I Got Screwed! Seduced into Humming Complacency

25 Feb

Recently, my wonderful husband noticed that my tires needed air. I don’t mean that metaphorically, although the idea would certainly blog, but the tires we’re talking about are on my Subaru.

Why don’t I notice these sorts of things? I can tell when someone spilled milk on the kitchen floor, even after they attempt to clean it up. I notice when the smallest of our neighborhood’s 10-or-so feral cats fails to show up at the back door of the home behind us for the evening meal—I have no desire to take the cat in, mind you, but I’m rooting for him to make it through the winter. I even noticed that our toilet paper no longer fits snugly in the holder, but is now a “new and improved?” half-inch more narrow. (There’s another rant that will blog—and I know you’re thinking about going to check your own roll right now…trust me, it’s smaller.)

But for some reason, I can’t pick up on the fact that my tires are so low they pour more than ride along the road, or that I could practically hear the rubber folding as the wheels turned. However, I DID pick up on that look I received from Hubby when he noticed—incredulous annoyance, I believe it’s called.

Interestingly, the moment Hubby filled those tires I could tell the difference. They actually hummed against the pavement, and I felt as if I were riding higher than usual. Of course, I may have imagined that, but considering the flopping sound of the pre-aired tires, Subi must have been at least six inches taller.

Over the next few days, the humming tone improved. Remember that rich, satisfying growl you could create by flying down the hill on your bike with a baseball card flapping against the spokes? It was like that. The noise was most noticeable when I entered a wide curve. So of course, I drove into every curve as if it were Turn One at the Bristol Motor Speedway.

“Listen to that! Doesn’t it just sound like a race car?”

My son agreed, once I made him remove his headphones.

Hubby frowned. “It doesn’t sound natural, but I don’t think it’s the engine.” He tipped his head like a doctor. “Sounds like it’s coming from the back.”

“Well, I like it.” I gunned Subi through a sharp left (is there any other direction?) and said “Crank it up!”

NOTE: For the NASCAR-impaired, “Crank it up!” is an auspicious moment during every race when the announcer closes his mouth for a full minute. Simultaneously, every motorhead across the country turns the television volume to its highest setting, and settles back to listen to and appreciate the sweet, melodious rumbling of 42 LOUD, but perfectly tuned engines as the drivers soar past the camera. Then, once Joe Nemechek putters past, they turn the volume back down. I’ve often wondered if their collective din can be heard across the nation, but I’ve never pulled myself away from our own cranked up TV to check.

Anyway, I enjoyed my NASCAR growl for nearly three weeks. Then I noticed the screw in a rear tire.

Blast!

Screw in tire

Screwed.

It didn’t help that Hubby was there when I found it. I’m always amazed at how much dialogue he can put into a single raised eyebrow. Indirectly, I blame him; a floppy tire would have just poured over something like that.

So there I am, one replaced tire and $120 later (“It might not have been so damaged if you’d brought it in right away, Ma’am.”), driving my ordinary, quiet car home, and marveling that at my age I still can’t always tell the good from the bad. It makes no sense. When something’s wrong with the car, it should sound like I’m dragging 15 running chainsaws under the car, not like one of my favorite childhood memories.

But life is like that. Inside, we’re determined to stick to a budget, eat right, remain faithful, accomplish our goals, but we all too often give them up for temporary satisfaction because something just looks GOOD. More often than not, it’s just something bad wrapped up in beautiful, shiny, delightful packaging.  Then we ignore the voice that says, “I don’t know, it doesn’t sound natural” and listen to voices we shouldn’t even be entertaining (our own included).

  • “Go ahead, you deserve those shoes.”
  • “Pot-luck desserts have no calories.”
  • “But he treats you so much better than your husband does.”
  • “One week without exercise isn’t going to hurt you.”
  • “But I want it now.”

Bottom line is, I knew better. I know what my car sounds like when all is well, and I should keep her in good condition so that any time she sounds differently I’ll notice immediately and raise an eyebrow. I also know what my life looks like when all is well. I have the benefit of excellent counsel when I choose to seek it, and I have no excuse for not inquiring about the pretty packages and distractions that come into my life. If they’re good for me, He will let me know.

“See to it that no one takes you captive through hollow and deceptive philosophy, which depends on human tradition and the elemental spiritual forces of this world rather than on Christ.” — Colossians 2:8

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Ask Not For Whom the Phone Rings…

9 Feb

I needed two quiet hours, that’s all.

An hour’s worth of un-transcribed audio notes from a recent phone interview sat on the table, screaming for my attention, but a litany of interruptions had been pulling me away all morning. So, when my awesome husband announced he’d be taking our teenager out for some father-son time, I was thrilled.

Even before they were out the door I started racing around to get settled. (That may sound oxymoronic, but ask any parent on the cusp of some quiet time—it’s a bona fide activity.)

Let’s see…Coffee? Check. Laptop plugged in? Check. Notebook? Check. Cell phone near so I don’t have to get up? Check. Cozy workin’ blanket? Check. Snack? Check.

Good to go.

I hit the button on the audio player and started typing. The sound quality was fantastic, for a change; our voices came through crystal clear (I could write a whole other blog on whisperers, bad connections, accents, and static-riddled conversations). I started typing like a madwoman.

I might just be able to pull this off before the boys get back.

Then the phone rang.

Not the cell phone, which, although annoying, I could have easily picked up. No, it was the house phone, ten whole feet away.

…Click off the tape, transfer the laptop onto the table, kick the cat off the blanket, pull off the blanket, race to the kitchen, and grab the phone.

Dial tone.

I can’t believe they hung up.

I brought the house phone over to the computer and settled back down. At least I’d be ready if it happened again.

I hit the audio button and resumed typing.

“Ring!”

Hah! I hit “pause” and grabbed the phone.

Nothing.

This happened about four more times, always one ring. I sent a text to the boys to see if they were trying to reach me. Perhaps they had a poor signal?

“Nope. Wasn’t us.”

I sent the same text to my best friend. Not her either.

Again it happened. And again.

Cat by broken phone

Careful everyone…she’s in a mood…

Yes, I considered the potential for a hidden camera, and even looked around with not a little paranoia before shaking my head. Hard.

Twice more I resumed my typing. Twice more the phone rang. The little girl in me was seriously ready to start crying.

Okay, I’m going to try to ignore it.

I started transcribing again, focusing on the voice on the tape with all I had. The phone rang once—you should know I have ADD and cannot ignore a ringing phone—twice—focus, focus, focus!—three times. If you can make it to four the machine will kick on.

Then I heard my voice on the tape saying, “Just ignore that, Sir; it will go to voicemail at four rings.”

I’d spent the better part of 30 minutes trying to answer a phone that wasn’t ringing.

Crystal clear audio. It’s not always your friend.

It made me wonder though…

How often, in my stubbornness, do I run on autopilot and not even notice that the one true voice has stopped talking? There are a lot of imitations out there…stay alert!

For false messiahs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect. Matthew 24:24

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Christmas Year-Round assignment for February

Okay, you’ve had your baking break. It’s time to get the pans out again. This month, bake a batch of cookies for a neighbor…and not one you know well, either. No, you don’t have to decorate them, and yes, deliver them in person. Write to me about your new friend!

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A Year of Living Precariously: What is Success?

22 Jan Road in the woods

By Rosemarie Fitzsimmons

What does success look like?
This week marks one year since I traded my 9-to-5 job to start a freelance writing business from home. Naturally, I find myself reflecting and wondering if it was a good decision.

Financially, one could argue it was a disaster. I made one tenth of last year’s income (and much of that came from working 20 days in the old job), and my writing has yet to achieve confetti-strewing victory status. However, I hadn’t expected great riches in the first year.

So what measuring tool should I use? How about the divided paper list of minuses (regrets) and pluses (encouragements).

Do I have regrets? Absolutely. I regret missing out on the office Fantasy Football league this past fall. Every Sunday, every highlight, every game promotion—pretty much every time I saw a football on television, I wondered about the ol’ gang. Like, who had Demaryius Thomas (my money’s on Rob) and who in their right mind would had the good fortune to pick the Eagles defense?  More than that, I miss the Monday morning recaps and Friday trash talking. Big regrets there.

And I regret being away from people I came to love over my 12 years there. I miss the get-togethers, the Styrofoam rocket wars (probably shouldn’t mention those, but it’s not like I would get in trouble) and the electrifying brainstorming sessions, especially those first moments where we’d see a solution forming and ideas would just burst forth, each one building on the last. I hadn’t anticipated how deeply I’d miss my coworkers. I miss the creativity, the humor (the cat rarely laughs at my puns the way Albert did, although the cackle is eerily similar), and the practical jokes…knowing I’m potentially alienating a sizable portion of the PW readers by not giving the entire story here, I feel compelled to tell the gang that I STILL giggle when I think of mailing the Justin Bieber doll to Puerto Rico.

Surprisingly, that’s it.

On the positive side, I’ve been greatly encouraged by the way my family met many financial situations head-on this year and emerged, not only okay, but with far less debt than we’ve had in many years. How is that even possible? Well, to be honest, we did kick a few cans down the road, but every time there was truly a need (broken vehicle, vet bills, oven replacement), the money just seemed to show up. I realize the Bible teaches us that this is just God’s way, but it’s still a concept that surprises me every time I witness it. One day, just as I was starting to panic over our empty fridge, my neighbor came over out of the blue and handed me a check for walking and caring for her dog. I hadn’t asked for payment, nor expected it, and she wouldn’t take it back. It was just enough for a trip to the commissary.

Last year I wrote one book, 15 short stories, and about 30 blog posts—all fulfilling, fun work. The short stories provided enough income that I could keep writing, and now I’m looking at the possibility of having a book announcement for you by the end of next month.

I also met many new people through the freelance work I took on this year. They’ll never replace my gang, but they keep me from talking to myself and I enjoy them immensely.

Best of all, my heart is happy. I’m doing what I love and the peace of mind is incredible—not to mention the short, snow-less, and traffic-free commute. Despite what may look like (and at times feel like) stalling, I know I’m on the verge of something. I’ve learned to be content in the waiting, even though I don’t know what or when it will occur.

As I look at my list, I’d have to say the plus side is the weighted side.

Yesterday I sat at a table with some friends, and we were discussing how you know if you’re on the right track. Becky pointed out that the apostle Paul, who penned many of the letters in the Bible, and who we all know was on the right track, died with no clue that his letters would still be around more than 2,000 years later, changing lives by the millions.

I can wait a bit longer.

Road in the woods

Can’t see where the road leads, but I’m loving the walk.

So, what is success? I still don’t know. But in my annual State of the Rose report, I can say with confidence, I’m at peace, I do believe I’m right where God wants me to be, and I’m ready for another year of this.

Also, if the fantasy league ever decides to open the roster to non-employees, I’m there. I still won’t take the Eagles defense, but I’m there.

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To My Hero, on the Occasion of Our Anniversary

13 Jan

I’d been on mess duty about a week before I noticed him. Really noticed him. At the time, women Marines made up only four percent of the Marine Corps population, so it’s not that much of a stretch to think I didn’t notice yet another hopeful face in the sea of men at Camp Lejeune.

Such a dashing young man...

Such a dashing young man…

Jerry was a line cook. He’d made me a cheese omelet once or twice. As he tells the story, he joked and smiled as he cooked—all he wanted was for me to make eye contact. I did not.

I had no idea when I received orders to report for 30 days of mess duty that they would change my life. The work itself was rather mundane. As part of my responsibilities, I checked identification cards at the front doors during mealtimes, which also meant doing some minor record-keeping in the office. For me mess duty was an annoyance; for Jerry it was a 30-day window of opportunity.

Every afternoon during a break time between meals I’d settle at a quiet corner table with a cup of hot tea and a book. Soon he started to join me, and I set my book aside in favor of a daily chat. I didn’t learn until years later that he wasn’t exactly a fan of hot tea.

Then came the day I misplaced the cashier keys, and a disciplinary-minded sergeant hid them to teach me a lesson. I probably would have gotten into a lot of trouble. However, Jerry saw where he hid them and snuck them back to me just as I’d noticed they were gone. The sergeant came into the office grinning like a Marvel Comic villain.

“So…are you missing anything?”

“Why no, I don’t believe I am.” I pulled the keys from my pocket and opened the cashier’s box in front of him. The look on his face was priceless.

Jerry has been my hero ever since that day. We married 31 years ago today, on Friday the 13th at a Justice of the Peace office in South Kingstown, Rhode Island. I wore black because that’s all I had with me.

We survived the first 19 years of marriage on our own, despite gale-force winds and buffeting storms. We almost didn’t make it.

Then God became part of our lives and helped us through the next 11 years. I highly recommend the “with-God” approach to marriage. It’s not without storms, but the winds don’t cause near as much damage, and the sunny days are so much more rich and beautiful than I could have ever imagined they would be.

There’s no way I could tell you everything I love about my husband in one meager little blog post. So instead, I’m going to tell you one small story that I carry in my heart because it epitomizes his character. On top of that, I’ll bet he doesn’t even remember this occasion. Why not? Because it concerns an argument, and he never remembers those days once the disagreement passes (sometimes, much to my frustration).

We rarely argue, but on this particular day, it was a major deal, and on a night he had to go to a meeting somewhere. We were giving each other the silent treatment with every subliminal inch of our bodies. Then I remember him putting on his coat and going outside without even kissing me goodbye. (To be fair, I was being petty enough, I probably would have turned my head.)

He came inside, went upstairs for only a second or two, then came back down and left again. I didn’t ask.

An hour later, when I went up to bed, I figured out why he’d come back—to turn my side of the electric blanket on.

He’s like that. All these years later, he’s still my hero. And my rock. And my love. And my best friend. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat—including the buffeting wind days.

Because, yes, I still do.

Happy Anniversary Jerry. Here’s to 31 more.

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Love isn’t Seasonal (No Need to Pack it Up)

8 Jan "Deflatables"
"Deflatables"

Of course, some things should be packed away…it would make everyone happier

Monday was the Twelfth Day of Christmas. It is time.

My kitchen table is piled high with green and red remnants of the season—an empty candy bowl, a stack of greeting cards, a bow that didn’t get tossed on Christmas day. In the napkin holder, the handful of poinsettia-design dinner napkins no longer stand, but flop over like a dying dandelion. In the red tin are three, way-beyond-stale cookies—the prettiest ones, which we couldn’t bring ourselves to eat. Now they’d break teeth if we tried.

Over at the Christmas village, a lamp post lies on its side. I’m tired of turning it upright. The cat wins.

Sigh. It’s over. Tomorrow I start bringing the boxes upstairs.

When I was a child, I wanted to keep Christmas up forever. It made sense, considering the time spent unpacking and arranging decorations. Besides, there was such a magic to it all. It always felt so festive just to walk into a room freshly adorned with sparkle and light. The smell of pine, whether from the tree, a candle, or a can, mingled with the hint of secrets in the air. And people just seemed nicer at Christmas.

Now, I get it. I understand why it all has to come down. In the first place, the cat needs to rest. The poor thing’s been over stimulated since the second week of December.

But more importantly, if we left them up, the decorations would become ordinary. We’d become so accustomed to them that we wouldn’t even notice they were there. In the same way we tend to appreciate health more after a troubling illness, or a working car after getting it out of the shop, part of the magic of the Christmas season lies in opening boxes we packed away in January and rediscovering their contents.

Still, I’ve been thinking about how to preserve parts of Christmas, particularly the “people just seem nicer” part. It occurs to me, that’s the love part, and that doesn’t have to be packed away. Love isn’t seasonal, and it’s never ordinary, so let’s try something new.

Every month I’m going to put a suggestion at the end of my blog called “Christmas, Year-round,” in which we’ll take a loving Christmas tradition and keep it going. For example, in January, let’s all choose three people who would least expect it and send them each a card. Not a Christmas card, but an “I’m thinking of you” card (letters work too, but I won’t push my luck). If something interesting comes of your endeavor, I’d love to hear about it.

Something tells me it’s going to be a good year.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.”  Colossians 3:15

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Hope among the Embers

31 Dec Ocean

Author’s note: This blog was written in response to yesterday’s writing prompt challenge on A Writer’s Path: Ten Quote Tuesday, in which we were to write about “A human cage, built without a lock.” It’s a great writer’s site–very inspiring.

Hope among the Embers

My shelter sits on the edge of the Sea of Fear. I have all I need here.

I’ve been building this place for nearly 50 years, and I’ve stocked it well.

The floor is warm, lined with newspaper clippings and childhood essays with large, red A-plus marks scrawled across the top. The yellowed by-lines on some of the articles whisper my maiden name. I re-read the stories now and cringe at my poor grammar and worldly naiveté. Still, I keep them because of the accolades from teachers and publishers; their sparks ignited a fire that still burns in the shelter’s camp stove.

The shelter beams were fashioned over many years through friendships and mentorships. I run my fingers along the loving, encouraging messages engraved throughout in scrawling gnarled script. “I love your writing.” “Don’t ever give up.” “If you ever write a book, I’ll certainly read it.” Each beam is treasured. Some can never be replaced.

I’ve fortified the walls with tools of the trade. I’ve joined writers’ groups, taken tutorials, purchased How-To books, attended online seminars, and traveled to conferences. I’ve taken more notes and saved more useful files than I’ll ever be able to read, even if I knew where they’re stored on this blasted computer. Still, it gives me peace to know they’re there—if I ever need them.

Photographs pasted on the walls chronicle 40 years of growth and maturity, depicting victories over mind and body. Swimming across the Sakonnet River. Gaffing trees. Rappelling. The first time I fired Expert at the shooting range. Periods of extreme grief. The love of a good man. Raising two boys. Unspeakable joy. Jobs of increasing significance. Walking away from the last job to write. Writing a book. Rewriting the book. Rewriting the book.

Firelight from the camp stove illuminates the open front door and the sea beyond. I sit with my belongings and watch the water’s ripples kiss the shore. Hemmingway, Poe, Harper Lee, Erma Bombeck, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Orson Scott Card, Maya Angelou, Nicholas Sparks. My tables, my chairs, my blankets, my friends. Nestled here, I’m safe and I’m happy, but I’m not content.

There’s something out there, across the water, and it is good. My raft bobs at the pier, like hope ready to burst. It’s big enough to carry me and my shelter, and everything in it. But the sea is so vast. I don’t know what creatures lurk in its depths, or whether a storm sits on the horizon, preparing even now to churn the waters into a frenzy. If that happened, I’d lose everything. I look across the sea, and wonder…

Enough for today. I reach up and pull the shelter door closed, then snuggle against the cold with Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. Drowsily, I listen to him whisper from across the years:

“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.
You must travel it by yourself.
It is not far. It is within reach.
Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know. 
Perhaps it is everywhere – on water and land.” 

The fire in the camp stove has been refueled. Tomorrow, I will try again.

Ocean

Or perhaps it’s a sea of endless possibility…?

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The Christmas Tree of Thanksgiving: Bring on the joy!

17 Dec Gus-Gus the Christmas Mouse

Every year there seems to be at least one well-meaning individual who feels it necessary to remind me that the Christmas tree concept stems from pagan traditions. They insist Jeremiah 10 forbids cutting a tree and adorning it with silver and gold. Actually, this verse refers to chiseling idols from wood, and worshipping them, like the Asherah poles in the Old Testament. Nobody should worship a tree.

However, if you want to show your Christmas joy by decorating a tree, do it in good conscience. Our family enjoys this tradition immensely. In fact, I’m going to dedicate this week’s blog to our tree, because I can think of no better way to celebrate the days leading to Christmas than by reviewing some of the greatest blessings of my life and praising God for making them possible.

Decorated Christmas Tree

Deck the heck outa that thing!

Our Christmas tree has become a three-dimensional Thanksgiving prayer, taking longer to decorate every year, because every year there’s more to be thankful for.

My husband and I started a tradition when we were newly married, when we acquired an “Our First Christmas Together” ornament. Over the years, whenever we travel or reach a milestone of any type, we purchase an ornament to commemorate the event. Among the joyful hodge-podge on our tree is a blue Niagara Falls “Maid of the Mist” globe, a Mayberry Police Department sheriff’s star, and a blown-glass whale from the New Bedford Whaling Museum in Massachusetts.

In addition to this travel log, our tree also chronicles the lives of our children, from the pictures taken in their first years and the hand-made kindergarten projects, through their Blues Clues and Elmo phases, and on to young adult-hood. The ship in-a-bottle was a gift from my oldest, who, at 12 or so, spied on me as I admired it in a Mystic, Connecticut store, and then ran back to purchase it when I wasn’t looking. His Hylton High School Bulldogs ornament reminds me of his years with the band, and his curled up cat figurine keeps Kris Kringle in our hearts despite the more than 10 Christmases we’ve spent without him.

TARDIS ornament

Angels, check; green canoe with oars, check; time lord transport vehicle, check.

The youngest has his own story splayed throughout the greenery, thanks in great part to a thoughtful Sacramento grandmother. His ornaments include a miniature keyboard, which depicts the joy he receives through music; a canoe that commemorates ten days of lake-hoping in the Canadian wilderness (and Mom & Dad’s prayers morning, noon, and night for safe return); and a fish-shaped Egyptian Mau photo that marks the arrival of his cat, Aslan. (“Marks” is a good term for this cat, considering his household contribution…) The lad’s latest acquisition, a hand-painted TARDIS, shows his interest of the day. (If you’re not familiar with the TARDIS, I’m sorry, but there isn’t enough blog space available here to explain Dr. Who.)

One look at our tree will tell anyone who we are as a family. Bronco fans, surely (although Mom tends to place the Bronco ornaments to the side, because, well…orange?) We’re also hikers, fans of the baked goods, Marines, and patriots. When we place our camouflaged and Stars & Stripes ornaments on the tree, we say a prayer of safe-keeping for all who serve in our nation’s military this Christmas, and appreciation for their sacrifices and those who have gone before them.

Thirty years of ornaments now adorn the tree, to include our 30th anniversary mementos from this year’s trip to Charleston, S.C.—a wine cork in a wire heart, and a red “Moon Pie” ornament, because apparently you can’t go to Charleston and not visit the Moon Pie store.

Shepherd with lost lamb

The shepherd will leave his entire flock to search for one lost sheep, praise God.

Interspersed among this memorabilia, of course, is a story of Jesus. Angels herald the coming of the King, birds nestle in the top branches to cry praises for His creation, and Mary & Joseph look with awe upon their newborn babe. My favorite ornament, though, is a shepherd with a small lamb draped over his neck. This one was added nearly 10 years ago, when my wonderful husband, who had grown up outside the church, saw an amazing and transforming light, which led to his being baptized and declaring the Lord as his savior. I still cry when I hang this one.

Another annual tree-trimming tradition is in the Official Order of Ornament Placement. Breakables go on top (yes, the boys are grown, but there are still paws to be concerned about), and soft, “bat-ables” on the bottom. Then, Mom’s rocking horses must be spaced just so, and the plastic decorations from the early years are given prominence because they remind us how little we once had. After that, it’s a free-for all. Each ornament pulled from the box sparks a memory and a prayer of thanksgiving.

Gus-Gus the Christmas Mouse

Gus-Gus, not just a Cinderella classic, but a Christmas favorite

When the tree is complete, and the 30-year-old wobbly macramé angel placed on top, we stand back and just remember. We’ve been able to see, and do, and be so much over the years, it’s impossible not to be grateful. God is so good!

I hope your tree brings you the same joy and thanksgiving that ours does. I’d love to hear about your favorite ornaments. What’s your story?

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. – James 1:17

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Peace on Earth? Preposterous! Or is it?

6 Dec

We’re entering what the angels announced to the shepherds as a season of, “Peace on Earth, good will toward men,” according to the King James’ version of Luke 2:14.

No other phrase I know makes less sense these days. As you read this, members of the Islamist group, Boko Haram, are marching across Nigeria, killing all Christians in their wake; ISIS members are beheading children and innocent civilians of all faiths who block their attempts to forcibly institute an Islamic State In Syria; and Russia-funded operations have now killed more than 4,300 people in eastern Ukraine. In our own country, hate mongers are cackling with joy as decent human beings are led astray by the promise of entitlement. “You don’t have to think—we’ll do it for you,” the hate-mongers say. “Don’t waste time examining your lifestyles and searching for answers, just burn, burn, burn and take, take, take!” Our nation is weighed down with rioting and protests, murders, rapes, theft, smuggling, drug dealing…and an increasingly pervasive hate-thy-neighbor attitude.

How did we get here? Does it not make a complete mockery of God’s promise that we would have Peace on Earth?

I don’t think so. I don’t believe the angels were heralding a healed world as much as an escape plan for those who must endure its gradual demise.

To clarify, let’s consider my youngest, who started driving this week (audible sigh). This event forces me to dwell on his impending adulthood. Soon, he will be out there “in the world” making daily decisions about right and wrong without our counsel. His father and I taught him as best we know how to respond to tough situations, but the rest is up to him. My parting words to him as he heads off to college will not be “don’t murder and don’t hate.” Instead, I will tell him two things: “Remember your God, and remember you are a Fitzsimmons.”

That’s all he needs, in any situation. When he’s at a party that turns wild and learns that the punch he’s been drinking all evening has been spiked, I’m counting on him to remember God and say a prayer for protection. If he keeps a cool head, he will then call home, and his father or I will drive to wherever he is to pick him up. When we find him, will he be crying hysterically? Will he have joined the revelry and be hanging from the chandeliers? Not if he remembers who he is.

Instead, I prefer to believe he will be sitting on the couch, or on the curb, watching the world he knows crumble. He will have likely witnessed some incredibly bad behavior by people he’d thought were upright and responsible. Classmates will be smoking and drinking, and doing things they wouldn’t do in front of their families. Some poor girl will throw herself on a boy just to be liked and give away more than she should. Perhaps he will feel the same heartache we feel when we watch the evening news.

In the midst of the chaos, however, he will know peace. He will know his parents are on their way, and that there might be punishment in his future depending on the situation, at the very least, admonishment, but they will forgive him and love him as much as they did the day before. Then he will be wiser about the world, which should help him deal with the next tough situation.

On the other hand, he might choose to forget us and join the ranks of the lost. Should he choose this path, his life will falter, and he will struggle more than he has to, and bad things will happen. He will scoff cynically at the word “peace,” and perhaps convince himself that God is a liar. In his shame, he will likely turn from his parents. Nobody wants to be reminded of the good when they are pursuing evil. But the moment he decides to turn from that activity, the peace will return. His parents will forgive him and help him get back on his feet. They will never stop loving him. He knows that.

He may also fall victim to the revelers and be injured or even killed by their activity. This is a risk he takes, as we all take, just by being in the world. However, he cannot live in fear of attending parties just because someone might show up with a gun. He can have peace though, in knowing that if something does happen, he belongs to God and God will take care of him in life or death.

Luke 2:14 is translated in different ways, from one Bible to the next. When I struggle with a verse in King James, I’ve found the New International Version often does a better job of translating the original Bible into English as we know it today (and yes, Kevin, this book has been vetted, tested, and authenticated). The NIV version of Luke 2:14 is written,“Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth, peace to those on whom his favor rests.”   

Surprised? I was. Reading this translation changed everything for me. From this perspective, the angels did not proclaim a blanket promise of peace on earth at all. In fact, Jesus told anyone who would listen that there would never be peace on earth. Our world has become an increasingly wild frat party, enticing good people to forget who they are and seek only to make themselves happy, right now. In the process, innocents are hurt, the line between right and wrong is blurred, and many partiers fall hard into the abyss.

Jesus My Savior

Peace on Earth starts in the heart.

Jesus came to remind us to remember God and remember family—you are a child of the King, after all! If you do that, then you will be able to find peace, even in a crumbling world. Wherever you are, and no matter how bad it looks, you can call him and he’ll go to wherever you are and help you escape.

No, you cannot change the world. It is dying. However, you can change a part of it. Use your talents, skills, and every blessing you’ve been given, to make a difference where you can. LOVE your neighbors (we’re talking the action verb, not the noun). In doing so, you will pull people from that frat party, one-by-one, and put hope and peace into their hearts by sending them back to the loving, forgiving arms of the Father they’re trying so hard to ignore.

If you’re still at the party, and you’re looking for Peace on Earth, try getting on your knees. You’ll find it there.

“The peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” –Philippians 4:7

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An Open Letter to My Niece, Because You’re Only 14 Once (Thank Goodness)

5 Nov Flower in cement

Dear Britney,

Time and distance have stolen a lot from me, and social media has tried to bridge that gap, but it can never replace hugs and sit-down chats you and I might have shared if we lived closer. Still, I have been able to watch you grow in pictures and e-snippets of some of the best and worst moments of your life (as if there’s no in-between). I’ve seen the costumes, dance numbers, and the new puppy, and I’ve empathized with your sadness over living in the New Mexico wilderness (which I do believe is a redundancy).

From what I can see, you’re a lot like your aunt at 14. Let me remember for a minute…

Ah yes…14, a crazy time of euphoric highs and gut-wrenching lows, usually in the space of a few minutes. There’s nothing you can say that your parents truly understand. Every boy at school looks at you in one or two ways: with gorgeous eyes that make you want to say yes to everything, or with steel hardness that makes you look down at yourself as if you’re the one who isn’t right. Your big sister “has it made” and your little brothers have mental issues. The mirror is not your friend. Creative ideas flow and you rush to act on them but then quickly lose interest. You’ve knocked over, spilled, fallen on, and broken so many things that you’re sure there must be some kind of cosmic “kick me” sign on your back.

And you dream. All the time. You imagine what life would be like elsewhere, in 20 years, if you could live down the street, across the state, with someone else, by yourself—anything but when and where you are.

How am I doing? I might not be exactly on the ol’ nail head, but I suspect I’m close.

I want to assure you, it gets better. Well, not right away. 15 is no picnic either. Hey, would you do something for me? Grab a piece of legal paper and make a number list down the side—one number per line, 1 through 85 (95 if you’re feeling particularly healthy)…I’ll wait. When you get to the bottom, start a new page (not on the back). Still waiting. You should have about 4 numbered sheets of paper in front of you, right?

Don’t cheat. Write ’em down. This is cooler when you can see it.

Done? OK. Spread the pages out and look at them. That’s your life. Now, circle 14, 15, and 16. Let’s call them the awkward years. Notice how many non-circled lines are left! You can record cool events that happened on lines 1 through 13, and pencil in “college” on some lines with a degree of certainty, but the rest are just line after line of “to be announced.” Such mystery—you’re looking at great adventure, dismal boredom, and everything in between. That, my dear, is your future.

Now, consider this: everything you’ll need to make it there (look at pages 2, 3, and 4) is happening right where and when you are today. Being picked on? Perhaps you’ll need compassion. Love kids? You might be a teacher. Feel alone? Perhaps you’ll be a writer (oh, sorry, that was me).

Flower in cement

Bloom where you’re planted…

So, what’s my point? God makes everyone as different as snowflakes. Each of our histories contains a kaleidoscope of unique skills, dreams, childhoods, situations, challenges, frustrations, families, losses, and victories. You may pine for things others have, or wish to jettison things you don’t want, but the bottom line is, you’ve got exactly what you need to be the Britney that God needs you to be. Learn, laugh, love, and live now. You’ll figure out the rest as you go.

Keep this list, and fill in lines once in a while—Your first job, first firing, first child, first bad review, first painting sold, first mortgage, etc. (I’ll be checking on you.) And keep dreaming—about tomorrow, sure, but don’t forget to dream about who you can be today. One of the wonderful things about being 14 is that it’s also a time when anything is possible. This is the year you start figuring out what makes you tick (aside from brothers) and feel, well, right doing it. Whatever it is, latch on and ride that wave to the end, because that’s your passion. I’m sending you a book called “Do Hard Things,” by Alex and Brett Harris. They were teenagers when they wrote this book. You’ll be amazed at some of the things teenagers are accomplishing in this world, but it starts with liking who you are.

Aside from all this wonderful, “auntly” advice, 14 is still a tough year, so here’s a list of phrases to get you through any drama du jour. I challenge you to memorize them and use them whenever appropriate:

  1. God thinks I’m beautiful.
  2. This, too, shall pass.
  3. I will not compromise who I am to fit someone else’s mold.
  4. If it feels wrong, stop it.
  5. Some day it will happen, if that’s the plan.
  6. God knows when I’m hurting.
  7. That boy is going to make some woman very miserable one day.
  8. I’m honestly happy for her.
  9. My parents are brilliant! (Trust me on this one.)

You are greatly loved, Britney, and you have an amazing family right there in the New Mexico boondocks. But also remember that you can call your aunt any time to chat. Maybe she’ll tell you about being nicknamed “spot” in high school, or about the day she broke four WWII-era Hummels at once, using only a math book…when she was 14. That’s also when she wrote her first short story…

NOTE: Awesome flower photo taken in Uganda by Rev. Jessica Hughes (I just knew there’d be a perfect use for it, Jessica!).

“… we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”  –Romans 5:3-5

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Bamboo Faith: Why I Can’t Quit Writing

9 Oct panda and bamboo

Have you ever felt overwhelmed by your own ineptitude? I’ve been there for the past two weeks, and last night, it almost beat me.

panda and bamboo

Mei-Jing and bamboo (the flag was outside; the artist was 5 and all about details)

I was throwing away a bamboo stump that had been a living plant in our home for at least the past 12 years. It represented a simpler time in our lives, a time when watering plants was part of the weekly routine, and wishes were easily satisfied. We bought the plant when my youngest, who’d just acquired a stuffed panda named Mei-Jing (what else?) asked for bamboo for Christmas, explaining quite simply, “You can’t have a panda without bamboo.”

Bamboo is like cactus, in that it takes a lot to do it in. It thrives, even when neglected. My friend tossed a dying bamboo root in her back yard a few years back and now she has a forest out there that would make any panda feel right at home. But then, I’ve killed many a cactus plant in my day. And now I’ve killed Mei-Jing’s food supply as well, because I no longer have a weekly routine.

So last night, I stared at that clump of former life and had a pity party. I told myself it represented the past few weeks, in which I’ve been racing around to accomplish “stuff,” but really, I’ve gone nowhere. Joe’s story has received two rejections from publishers; I’m having trouble finding blog time, which is one of my favorite things to do; and when my fledgling business was begging for water, I prayed for water and got a firehose. I cannot operate a firehose, so I just about drowned everything in my…ineptitude.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve become accustomed to, and accepted the reality that…well, I’m not the brightest bulb in the dirt. (See how that doesn’t work? Nevermind.) I come by this quirk honestly. Once when my dad was in a hospital waiting room, fretting over Mom as the doctors worked behind closed doors (she was ok—that’s not the story), the doctor came out and told him it would help if he got some donors. My dad made a beeline for the exit and was gone for 20 minutes. When he came back, he presented a pink box to the doctor and said, “I didn’t know if you wanted glazed or jelly filled so I got some of both.”

So, yes, I’m a bit off, but I’m generally capable. I can juggle many tasks, write a fine short story (if I do say so myself), and make kids laugh without actually falling down. That’s why, when I left my job to write full-time, I had a certain degree of justifiable confidence in my ability—until this week.

Here’s the situation: Despite the negative news (so far) for Joe’s story, my freelance business is taking off. I’d been writing one story a week for some time now. Last week, because I forgot to take my name off a list of availability, I managed to sign up for three stories at once. Naturally, I was too proud to say it’s too much. I figured, the interviews have been averaging two hours (recorded on an mp3 file), and the stories are so intriguing they practically write themselves, so I thought I was up for the challenge. HOWEVER, both interviews this week have been well over three hours. One is with a woman who speaks with a heavy Romanian accent and the other had some sort of technical glitch forcing me to fight through static to transcribe the conversation. It has taken me six hours to transcribe the first hour of each tape. The rest awaits. Ineptitude. I woke this morning dreading my work for the first time because I have so much to do and still another interview tomorrow. I’m overwhelmed. I cried in my pity party and thought, perhaps I’m not cut out for this.

Here’s where I praise God for that few moments each day that ARE routine. You see, every morning I try to spend my first 30 minutes or so studying the Bible. Lately that’s been in the form of Beth Moore’s Children of the Day study of 1st Thessalonians, in which I read about Paul’s concern for the new believers after their trials. He wrote, not to assure them they’d be okay, but to remind them that they would be hard pressed to come out unscathed. He added, “I sent to find out about your faith. I was afraid that in some way the tempter might have tempted you and our efforts might have been useless.”

And bam! I remembered: I’m not doing this on a whim, but because I believe it’s the Lord’s plan for me. Anything that comes against my decision to write is not of God. I know the “tempter” isn’t looking out for my best interests. What he holds out before me is not escape and relief, but surrender. When I’m wounded and angry, he’s delighted, because I’m close to giving in. (That’s one reason he attacks our loved ones, by the way—to get us where we’re vulnerable—but that’s another blog). Simply put: he plays dirty. And I know what he wants from me. Not my business. Not my stories. Not my hopes and dreams. These things mean nothing to him, except as a means to get what he really wants.

New bamboo plant

My plant of new hope…it better hope I remember to water it.

He wants my faith.

He’s not getting it.

So this morning I bought a new bamboo plant and set it in the same vase as the last one. I watered it (so that’s at least once…) and set it where I can see it. I’m not inept. I’m administratively challenged. But I have a Counselor who isn’t, and so I leave that part of this job to Him. These next few days will be challenging, and before I’m done I might be speaking with a static-y Romanian accent, but I know there’s victory coming.

Now, I’m heading back to finish my transcription; but this time, I’m armored up and ready to fight. Are you with me?

“But since we belong to the day, let us be self-controlled, putting on faith and love as a breastplate, and the hope of salvation as a helmet.” 1 Thessalonians 8

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