You can argue with truth. You can fight it. You can ignore it, despise it, deny it. You can embrace it.
But you cannot change it.
Truth is like gravity. We can fly thousands of miles across the sky. We can visit the moon. We can jump from cliffs, hang-gliders strapped to our backs, and soar. But no matter how we fight it, gravity always brings us back to the ground.
I'm discovering that inside of our hearts, truth exists. When we scrape past appearances, dig beyond what we carefully show others, listen past the words we fumble through with those we love - we find the truth.
Maybe the truth is that we are hurt. Maybe the truth is that we are scared. Maybe we're lonely. Maybe we're angry. Maybe we float alone on a sea of hopelessness - convinced that no one could ever save us now.
Maybe the truth of our hearts would strike a familiar chord in others as it echoes the private longings, fears, and desires we all hold because we are human and we've be…
Yesterday, I had a check-up with my oncologist (and before you associate the title of this post with anything that may have happened in the dr.'s office, I assure you he is still alive, having wisely neglected to recommend hormones to me again...though there was still a Bass Pro magazine in the exam room).
My dr. is located in a major hospital in downtown Nashville and so after my appointments, my hubby always takes me to lunch as compensation for enduring the latest search and siezure masquerading as a pap smear in an oncologist's office.
This time we ate at Logan's.
Our waiter was an extremely friendly young man (pulled up a chair and sat right at the table with us while taking our order) who made consistent eye contact with my hubby and not with me. As I had practiced personal hygiene and wasn't feeling particularly homicidal, despite my recent experience, I had no explanation for this.
Of course my hubby's charms cannot be underestimated...
This morning, as I was cleaning my kitchen, I heard what sounded like gas hissing.
We don't have gas appliances (and anyone who has read my post on the fiery fiasco that was my experience with a Bunsen burner knows that this is truly for the best).
I listened closely and realized the sound was coming from the refrigerator. My first thought was that the ice maker was going haywire (friends recently had theirs turn against them and destroy their kitchen floor...). However, when I stood next to the refrigerator, I realized the noise was coming from behind it.
I peeked behind the fridge and didn't see anything amiss, at first.
Our fridge has a water dispenser on the front and because I refuse to drink tap water, I have a water filter hooked up to the water line at the back of the appliance.
The noise was coming from the filter.
You might be asking yourself, "Can a filter make a hissing noise?"
The answer is "No." The filter cannot make a hissing noise. The hose a…
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The past few days, I've been a little sensitive to things that normally wouldn't faze me in the least. This has some of my friends (those of the male persuasion), a little perplexed.
I was discussing this with Mal last night (in the course of apologizing for taking his playfulness completely wrong...*sigh*) and he said that he'd noticed that all the women in his life got "like this" now and then. He gently suggested that hormones might be to blame.
I think he could be right. I also think he has no idea what he's saying (and I make that statement with love). No man really does.
I thought I would help them out.
"When Estrogren Attacks"
A fortress exists inside my body - full of tiny gremlins armed to the teeth. For days on end, they marshall their forces behind their walls, posting sentries, climbing watchtowers, and diligently sending reports to their command post. Off-duty gremlins polish barbed armor, load bazookas, and studiously scour the diction…
I stand at the ironing board, my hair still damp from the shower, steaming the creases out of my uniform with swift, practiced movements, one eye on the clock, both ears straining for the sound of the school bus.
I have just minutes today with my children. I want them to count for something.
I want to count for something.
I slip my apron over my head, grab my mascara, acknowledge the dog's persistent presence in my bathroom, and try again to subdue wildly curly hair into something that looks more like style and less like I decided to experiment with electical currents in my spare time.
What spare time?
I yank shoes on, thinking quickly through dinner options and homework projects, and wondering if my cell phone is charged.
The bus is coming.
I hear the low, throaty growl of its engine surging as it tops the small hill beside my house. My heart leaps as I stuff tic tacs, a pen, lip gloss, and my keys into my apron pocket. I grab meat out of the freezer, snatch ongoing homework packets …
I was thinking about beauty this morning, a sometimes dangerous thing to do. It's hard to let go of the images of paper-thin, perfectly air-brushed women crowding my television, my movie screens, and the check-out aisle at my grocery store. I can drive myself crazy believing I somehow need to measure up to what isn't real in the first place.
Or, I can delve deeper and discover what true beauty means to me.
There are many things I find beautiful: a sense of humor, a passion for Christ, a protective heart. But above all, the precious Chinese orphan and the incredible process of adoption resonates for me as truly beautiful.
China is a gorgeous country full of centuries-old traditions and craftsmanship but they have sacrificed the heart of their nation on the altar of communism. In the name of population control, they have wrenched apart families and taught a new generation of Chinese that girls are worthless commodities to be thrown away and forgotten. In a land where children us…
Earlier, I posted a list of what I needed to accomplish this weekend. Here, in no particular order, are the results:
1. I didn't quite catch up on all the laundry but I am today. I have too. My children are complaining about their lack of underwear.
2. I didn't catch up 1/2 of the ironing. Or even 1/4. But I will today. I swear it.
3. We managed the skate party and all of the kids' homework on Thursday night and it was fun.
4. We managed a sleep-over, me working til closing, and whatever else happened on Friday without losing our sanity. Always a bonus.
5. I took my oldest out to run errands with me Saturday morning and bought a bunch of new shirts for him (yay Goodwill!!) only to discover this morning (when the weather changed enough to warrant wearing pants) that he's grown out of his pants too. *sigh*
6. I didn't finish writing 8 chapters of Alexa (sleep claimed me...finally...it's been another few days of burgeoning insomnia) but I did get some new materia…
My friend and fellow writer K.B. posted a challenge on her LiveJournal today to finish the following sentence:
It was a dark and stormy night...
Naturally, I couldn't refuse to participate in such a fun exercise. You won't be surprised to hear that I finished the sentence with several paragraphs instead of just a few words. =)
Here is what I wrote:
It was a dark and stormy night - the wind an incessant howl of endless misery - the rain a lash of cruel destruction. Skeletal trees, blackened by the streaming skies, covered the hillside where I stood watching. Waiting.
Before me, Castle Lochnimoor rose in a sudden jagged bulk, hugging the cliff and raising fearless spires toward the furious heavens. The sparkling white marble walls flashed with blue as lightning ripped through the clouds.
I faced the south and the thick stone wall surrounding the castle. Legend said the stones were taken from the First Wizard in a game of chance, transferring the ancient protective magic running th…
I know I've ranted here before about the pet peeves I've developed as a waitress.
I've said I hate it when I'm interrupted. When I'm treated like a faceless, nameless "it". When I'm run off my feet by a table too stingy to part with more than $2 (which is NEVER an acceptable tip, no matter what you ordered).
But honestly, all of my pet peeves come down to one simple thing: I detest being treated with disrespect.
Last night I had one of the rudest guests I've EVER had (and that is saying something). Another woman might have cried when he got through with her. I just got spitting mad.
This man complained incessantly about the size of everything served to him (even when he actually was given a larger portion than usual)and raised his voice at me when I tried to placate him. He demanded and demanded (never asked) and nothing I did was good enough. He snapped out incredibly rude answers to innocent questions (like me asking, "Do you want one che…
Today marks the sixth anniversary of the 9/11 terrorist attacks against our country. While it is very important that we remember, truly remember, that men embracing hatred and violence against anyone different from themselves killed civilians in a cowardly act of war, there is a grassroots movement to do something even better.
To remember the outpouring of compassion and generosity that day and the days that followed as well.
250,000 have signed a pledge to do something kind and sacrificially generous for others (often strangers) on this day. (For the full story, click here)
This is a fitting remembrance for those who lost or willingly gave up their lives on September 11.
We can turn terror into hope. We can look boldly into the face of irrational hatred and not back down; not apologize for our freedom. We can pull together and show the cowards who strike at women and children that, for all her flaws, America's strength lies in the tenacity, the generosity, and the heart of her peo…
This weekend, my family and I went on a retreat with two other families to a lake house a couple of hours away. We had six adults, two teenage sitters, and 14 kids ranging in age from 12 years to 3 months.
Here are a few things I learned:
1. Teenage girls have an emotional range rivaled only by opera stars and 50 year old women hopped up on estrogen pills and St. John's Wort.
2. Going to a Predators hockey game is quieter than 14 kids in one room trying to watch Monster's Inc.
3. When wiping down the outside eating area at night, surrounded by a cloud of gnats and moths, it is best not to inhale with one's mouth open. Actually, it's best not to inhale at all.
4. One cannot walk down the steep (!!!) ramp leading to the dock with "traction-less" flip-flops on one's feet. Unless, of course, one enjoy's exfoliating one's posterior in full view of everyone on the lake.
Luciano Pavarotti, owner of one of the most amazing vocal instruments our world has ever heard, died today at 71. There are many stories circulating about his life now but one interested me more than the rest.
When Pavarotti was still in school, developing the discipline, technique, and sacrifice that would make his dream of being a world-famous vocalist a reality, one of his music teachers told him that if he expected to earn a living with his voice, he would starve.
We chuckle now at that and think that instructor must have skipped his Wheaties that morning but I bet at the time Pavarotti didn't see the humor. How could he? His dreams were still in that tender, nebulous stage where they existed solely within him with nothing but his courage and his belief in himself to give them life.
I bet those words struck a blow. I bet he looked in the mirror and wondered. Wondered if he was wasting his time. If what he heard was so different from what others could hear. If he would sacrif…
There's a reason I no longer grocery shop with all three kids. Ever. Even if the cupboards are bare. Even if the refrigerator offers only a rotting tomato and some bbq sauce. Even if I have nothing to make for school lunches in the morning.
This wasn't always the case.
Last summer, deprived of the benefit of having at least two of them at school during the day, I announced to the boys that they needed to get shoes on as we were going to the grocery store. This ellicited a chorus of excited chatter as the grocery store is home to their one source of free, non-Mom-approved cookies. I sent them to their rooms to hunt down their shoes, slipped on my own, and headed for the door.
Ten minutes later, we had one pair of shoes and five spares between all three boys. My youngest was sporting a large glob of smeared toothpaste that stretched from the corner of his lip to his hairline and beyond. My oldest was shirtless. My middle child was screaming about someone running in to him on th…
We have Aflac insurance (yes, the one with the ads featuring that annoying duck). To my understanding, the way Aflac works is that you choose various situations and pay for coverage for those only.
For example, based on our coverage, if we have major surgery, we're covered. If we contract leprosy, we aren't. Things like that.
One of the "situations" we have covered is cancer.
This came in very handy three years ago in helping us pay my medical bills and cover my nearly five months of missed work as I recovered from cancer.
Aflac is all about being proactive in managing your health so they send us a letter every year offering us a $60 bonus if I've had a cancer screening within the last twelve months.
Of course I've had a cancer screening. Until this year, I had to go in every THREE to FOUR months to have an exam. Now I go in every six months. Calling the procedure that I endure a "pap smear" is like calling the Sears Tower a tall building: it just do…