounds that way. And yet, it is not completely that way.

I'm still sorting out all my feelings, but with morning comes new light and new perspective. With morning comes dancing and laughing and new possibilities. You see, I grew up in a home where I was extremely close with my father and not so much my mother. I grew up running to him with absolutely EVERYTHING...even down to my monthly unwelcomed visits if you get my drift. I grew up playing catch with him and my brother, kicking the soccer ball around, my dad timing me on sprints, and honestly just doing a lot of "boyish" things. I never went shopping with my mom. We never went to the movies or store even, by ourselves. I didn't gravitate toward hanging out with her or doing "girl" things. Sure, I would play with dolls like any other girl, but would then run out and drop them from the tree into the mud to see how far they would fall without breaking. I just never really felt a strong connection with my mother.

I know that sounds harsh, but I don't mean it to at all, but am simply stating how I have always felt. I love my mother immensely, have gotten many of my characteristics from her...my sense of humor, my carefree spirit, not to mention my headaches (another post entirely). The thing of it is, we just never really connected in a typical mother-daughter way. A lot of that probably has to do with the fact my mother was/is bipolar (takes medication now for it) and childhood for me and my siblings was not your typical, mom makes meals for children when the children get home and lovingly pats girl's hair while winking at boy across table, as shown on many t.v shows. Shows where you wonder where these images come from, and where the real people they are based on live, so you could sometime just wander over to see what a quiet family life where everyone seemed to love each other was like.

So, I think a great deal of my childhood and how I was raised, has factored in to this point in my life....the point where I should be blissfully happy and thankful, and yet feel now very lost. You see, because of all I have said here (and so much more that would honestly blow your mind that I couldn't write about it now) I guess I have never really seen a need or use for a mother/daughter relationship. I have never seen a use for a mother in a girl's life. I have looked forward to all the things I will do with Eli and who I thought was to be my other little boy, have imagined all the things we will do together, and how my husband and I will mountain bike with our boys, coach them in soccer, teach them to throw a baseball, just do boy things....do active things...I haven't ever thought of what I could or would do with a girl because it simply seemed like a non issue, something that didn't need even considering. I have never hung out in groups of girls (save for my awesome college roomies) have never really liked girls all that much (I embrace fully being a girl mind you, just not with other girls as much)think most seem to be boring, not funny, not adventurous, only concerned about fashion and material things, and not smart. Sorry, again harsh. I know there are plenty of women out there who prove that thought wrong, but that is how I have always felt and have gravitated toward hanging out with the guys more. I honestly even have more fun sometimes just hanging out with my husband and his friends (who I often consider to be better friends with than some girls). I've always been that way and many times will be in a group of girls and you would be able to tell when I was no longer interested, my mind wandered, or I just didn't care. Usually around the point diets and clothes become the focal point, I'm out of there.

My point to all this, is that reading that one little word initially felt like the death of a dream, of a life I had envisioned, completely snuffed out. It felt like the end of my world, like I would now enter into a world I have truly never been a completely part of, a world I have always felt left out of, and like I didn't fit in. And now a world where I would be thrown into head first, with no choice whatsoever, but to exist in that world and learn to grapple through it. This may sound extreme to some of you, but that only means you really don't get just how drastic a place I have been coming from, and that's OK. Again, I realize how it all sounds, but in all these feelings, I have never not loved this little one, have never not felt protective of and the guardian over, have never forgotten that it is a blessing to carry a little life. I have simply been wading through my feelings of disappointment of a world lost, trying to embrace a world gained that is foreign to me. I'm burying (for now at least) my vision of my two little boys running around together, instead trying to picture my little big brother and his sweet sister. It will take some more time, but I know I will grow more excited with each day and as I let go of who I thought I was carrying, and really cherish who I AM carrying. It will take the sweet Lord helping heal the hurts in my heart and life that have caused me to feel this way. It will take His patience and grace to help me wade through this and move on.

I already today have and am embracing the idea more. I went out and bought a couple girl things to get me pumped. I must say, it did help a little.

I'm Having Triplets

I've already mentally started preparing for the coming months and the ensuing rude comments. Last time around, I was told and asked many things that most would only think their very rude, very cranky, and very old grandmother could get away with saying. So, in an effort to combat further rudeness after the initial rude thing is said, I have already prepared a response.

"I'm having triplets." That should not only stop them, shock them, and hopefully knock their socks off, but shut them up. They will then stop thinking how incredibly large I appear to be to them and quit looking at me with something of horror and fear for my well being, but will instead look at me in a whole new light. They will have awe, respect, even reverence for me. There thoughts will completely do a 180 as they think about how impressively small my enlarged abdomen and over extended uterus is for being a warehouse to three little adorable life-sucking parasites. I won't stop there though. I have a whole back story to go with this. I want to elaborate, embellish, have them begging for more. By the time I am done with them, we will both be walking away, me with pee streaming down my legs from both laughter and the fact I have apparently not been doing enough Kegels, and them with tears running down their cheeks with a great admiration and respect now fostered for my courageous self.

I am committed to not being offended this time around by any and all comments and completely laugh it off, or burden the rude offender with a tale of my tripleting woes.

Why I AM Nervous About Blogging

I was/am hesitant to tell anyone about my blogging. The thing is, no one wants to be rejected and also I wondered if I would be grouped into the realm of pretentious self-promoters? At last, here I am I guess. Call me a horrible writer, call me a pretentious self-promoter, just don't call me late for dinner.

Really, I just love writing. From the time I could form letters with my pencil, I never stopped. All through childhood I wrote anything and everything..you name it, I was writing it. I wrote journal after journal full of poetry and stories. I emptied my most private thoughts onto the page, both the silly and the serious. I entered contests, won some and lost some. I wrote essays (as did we all,) and usually loved doing it. I have always been much better explaining as well as forming my thoughts on paper (or as it the trend nowadays, the computer). Still, I was hesitant. Slowly, but surely I have been telling close friends of mine, maybe for affirmation, maybe for self-promotion, I'm not sure. The thing is, that is exactly what I was afraid of...falling victim to being another self-serving person. I struggled with the issue of chronicling my innermost thoughts, something that is private and to be valued and not broadcast, versus writing and allowing maybe one tidbit, one morsel of something I write to ever impact someone else..be it with laughter, be it with tears, be it with a dictionary.

At last this is the great inner debate that has/is waging on inside of me. However, through various and incessant promptings by some close friends and family members to get some of my writing "out there" this is the compromise to which I came, to allow myself to write shamelessly for all of my 3 people or so audience (and anyone else who dares read all this nonsense). So there it is, my fears and shame about blogging and exposing my writings and thoughts. Enough said.

My Own Private Hurt: The Mess of Miscarriage

There's not a neat little place where they can put us. There is no tidy package or perfect category we fit into. It's not something readily discussed unless you find yourself in it, then people come out of the woodwork who have also experienced it, come from every corner to commiserate with you, to encourage you, to press on with you. The thing about it is, it's a private and deep hurt, not OK to talk about. If you do talk about it, it is often looked on by those who have no clue what the hole now there is like or that it even exists, as dramatic or something to get over quickly, move on, it isn't THAT big of a deal. Come on, you were only ____ weeks. That is how it feels anyway.

Oh, people are well intentioned. Friends are also well meaning. The nature of this sadness though is that you don't get to actually hold a baby. You don't lose a baby at birth. You don't get to or have to, however you look at it, bury a child. So, the loss is looked at as less. Now I am in no way comparing my sadness to anyone else's, regardless of the validity or lack thereof. I am simply saying there is room for the grieving mother who buries her stillborn and feels that horrendous loss, (and there well should be of course) but there does not seem to be room for those of us who loved our child from the start as well, but didn't get to have as much time in the womb with him or her. You see, a miscarriage is also a death. It is also the loss of a child. You never get over that because you would never get over losing your child. And while the longer you have your child, be it in the womb or hopefully into life, your love only continues to increase and grow as that child grows, that's just the thing: you still greatly loved your child, no matter how brief the time. Most people don't get that though about a miscarriage. And so you get lots of, heart-in-the-right-place, friends, who not only do not understand or get it (which you can not ask or expect them to)but have a shelf life of their own already attached to your grief. They have their own idea of when you should be back to normal and the sadness should be gone. Of course that is going to be different for everyone because we are all uniquely created, but each grieving person has there own time. It may be different, may be longer, may be shorter, than what you think it should be. That does not matter. You are not the issue in this. You are irrelevant. To be a good friend despite not fully understanding this hurt, you need to leave room for us to grieve, however length of time it be. You need to leave room for us to not be ourselves for awhile. You need to leave room for us.

I guess I am finally writing about this old wound and notch on the staff of my life because it is just time. It has been nearly three years and the hurt of the wound is healed. Sure, fresh emotion can be attached to it, were I to travel down memory lane, or even every time I hear the song "Glory Baby," by Watermark. However, while the pain is no longer there, the scar always remains. It is something that will always be with me because I have been on both sides of the life and death of a child, of your body knowing what to do to not only give life, but also terminate life. Interesting though, that I no longer (and haven't for a very long time) look at that time in my life or more specifically, the miscarriage itself, as the "worst" time in my life. Some very close friends of ours, much older and wiser than us, imparted some great wisdom to us at the time, which I now see to only get truer by the day. While I honestly don't want to miscarry again (and something inside me approaches each pregnancy with fear and trembling to a degree now, knowing more than some it could be disrupted at any moment)I look back almost fondly at that time in our lives. I look back to that deep hurt and all the confusion and emotion of our particular situation attached to it. It was a time not all couples get to experience and I swear if they knew first hand the fruits of our labor and the degree it further cemented a bond between my husband and me, just how close that time made us, many would long for that kind of experience, that kind of bond. (not to say anyone would long for a miscarriage or any sad event in their lives) It was and is something that is ours alone. It is something that made a notch on both of our life staffs, individually and as a couple. It was in the midst of that pain and hurt, right there in my sometimes anger and sometimes trust in God, that He held me. He didn't explain everything to me, He didn't answer me, He just held me. He loved me, picked me up each day when I didn't think I could go on, when I couldn't bear it, when I was the awkward grieving girl. And He somehow brought me through the other side, into a brighter joy and communion with Him than I had before the miscarriage. He taught me so many things through this situation about myself and my view of my heavenly Father, my relationship with Him, and ultimately, He put me back together.

I want to end by saying that I have left a great deal out and could not fully detail the loss and hurt I suffered, as well as all the particulars of our specific situation, but I now consider myself blessed greater with that experience having enriched my life so much. Tears spill as I type this for the thankfulness and love I feel for my Lord, for when I thought I was alone, He was there. I know I haven't really told anyone about my blog, so the two or three who actually know about it, and the one that then reads this, I hope and pray some sort of encouragement to you if any of this finds you or someone you know, in a similar place. The the other two, I will leave you with this: you don't have to understand it, you don't have to have gone through it yourself to be a loving friend. You don't have to know all the right things to say, but remember there is a season for everything. There is a time for grieving, a time for laughing, a time for everything under the sun--so if you ever find yourself someday or a loved one in this place in life, simply grieve. Grieve yourself, grieve with and for them. Don't push them, don't talk about sunshine and roses. Yes, you can tell them truth, that "all things work together for those who love the Lord,..." but not yet. Not until they are ready and in a better place, for now, just grieve and tell them you love them, that you don't know what to say, that you don't understand, but that you are sad with and for them and hate they are going through it.

A very close friend got it right without ever having experienced it, without even living in the same state. She sent me a little homemade pillow with a big Q embroidered on it, as a remembrance of my little Queen baby in heaven now. She said it was for me to always have and remember my little one. It meant so much to me that someone would not only take that kind of time, but understand to the degree she was able. Follow her lead and simply mourn the loss of the unborn child.

Jill and the Decapitated Lunch Lady Part 2

On a much lighter note, here is the second installment of the Jill story:

Now I know what most would be thinking, what could have thrown Jill to such a low, to the point of desperation, to such an extreme that she was considering turning herslef in for the murder of the lunch lady, that horrible old woman who had just recently undergone a sex change and only two weeks ago was known as Bob, (the slightly effeminite lunch guy who curiously began to develope a much larger chest than Jill could ever imagine filling her own Madonna inspired, barely A, pointy bra with, and who had the most delicate and graceful sway of his hips when he walked back and forth from the mashed potatoes to the gravy in his this season red, the new pink, stilletto heels)when her dream of running track had finally come true, her whole life had led up to this point.

Finally, finally, she was a star of her first and only choice, after of course, volleyball, soccer, basketball, softball, and swimming: track. Was it the almost life crushing, hopeless beyond all hopelessness fact that the track uniforms were blue, (blue like the sky on a crisp autumn day when the sun is shining and it is warm enough for just a light jacket and everywhere you look are the signs of fall..changing colors on the trees, burning leaves, buses full of retired people who signed up for the fall color tour of upper New Hampshire with the hopes of squandering away what little income they made on social security at the real reason for the fall color tour, the red and yellow plastic clown head moonwalk that cost $5 for 3 incredible minutes of jumping that would take them back to a place of their youth, a place where gas cost $1.15 and women were stating their independence by cutting their hair short, adorning themselves with the fashions of men and leaving the home to work and make a living for themselves, a time when they were young and free, free fallin', a time when they were in their early fifties and menopause was but a dream that was just beginning to come true, )blue like the tears now streaming from Jill's eyes as she held the bleeding, dying, decapitated lunch lady in her arms for the last time, before running from the scene of the crime, before the po-po would arrive and begin to ask questions, thought provoking questions that would drive to the root of the crime, to the essence of such a passionate death, to the very heart of the street and the horrible events that had taken place that cold, suprisingly bright for 7:30 p.m night, questions like who would be awake and out on the street in such a safe neightborhood at such a late hour, what had the lunch lady been trying to say when in her last, dying moments she had written in blood besider her broken and mind you decapitated, body, "Jill"--what wash she trying to tell them, why hadn't she finished, if only they knew the rest of the message, questions that would eventually lead to the murder being unsolved, remaining a cold case, the evidence locked away in the basement of the police department acquiring dust and cobwebs for decades before 37 and 1/7 years later a witness would step forward who had been there that night and Jill would be eventually taken in for questioning by a ragged drained police woman with poorly bleached blonde hair and dark roots that would bring offense to any natural blonde, the roots of a woman running from her past, like Casey at Bat running from those Mudville Nine teammates on that fateful day when there was "no joy in Mudville, for Mighty Casey had struck out," and then Jill's life, the life of prestige and wealth she had lead thus far would be reduced to a made for T.V movie starring Jennifer Love-Hewitt as Jill, an actress who would never match the range, potential, and God given ability to wear pink in such an amazing way, the way only Jill could.

No, it wasn't the heartbreaking fact that the track uniforms were blue, a color Jill could never muster up enough courage, even courage under fire, to wear. No, the cause of Jill's agony, of her despair and utter and ultimate defeat(see paragraph four line one for sentence reference,) Jill had no legs. It was a small bump in the road of Jill's life, a road paved with the best asphalt and that offered local businesses the chance to sponsor a mile of highway, to give back to the community and keep its highways clean, but nonetheless, a road Jill had never walked herself, but had at appropriate times hired a leg doube to stand in for her and to walk that road for her. She had worn just the right shade of pink to mask the absence of legs at the track tryouts, she had just squeezed by on the hurdle lap of that day, dragging her legless body over each hurdle effortlessly, and without notice. She was confident she could make the team, it was her dream, the only sport for her, after of course all the other sports she had attempted and failed, but there was no way to disguise her missing legs in those blue track shorts. Blue was a primary color that would draw attention to her lower half and would eventually, maybe not at the first meet, or even in the first season of the team, but eventually, give away her secret.

Jill found herself again collasped in a huddled legless heap on her Little Mermaid bedspread, a bedspread she envied because of Ariel's tale of finding love and legs on land. It was this ridiculous thinking, the thinking that she could be someone that she was good enough, smart enough, and doggone it, people liked her, that got her nowhere, that got her lonely and yes alone, that got her laying there, wishing garlic had not been served for lunch that day, wishing she was wearing her leotard. It was this thinking that got the lunch lady killed. Dun dun dun....

A Great Preacher or a Wolf in Sheep's Clothing?

I've been reading all kinds of different critiques, commentaries, friends' opinions, you name it, on the controversial new book out, "Love Wins," along with the even more controversial author of it and pastor, Rob Bell. This is of great interest to me for a couple different reasons. The first reason is that many moons ago, once upon a time in college, I attended Mars Hill Bible Church in Grand Rapids, MI founded and pastored by Rob Bell. I went on and off for about three years, and under the pastoral care of Rob, I never smelled "the wolf in sheep's clothing," the way it seems many are insinuating is the case today. Now to be completely fair, I'm not positive that the reason I didn't sense anything doctrinally or theologically off, or just plain wrong for that matter, is because there was nothing there to sense or because it was so many years ago and a lot can escape an 18 yr. old. I do know with years comes wisdom and I'm now gettin' on in years :)Anyway, this is the first reason. The second reason this dialogue or debate, whatever it be called, is of interest is that there are a great deal of false prophets, preachers not preaching the scripture, and outright liars in this world, and I think it wise for any and all believers to be ever so discerning, testing all things to be sure it aligns with God's Word and is Truth. It is necessary we never take for granted the smooth talk, quick and witty dialogue, or even likability, for being true and right. To leave out any or add any to the scripture is dangerous and should be taken with great caution. It should be held to great scrutiny, no matter the source. This is what brings Mr. Bell and his beliefs to the point of discussion.



I will clarify here a couple different points of possible contention upon reading my blog. First off, I have not made up my mind wholeheartedly yet about what I think about Rob in either direction, be it a man who preaches the truth shamelessly and graciously, or a man who preaches not the full gospel, but leaves out what he chooses to appease the masses. I do know however, my intuition does have a particular leaning at this point, but the jury is still out. Second, I have not read his book "Love Wins" so cannot fully make assumptions about this particular book. I have read various differently angled critiques and commentaries on it, along with having watched an hour long interview with Rob himself about ideas discussed in the book. I have also read and seen some of his other works, so I am definitely not coming into this completely blind. Lastly, I admit I am no theologian or mega mind, but simply a discerning believer.



My issues thus far with Rob and some of his views, are that they seem to hit just close enough to the truth, without fully telling the story. It seems to me there is a great disproportionate distribution of weight on the love facet of Christ, almost allowing for anything and everything because it is under the umbrella and guise of "love wins," while making light of and maybe not even mentioning sin. It seems to me he is intentionally not ever talking about the concept of judgment, wrath, and justice of God. We cannot have the God of the Bible without either one-love or wrath. I will be one of the first people to admit that sometimes what we perceive one way here on earth, probably really couldn't be further off from God and His infinite wisdom/mind, than if we intentionally tried to misconstrue it. With that said, I could very well be just as off in some of my thought or ideas as many believe Rob Bell is, but I am trying and praying for the wisdom and guidance of the Holy Spirit to enable me to discern what is true, what is noble, and what is right according to His Holy Word. However, Rob Bell is far more educated, intelligent, and theologically minded than I probably ever will be, and as the saying goes, "to whom much is given, much is required," so Mr. Bell has more explaining to do than me :) He is under much scrutiny as a leader by both believers and non-believers alike. However, it is interesting that he is getting seemingly more flack from other believers than non. When the world is not offended and seems to embrace everything you say, to me, that is when there is a red flag. I completely agree with preaching Christ is love, but the Gospel is offensive. It isn't completely a pretty story; it's brutal, sad, at times unbelievable, but in the end beautiful. It isn't popular. If the story of Christ and coming to Him was so "peaceful," and as simple as "love wins," I would think everyone in the world would be interested and we would be in a world packed full of Christ's disciples. The thing of it is, that isn't the case, so to leave out the offensive parts of the story to draw in and appeal to the crowd is not only misleading, but dangerous and sinful.



The other and most poignant aspect is, that of all the things I have not only heard Rob himself say, or have read about or by him, is that he will never directly come out and say Jesus is the only way to the Father, Jesus is the only way to heaven, to eternity. He won't say it. I understand on the one hand that maybe he is trying to treat the matter delicately so as not to turn away anyone before he can preach the whole story, but that also brings us back to my previous issue of him trying too hard not to be offensive. Jesus isn't PC. He isn't black and white and you can’t just fit Him in a box. He is offensive. He says He is the only way to the Father. In John 15 Jesus talks about how He is the vine and we are the branches, how apart from Him we can do nothing. It goes on and on discussing Him being the only way. The number of times Jesus talks about the way being narrow and that way being Him is a great number,(I don't know how many, back to the part where I said I was no theologian)and so I really would just love Rob to come out and say that, given he does have such a large audience and platform, from which he could be preaching the whole truth. In an interview I saw him do recently, he was interviewed by a Jewish scholar/author and upon coming to the issue of Jesus being the only way, the interviewer told Rob that part did offend her. After tiptoeing around the issue about being gracious and loving, he had neither adequately answered the issue in my opinion, nor had he succeeded in telling her the message of Jesus. He then made sure however, that the answer was OK with her. Again, this just doesn't sit right with me, feeling more like Rob Bell is concerned with making everyone feel good, than telling the whole truth. That doesn't sound very loving to me.



So these are just some of my thoughts thus far, and as I said, the jury is still out for me as I personally wade through it all. (although I am sure you could tell my leaning) Is Rob Bell a man of God who preaches Christ and loves bibically? Is Rob Bell a wolf in sheep's clothing, who is just close enough to the truth to be dangerous? I'm not sure I would go far enough in either of those directions yet. I don't know what it's like being in the spotlight and carrying that kind of weight, so either way I wish Rob well and pray that he carrys the truth.

The Bachelor Breakdown

Well, I think it should be obvious as to why I am writing today....THE BACHELOR FINALE is on tonight!! I am definitely a shamless Bachelor follower to the core. I will block out or schedule things around my Monday nights since I don't have anything like you rich people with DVR or whatever you call it. With that said, it should come as no shock that I will be on the edge of my seat until the very last minute tonight. I can barely even get anything done today, I am so excited. I'm serious, while some may think this is sarcasm dripping, it truly is sheer unabashed zeal and excitement.

So, on to the meat of the matter: who is Brad going to pick? Well, in my opinion, it's an obvious no-brainer, he will be picking Emily, although aiming a bit high for himself. Although a mere 24 to his rather senior age of 39, Emily exudes a bit more maturity than the nearly over the hill bachelor of late. Matter of factly, Emily could probably do a great deal better for herself than Bachelor Brad who is now on round two of the reality show, not to mention find someone a little more Ricky friendly. (Was it just me, or did Brad look completely fake and forcing everything in his interactions with the little girl, as well as the supposed "off camera" clips they showed us of Brad and Chris' good-natured philanthropic works with the children in South Africa?)Anywho, that is my take, that Brad will aim high for Emily, maybe succeed (and by succeed, I only mean that she will accept on camera, but let's be honest, as much as I love this show, it doesn't have a great track record of actual success in the longevity department of match made couples)maybe not, if Emily knows what is good for both her and for ratings.

Then there is Shantell. Oh come on. She has about the same maturity as the little sister I don't have. Sure, she's pretty like the rest of them, a little freer spirited than Emily, but she also seems to have about as much stability as the weather. She's crazy emotional and completely not ready for an actual adult relationship, let alone a marriage to stand the test of time....err, I guess the test of Bachelor time that is. Either way, this should make for some good entertainment and good ratings for the show because if she isn't picked, we can perhaps expect a mental breakdown of sorts.

And that's the Bachelor Brad breakdown from my neck of the woods. Surely, no one else has put this kind of thought or time into the program, but they probably are not nearly as ridiculous as I am either, so I guess you just have to consider the source. Good day and God bless, Good Tidings to all, and to all a Happy New Year.

Jill and the Decapitated Lunch Lady Part 1

"Everybody hurts sometimes...,"the soulful voice of Michael Stipe ruefully crooned out, his notes lingering and lounging along the melancholy cloud of sadness that hung amidst the caramel wrappers and tissue box tossed carelessly by Jill's bedside. After turning it on to repeat, Jill lay sprawled out across her bed, her mascara-smeared, tear-streaked face, contorted in anguish and misery.

"Why oh why did they have to serve garlic at lunch today?" and why did she so desperately want to wear her leotard right now, were some of the questions that haunted Jill, running back and forth like a track runner on his warm-up jog around the track in front of the stands by the away team.

Jill was no novice to the world of pain, both physical or emotional, this was indeed not a new concept to her. She could remember back to the time when she had been reprimanded for forgetting to wear her pink bow to cheer practice, or the utter despair and loneliness at not finding her much needed self-help book in the library, but those were indeed minor in comparison to the pit of despair Jill was now immersed in, the pit that called to her from the depths of the kiddie pool at the local YMCA while Jack, the really hot, but unfortunately epileptic, lifeguard diligently watched the raging waters lapping at the lane markers. So alas, this is where Jill found herself, at these lengths, at these depths, at these measures, at this point--the point where all hope was lost and where even the thought of going up onto the roof and sunbathing in her Hello Kitty sun chair with pink metallic lining, while listening to her hero of old, Yanni, sipping her trademark virgin Diet Coke, careful not to spill on her new pink leotard and multi-color slouch socks, could not, and did not, invite her into the world of the coherent.

And what was the cause of this said agony, of this despair, of this utter and ultimate defeat, you might ask? Well, simply put, Jill, after trying out for the volleyball team and being cut, and then upon trying out for the soccer team, and again finding herself being cut, and then trying out yet again for the basketball, softball, and swim teams, and subsequently, being cut from them all, Jill's resilient nature told her, to bounce back, don't give up, what do these stupid, professional coaches know anywho? And so with one final toss of caution to the wind, throwing all care and pride aside, for yes, as you may have noticed, Jill was indeed miserably cut from 5 teams, Jill decided to put on a happy face.

With "I'm walkin' on sunshine, whoa-o, and don't it feel good," playing over and over in her ears, (literally, she was wearing her headphones) Jill marched lazily over to sign up for the try-outs for yes, the track team. And of course, by try-outs, I mean not try-outs at all, for it was common knowledge that the track coach took everyone because they always were in desperate need of people and therefore, cut absolutely no one. Thinking this is the ticket, this is my road to stardom and fame, I will run, I will run until my little heart is content, and I will keep running until I am told to stop, until I am playing with the big girls, the big dogs, until I am right up there with Madonna and her pointy bra-wearing videos. And this was Jill's fatal flaw. It was this exact, precise, similar, and same even, thinking, that got Jill into trouble, into the trouble that now found her collapsed into the heap of hiccups and sobs on her Little Mermaid bedspread. It was this ridiculous thinking, the thinking that she could be someone, that she was good enough, smart enough, and that doggone it, people liked her, that got her nowhere, that got her lonely and yes, alone, that got her lying there, wishing garlic had not been served that day at lunch, wishing she was wearing her leotard, (and not the new pink one, but the flower one she had almost bought, but instead bought the pink one she was now resigned to wearing), it was this thinking that got the lunch lady killed...dun dun dun (made to be said in the eerily creepy and oh so sinister tune so often played on thrillers like that of "The Twilight Zone" and similar ones by Alfred Hitchock)....





To be continued until another post. This story, among many other infamous "Jill" stories was written by both myself and my best friend since the 2nd grade (who shall remain nameless, but Susan McCauley you know who you are).

Life and Death

Welcome back to myself! I guess I'm still really just getting started since I've only written two total posts, but the welcome back refers to the year gap. I now find myself with an almost 15 month old and currently 13 weeks into round 2. A lot has happened in a year.

My return has been triggered by two completely different catalysts, one being another friend just starting her own blog and the other being a world catastrophe. I'm not sure what I have to say today that is so necessary to put to page, but somehow I find I must document a couple things, even if only for posterity's sake.

While my friend both anecdotally and movingly detailed the wonderful miracle of birth to her second born son, simultaneously around the world Japan is experiencing the most devastating natural disaster of an 8.9 earthquake and subsequent tsunami in Japan's history. The death and destruction that has taken a toll on that country is heartbreaking and earthshattering. It makes you wonder how can these two phenomenons, both miracles in their own right (one undisputedly horrendous and the other equally beautiful)occur within the same time continuum, within the same world we live. We see both life and death in the same breath and are supposed to continue about our daily lives as though neither was an act of God, but simply a mundane detail of a Tuesday. Sure, we are affected, maybe for 10 minutes, maybe for 10 days, but inevitabley we forget both and get back to "reality."

I'm not sure how to go about properly revering and appreciating , empathizing or praying in these situations, how to keep either or both miracle in the forefront of my mind for longer than a day or two without forgetting the impact on the lives of those closely involved. Both, polar opposites have brought tears to my eyes today, the awe and beauty of the birth and breath of new life, and the horror and utter sadness of the emptiness of death and loss. Lord, help me to remember these both, to have open eyes to see and respect both in life. Help me to look and love about me, and not get caught up in my own little world.