Mental Health Day

Pinterest Eat

2012-02-02T16:50:00.000-05:00

OH BABY, OH BABY, OH BABY! Pinned anything good lately?

Source: sugarcooking.blogspot.com via Cara on Pinterest

Wag The Dog

2012-02-02T08:00:00.003-05:00

I lost one of my aunts a few weeks ago. If we're being honest, I lost her a long time ago. Alzheimer's stole my aunt's sweet and chipper personality and the amazing musical talent she possessed. If you don't believe in the devil, spend some time around Alzheimer's disease. It really is an unholy illness.

Like most of my family members, my aunt lived far away and I got to see her rarely. It had been 13 years since I had seen her face, though we had always been "close" - as close as you can be from opposite ends of the country. Our relationship mostly involved pen and paper (she never really got into email.)

I was telling a good friend about the long-distance relationship. Ironically, the good friend also lives far away. She commented that most of my "close" friends are, in fact, the long-distance kind and asked if I had ever given that any thought. Stinkin' sisters in the Lord - always trying to get you to be a better person and whatnot. ::snort:: I have given it a lot of thought. It just happens to be one of those thoughts I reflect on for a split second, don't like how it makes me feel, and then push it away and think about kittens and chocolate and stuff.

If someone needs me, I'll be there. I'll pick you up at your doctor's appointment. I'll listen to your problems. I'll watch your ki... pets. I'll do anything for anyone, I just don't like having to need anyone, and I really don't like having to pour myself into a relationship that might result in that person figuring out that I'm flawed and weird and don't like to cook and have toothpaste in my sink. My husband, after 11 years, knows those things about me. Other people just suspect it because they don't get the chance to find out for themselves.

But I feel like God wants me - wants us - to be transparent and kinda daring. That's the way you have to live if you want to have a rich faith life. Do you want a walk with God? A real walk - the kind where you walk together and are heading in the same direction for the same reason? Or do you want the kind of walk my dad always had with our miniature Schnauzer, Winston - always tugging and snapping and trying to run ahead. My dad knew running out onto the highway was a bad idea, but Winston thought it was an awesome idea!

Is that what we want?

God won't heal you and make you more like Himself if you won't let Him. God doesn't force us to eat our green beans. And you can't have real faith without being daring. Being daring allows you to believe in someone you can't see, touch, or hear. It's what tells you to hold on when the world says give up. It's what gives you the backbone to tell another person ABOUT God.

I've had to take a step back and acknowledge, yes, I avoid the close relationships. I have to admit, too... God hasn't always had the red carpet treatment in my life.

I'm changing that.
Where does God fit in your life and relationships?

A Disclaimer: It's About to Get Personal

2012-01-20T01:11:00.000-05:00

It’s not easy to blog about your life and personal things when certain eyes are on your words and you know you’ll probably hear about it if you say this or that. I don’t care too much about appearances, but others close to me do, and appearances have to be maintained. Don’t talk about yourself too much. Keep your secrets close to your chest. Emotion is bad.

Yes, it makes it really hard to write about your life. That’s where I come from. I don’t want to be there, but those things tend to follow you and they tend to tell you what they think whether you want to hear it or not.

It makes it hard to write about bipolar disorder, or depression, or loss, or sexual abuse or any aspect of your past. It easily turns you into a sarcastic, self-protective comedian. I never used to be that way, but I’ve become that way in the past couple of years. It shouldn’t matter, but it matters. I just can’t let it matter.

My old blog was popular. Why? Because I wrote about anything and everything, pretty passionately. That's what I do. I got a book deal out of it (and my publisher needed to make budget...) and lots of readers, but I've lost many of them because of Facebook and everyone knowing everything and I got weary of freaked-out voice-mails from my mother. I used to write and nobody knew and nobody cared, but it's not like that anymore. It's the nightmare that comes with social networking.

So, I’m going to try and go back to writing the way I used to – about stuff I care about. The things I struggle with, and how God is working in the midst of it. I won’t hang anyone else’s undies on the clothes line for all the world to see because that’s not how I roll, but if anyone is embarrassed by me airing my own laundry, or if you think I should just “get over it” and move on (whatever “it” may be), I suggest you just don’t read my blog. I already know your opinion. It has been registered. Thank you for sharing. I know you roll your eyes. It’s all good – but it won’t dissuade me.

From now I’m going to write what I feel God is leading me to write, which means I’ll probably write a lot more.

That’s my disclaimer.

The Badger Family & the Unthinkable

2012-01-02T01:40:00.000-05:00

If you don't know who Madonna Badger is, or what happened at her home on Christmas morning, you must be living under a dusty rock somewhere, but to recap: her Stamford house burned down, killing her parents and her three young daughters.

Why am I blogging about this? Because I haven't been able to get it out of my mind for a solid week. This has haunted me unlike any other news story I can recall. I've read a lot about devastating fires recently. First a house in the next town over burned down a few weeks before Christmas, killing a 24-year-old woman and her parents. Her teenage sister had to jump from the second floor to safety. Over in Australia, a beloved celebrity chef named Matt Golinski lost his wife and 3 daughters on Boxing Day and suffered third-degree burns to over forty percent of his body trying to save them.

I actually found myself getting sort of angry the other day thinking about it. I don't know who or what I was angry at, I just felt... angry. I've been through some very painful things in my life, but isn't this THE absolute nightmare of everyone, everywhere? This really dwarfs all other fears and tragedies in my mind. It's senseless. The Stamford fire, in particular, was senseless - the blaze is blamed on a bag of smoldering fireplace ashes placed at the back of the house by Badger's boyfriend.

I don't know if there's something that presents a major challenge to your faith, but logic presents a major challenge to mine and always has. A loving God who allows people to lose, literally, their entire families in one swoop. Stupid freakin' logic - it's kicking me in the butt this time! I've devoted a lot of hours to mulling this one over. I've tried to envision what these people must be going through, and how they will - I hope - eventually put one foot in front of the other and simply breathe. I have thought numerous times that I would regret not dying myself. I don't even have children of my own.

I can sit here and tell you about the peace I had when my husband almost died this summer, or the way God has been healing me from a crappy childhood, and I can give you a list of things God has done for me through rough circumstances, and there is barely a comparison. Like trying to blow bubbles into a stiff wind. Right back in your face.

It leaves me feeling naked and terrified. And all I can really do when I feel that way - here's the irony - is pray. Pray because being afraid doesn't get me anywhere, and it doesn't get the Badgers or the Golinskis or the Risslers anywhere, either. I pray because it makes no sense to me and I still hang onto that little mustard seed of faith that tells me GOD understands it, and the only thing that can help these people breath and walk and carry on is HIM.

It makes me stare directly into the face of what a relationship with Jesus is supposed to be about in the first place: making Him my everything. Everything else can disappear in an instant, but God cannot be lost. Real relationship with God means you can never lose everything.

But I'm guessing none of those people are feeling it right now, and that's the emptiness that scares me. It scares me, but it brings me to my knees.

It's a messy grace that keeps us afloat, isn't it?

Baby Steps

2011-12-30T02:09:00.000-05:00

I don't know how you define 'victory' when it comes to faith. I always thought victory meant getting over something - like, one day you wake up and realize you're not addicted to alcohol anymore, or you suddenly have super strong faith where you once were barely hanging on. I guess maybe I'm changing my mind about all that.

Over the past month or so, I've been dealing with a lot of depression and anxiety for different reasons. More than usual, actually. Seeing as how I have depression and bipolar disorder, it's not like I don't deal with it normally. There were extra pressures this year, though, and my usual struggle was unusually difficult, even for me.

(I know this sounds like a total fail, but hang in there.)

I've been praying and reading the Bible like crazy because of it. Instead of boxed, trite prayers (or none at all) I've been actually TALKING to God. Leaning on Him. Going to Him when I'm afraid, instead of going to one of the ten million other things I used to go to.

That's a victory, right?

And it's WORKING. That has to be a victory.

When I feel afraid (sad/exhausted/hopeless) I pray. IT WORKS.

If it wasn't so late, I'd say a lot more, but it's the middle of the night. It was just one of those things, though - I couldn't keep it to myself anymore. :-)

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like LADY GAGA!!!!!

2011-12-18T02:46:00.001-05:00

"Well, nobody ELSE comes to Hershey Park looking like that!"

OK, so I go to Hershey Park Christmas Candylane to look at Christmas lights and eat free chocolate (thanks Chocolate World) and not only do I get all that... I also see Lady Gaga. Buying chocolate. Lady Gaga buying chocolate. Dinner AND a show!

I'm telling you this not because I love Lady Gaga. I actually don't know more than one of her songs. I'm just not into it. I'm also not telling you this because I'm star-struck. I don't really care. It's just an interesting topic because not so long ago I said, "I wouldn't know Lady Gaga if I ran right into her." Time to tell the back story.

Lady Gaga's boyfriend - Taylor Kinney - is from Lancaster. I didn't know that until all these reports started surfacing that the two were spotted around town. The local news reported on the two of them skeet shooting together over Thanksgiving. (We really need hobbies around here.) And *I* said, "I wouldn't know Lady Gaga if I ran right into her."

And then, tonight, I ran into her - physically. So did my husband. He almost took her out! She was buying chocolate with Taylor Kinney and 2 little boys. No clue who the boys are, but that's irrelevant. My husband and I, along with the other couple we were with, just couldn't be convinced that we saw Lady Gaga, even though 3 of the 4 of us saw her and each arrived at the same conclusion. We even stopped in the freezing cold to Google pictures of her on our phones to make sure we weren't losing it. Sure enough, it was her.

I wish I had more to tell you about this experience. I saw Lady Gaga and almost trampled her. There you go. But I WILL say this: if she wants to blend in with the crowd, she has to try harder. Bleach blond almost white hair, the big mole thing on her cheek, nails filed to little points, Amy Winehouse eye makeup, foot-high heels... she wasn't exactly your average Central Pennsylvanian just looking for a few Hershey Kisses, you know? Even if it hadn't been Lady Gaga, she would have stood out like one of the giant tree lights that looked like, to quote my friend, "fruity cereal." It was Lady Gaga, minus the meat dress. It was more like this in a winter coat with a cell phone and a couple of random kids. We here in Pennsylvania notice stuff like that.

Merry Christmas, Gaga. Sorry we stepped on you, but you were...hard to miss.

Attitudes of Gratitude and the Reach of Faith

2011-12-11T23:54:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas, everyone! Is it not the best time of year? The lights, the smells, the music... I love Christmas and always have. I'm not wild about crowded malls, but that's the only complaint I can really lodge.

I am doing my best to practice an 'attitude of gratitude' these days, and not just because it's the holiday season. You have to admit, though, Christmas is a great time of year to really test it out and learn how to live it, because even though things are especially lovely this time of year, you can't always say the same of people. They're stressed, they're in a hurry, you're in their way. I got brave and went to Wal-Mart just before midnight on Thanksgiving night. I lasted 10 minutes. I wasn't strong enough yet. I wanted to punt people. Just being honest.

This gratitude thing has become important to me because I've been sort of surrounded by the exact opposite this year. Have you ever met someone who is just determined to be unhappy? They think they have it worse than anybody else. They're furious that not everything is going their way. They blame their mistakes on everyone but themselves. They anticipate the worst, and therefore always find it. They suffer from Martyr Syndrome.

I can only take so much of it. I realized I had my fill about a month ago. Enough of that. I want to be the opposite. I want to be different. I want to find the good in things. Stop being such a downer! I had a friend who used to say to me, when I'd start on a whining streak, "Get off the cross; someone else needs the wood." I never figured out if that was a sacrilegious statement or not, but I got what she meant. "Get over yourself." Boy, do I need the grace of God to get over myself!

In November, I traveled to Georgia to see my friends Linda and Shaunti. I've been friends with Shaunti for about 8 years, and I've been doing some freelance work for her for about 5 years. Linda is Shaunti's staff director, and for years we were friends over the phone and through email, finally meeting in person in 2009. God orchestrated these friendships. They came about and have played out in such a unique way (that's another blog post), but somehow we're very close. These two women know me inside and out - I can share anything with them. They've mentored me, and we have fun together.

I was incredibly grateful to be able to spend a week in Atlanta. It almost didn't happen, for a variety of reasons, but it worked out. I was going through a bit of a depression before my trip. I was ministered to, prayed over, and overall it was a very healing trip. Linda and Shaunti have taught me a lot about gratitude just in how they carry themselves. They don't have it all figured out, but they walk by faith, and don't mind brushing me off, getting me back on my feet, and cheering me along as they go. They are my family.

I can't tell you how much I needed that trip.

Gratitude, like anything else, grows when you spend time with the people who exemplify it. But making a list doesn't hurt. I've been a negative, judgmental person most of my life, and everyone's got to start somewhere. I had to do just that on Friday, and found that I didn't have enough paper to finish my list.

Yup, I'm a blessed girl. I have problems, but there are definitely more good things than bad to list. And now to spend more time in prayer and in reading the Word so that this becomes a lifestyle and not just a temporary mission. I can only assume that if you're constantly acutely aware of how GOOD you've got it, it will be harder to dwell on the negative.

I want to have a heart that sees God in every situation first. It's a good time of year to start. :-)

Political Ramblings

2011-10-26T22:59:00.000-04:00

Please forgive me, and give me some credit.
I've gone an awfully long time without blogging about politics. There have been times when I wanted to blog about it so badly, I thought my whole head would explode, but I didn't give in. I deserve a pat on the back.

Eeeeeeesh, but I just can't do it anymore. I surrender. I have to blog about politics. For my inaugural post, let me start by saying that I have no idea what to think anymore. That seems like a good place to start.

I used to have very firm political views, but Republicans and Democrats murdered them. I got sick of people bossing me around. I got sick of Republicans hinting that they were the only ones with any morals, and I got sick of Democrats insinuating that anyone who wasn't a Dem was a backwoods moron with only 2 teeth. Right now, I think both sides are comprised of morons. Prove me wrong. (Good luck.) Give me a good argument. By argument, I mean an argument. I can cross my arms, roll my eyes, and make fun of people, too. I want AN ARGUMENT. A lot of people dismiss Christianity based on the behavior of Christians. It's not any different with political parties, you know, although everyone is a hypocrite to some extent.

I've got a jumbled mess of a belief system right now.
Ten years ago, I believed that abortion was murder but the death penalty was justified, and now I'm not so sure I buy that. What does "pro-life" really mean? I used to think it meant I was in favor of life for the innocent. Aren't babies innocent? But, wait. How does that work if you're a Christian? It's not that simple, because as a Christian, you supposedly believe:

-in turning the other cheek
-"vengeance is the Lord's"
-mankind is sinful by nature, we're the result of the fall of man, only Jesus can make us whole again
-"Those who live by the sword, die by the sword"

So am I really "pro-life," or just in favor in killing guilty people? And if I'm in favor of killing guilty people, how do I reconcile that with Jesus forgiving the thief on the cross? Is the death penalty justice, or revenge? Does the death penalty really reflect Christ's teachings? If it does, then why didn't Jesus have everyone associated with his crucifixion murdered?

But let's face it - that's not what Americans are really asking themselves right now. Americans are pissed off about high gas prices and how difficult, if not impossible, it is for many people to get decent health insurance. Until very recently, I was against the idea of universal healthcare.
That's right - against universal healthcare...the Obama-flavored kind.
No, genius, I'm not against providing quality healthcare to the poor. I don't shake my fist at the idea of everyone in this country having access to qualified physicians and life-saving prescription medications. Save it.

I don't see universal healthcare as socialism. I see it as a human right. Everyone should be able to obtain care regardless of their position or income. I challenge the Religious Right to justify withholding the most basic of needs from the rest of humanity, and then tout Jesus as Savior. How do we send people to foreign countries on missions trips but tell our fellow citizens they don't qualify for help because they don't earn enough? Tell me how that makes any sense.

But the kind of universal healthcare that Obama proposes is garbage (that's a separate post.) We're not really human beings if we prevent other human beings from receiving essential care. We're also not really human beings if we allow that essential care to become so chaotic and muddled that people wind up waiting years to have surgery, and doctor's offices turn into DMV's. We DON'T WANT conveyor belt healthcare. We don't want to compromise INDIVIDUAL care. And don't offer the poor free healthcare while taxing everyone else into poverty. It doesn't work that way, Obama. (One thing I am sure of - I'm not an Obama supporter.)

I also think, however, that it's ridiculous to be angry with wealthy people for being wealthy, and just plain stupid to think that wealthy people owe you something because you have less. Again - that's another post.

My friend used to say, in reference to her children, "If something seems like it should be simple, that means it's not." It's not as simple as saying "Here you go! Here's your free heart transplant!" If only, dude.

It's going to take some fine-tuning...not unlike my political views.

Health vs. Sanity

2011-10-13T13:32:00.000-04:00

A few serious but not immediately life-threatening health issues have come down the pike for me as of late. I quit smoking a month ago and now I find myself having to make other major life changes to try and ensure that I live past 35 unless I'm hit by a truck, eaten by a bear, or some other unavoidable calamity stumbles into my path. (After all, I came down with the flu the day after my wedding, and came down with pneumonia the day after I quit smoking. I try to be a realist.)

One doctor told me last week that I needed to eat plenty of Omega 3 fish oils, take (or eat) cinnamon, and load up on fiber. It's all good for your heart, and supposedly your cholesterol. Well, because I'm a realist, I decided to buy all of these things in the form of supplements because I knew I'd never eat much cinnamon in a day's time, even if if I tried to be deliberate about it, and the same goes for fiber. I love seafood and would have no problem eating it on a regular basis but my husband hates it, and - once again, being a realist - I knew I would never make two separate meals in the evening. I also started taking a multivitamin. Nobody told me to do that, it just sounded right.

The cinnamon capsules... no biggie. According to the bottle, I can ever swallow them or open them up and sprinkle them on food. You're supposed to take 2 capsules a day, though, and that would be an awful lot of cinnamon to dump on anything. Spicy overkill with an aftertaste you'd never get rid of. So I swallow the capsules instead.

I'm happy to say the fish oils have no taste, aftertaste, or after-burp taste. They do, unfortunately, have quite a unique and nauseating aroma. Upon opening the bottle, I immediately turned to my husband and said, "These smell like fish-flavored brownies." Yes, fish-flavored brownies. As in... grind up some sardines and add them to your brownie batter, and that's what a bottle of Omega 3's smell like. They look like honey caplets. You'd never guess some machine squeezed the snot out of some cod and sardines and put the results into pill form.

There are a lot of options when it comes to fiber. There are flavored drink pouches you can add to a bottle of water, chocolate snack wafers, and tablets that look like Tums. I'm ~~cheap~~ frugal so I went with the enormous Equate brand bottle of "fiber therapy." The instructions say to use it 3 times a day. I can't help but think those instructions are for people who either can't go potty, or they are capable of reading 3 large magazines back-to-back while they go. I decided I would only use one dose. My bowels might just be the only 'regular' thing about my life!

Wal-Mart's "fiber therapy" smells really good, but it doesn't taste so good. It doesn't taste terrible, but I wouldn't purposely go to the kitchen to mix up a fiber therapy cocktail, if that makes sense. It takes like very watered-down Tang, actually. The problem isn't the taste, but the texture. When I was growing up, my grandfather had serious heart problems and there wasn't much that poor man could eat. His breakfast every day was shredded wheat. Back then, it didn't come in little squares. It came in huge bricks, which you poured milk over and waited for it to get soft enough to eat. No added sugar, no added salt. It looked like this:

But it always reminded me of this:

As the milk seeped into it, the Shredded Wheat eventually turned into this:

That, my friends, reminds me of the consistency of "fiber therapy." Watered-down Tang...with some of that stuff thrown in.

The good news is that it didn't send my bowels into turbo mode, but I can't say it didn't affect my, uh, digestion. Now, I'm a lady and I don't want to go into details or gross anyone out. All I'll say is... you could strap me to the back of a motorboat and I'd be able to power you all the way across the lake. And if you strapped a bubble wand to the back of my jeans... oh, nevermind.

It works.

When my diabetes nurse looked over my food journal last month, she commented, "You're not really salad people, are you?" (Subtle.) Not that we don't eat veggies... it's just that we're really mostly green bean/carrot people. So after that, I made a decision to start including salads into our diet several times a week.

Don't increase your salad intake while you're taking "fiber therapy" unless you want to go up a pants size. That's my best advice to you. Whenever I inject my insulin, it amazes me that I don't deflate like a balloon.

The other day I was sitting here working on a few of my freelance assignments. I had to report on this article. Talk about being deflated.

Popping vitamins may do more harm than good, according to a new study that adds to a growing body of evidence suggesting some supplements may have health risks.

Aw crap. You serious?!? The people in the study who took vitamin supplements actually had a higher death rate than those that didn't. Do you think Wal-Mart will give me a refund? "I need to return these. I have a more than two-percent increased chance of dying in the next 19 years if I take them."

My friend, Reba, said it best: "I saw the news on it. Everything kills you...so let's not worry about it and just live."

Good advice.

I wonder how "fiber therapy" would taste in a 2-gallon bottle of Mountain Dew?

Mental Health in the News

2011-09-29T13:00:00.000-04:00

Here's a story I was covering for my law firm gig yesterday:

Antipsychotics Offer Modest Benefits for Non-Approved Conditions

Atypical Antipsychotics Appear to be Effective in for Only Few Off-Label Uses, Study Suggests

I have some thoughts on this... but they'll have to wait until I finish my work for the day.

Mental Health in the News

2011-09-24T22:31:00.000-04:00

I am so bored tonight. So, so bored. Might as well blog, right? Let's find some bipolar disorder in the news.

Here's one - Stanley Medical Research Institute removed a man's entire brain without his wife's consent. This doesn't have that much to do with bipolar disorder...except that the institute 'harvests' brains to study bipolar and schizophrenia. I can kind of see why that would freak a person out. On the other hand, a brain won't come in handy in the ground. I totally agree that nobody should have their brain removed without some kind of approval. Horror movies, anyone? But at least his brain went toward helping sick people. When I die, I don't care what happens to my body. Bury me, cremate me, prop me up in a lawn chair with a coffee can to collect change on Route 30, whatever. I probably have at least 20 busted parts that science would love to have a crack at, so I say have at it.

Schizophrenia and bipolar are genetically linked. I have no idea what that means, but probably should. I'm hoping it doesn't mean I'm going to become schizophrenia later in life. The important thing, at least for me, is the word GENETICS. The word GENETICS, of course, meaning that mental illness is a REAL MEDICAL DISEASE. No, not everyone is making up a diagnosis to excuse their lazy/bad behavior and/or spiritual deficit. There ARE people in the world - myself included - with an actual disease of the brain. Special thanks to my mom's side of the family for giving me so many wonderful genes to work with (bipolar, Alzheimer's...)

Help for depressed teenagers - I wish this had existed when I was a kid. That sentence makes it sound like I was a teenager before color TV, but I only graduated from high school in 1997, not even a full 15 years ago. When I was 15, I was put on a little blue pill called Zoloft which only served not make me non-suicidal, but I was still miserably depressed. Years later, when I was diagnosed with bipolar, I found out that there was a good chance the Zoloft had made the bipolar worse. Yeah, apparently if you have bipolar and only take an antidepressant but not a mood stabilizer with it, it can make you a lot sicker in the long run. I don't think it even crossed anyone's mind that I was bipolar when I was a teenager. I wish there had been real help back then, because I felt desperately alone. It also would have helped to know I had a mental illness and wasn't just a loser.

Sept. 21, 2011

2011-09-21T23:03:00.000-04:00

If you've read this blog more than once, you probably noticed that I have commitment issues. I can't settle on one blog design. It's not that I really love to switch things up. Actually, I don't like change. I just can't find a design that makes me go, "Oh yeah. THIS is it." I really wanted to go with a pill motif, but I didn't want to field the hate mail from people insisting that antidepressants don't glorify God, so I rejected the idea.

Actually, I might go with that idea yet.

So I apologize for the ~~schizophrenic~~ ~~crazy~~ constant design change. There is no perfect blog, but I'm hoping to find one that I can at stand.

I haven't blogged much lately because I have had walking pneumonia. I don't know what "walking" pneumonia means. I assume it means "Congratulations! You have pneumonia and you're still walking!" I am getting better, though I sometimes have a coughing fit that makes me feel lucky not to be holding my eyeballs in my two hands. Right before I came down with pneumonia, I gave up smoking - as in, the DAY before. What a reward! I think people who quit smoking should get a special prize - a lifetime without pneumonia or something. A lifetime without cancer would be unfair to people who never smoked in the first place, but no pneumonia seems like a fair trade.

Tonight I'll settle for a good night's sleep. I'm watching a UFO documentary right now where one of the experts is...Dan Aykroyd. We need to talk about aliens one of these days on this blog, we really do. I should interview my dad and get his views - nobody has read more about UFOs than my pop.

Still Changing 10 Years Later

2011-09-10T19:00:00.000-04:00

I have blogged about 9/11 every year since it happened. This time of year, I always feel like American life should slow down and that we should all pause to really remember that day - that we should watch something about it, or read something about it. We should all give up a chunk of our time every September 11 to truly reflect on that horrible day to make sure we never forget it. And we should do it not just to remember those who died, but also to remember the very best humanity has to offer, and how - albeit for a short time - we all came together and loved each other like family.

September 11 is as fresh in my memory now as it was on September 12, 2001. Has it really been 10 years? September 11, 2001 is the only day that I can honestly say I remember from beginning to end. I remember my mother calling and waking me up, telling me "we are under attack." I didn't understand what she meant. Who was attacking us? She told me to turn on the TV, which I did, just in time to see the second plane hit the towers live.

I remember the absolute helpless feeling I had, and the sense that if people could fly airplanes into buildings, they could do just about anything. I was waiting for the world to end. I drove to my parents' house in the afternoon because I felt a sense of urgency about seeing them, stopping to pick up the very last newspaper on the stand on the way. Fifteen minutes after the truck had delivered them, they had all been purchased...all but one. I still have it stashed away and I look at it every year.

I remember everything about that day, but one memory in particular always chills me to the bone. I was driving home from my parents' house, hoping my husband would be sent home early from work (he wasn't.) It was the perfect early autumn type of day in Pennsylvania, and everyone was driving with their windows open. As I sat in traffic in the town square waiting for the light to change, I could hear Tom Brokaw's voice all around me. Everyone in traffic was listening to the same thing with their windows open. I will never forget his words: "We are at war."

As my husband and I watched news coverage into the early morning hours of September 12, I knew everything had changed. I had changed, the country had changed, and the world had changed. Oh, how I had changed. Any innocence I had left before 9/11 was now gone. The cruelty that man was capable of inflicting on itself was overwhelming. It's not something I've ever been able to wrap my mind around. I know there are people who murder and terrorize in the name of God, but it's such a foreign concept to me. For that, at least, I am grateful. I don't want to be able to understand that kind of inhumanity and evil.

Right after 9/11, and in the years following, I became a die-hard Conservative, pushing for 'preemptive' strikes against the 'axis of evil' and fully believing that throwing certain people out of the country and preventing others from coming in was the answer to our security problems. I don't really feel that way anymore. I have not completely gone over to the Left, but as I get older, I realize that pushing away the 'poor, huddled masses" only rips away at the core of who we are supposed to be as a nation - a beacon of hope where others come to find new beginnings. Does it expose us to risk? Of course. But we can't curl up in a defensive ball and lose our identity and our true purpose on this planet.

We can't call ourselves peacemakers and then blow up countries without provocation. And those of us who call ourselves Christians... how can we advocate an "us before them" mentality? We don't like to think about it or admit it, but Jesus would never stand for that.

I guess my politics exist somewhere in the middle these days. But, without a doubt, the same event that hurled me over to the right eventually made me start searching for balance years later.

Yes, 9/11 changed me.

I used to feel sad that my young nieces and nephews would never live in a pre-9/11 world where terrorism was never a real concern, but my views on that have changed, too. I am now thankful that they live in a country that no longer denies the existence of evil or how it so desperately wants to reach out and destroy us. We are more aware now, and, I believe, safer. We are grounded in reality, instead of having our head in the clouds. No doubt, it was a nice way to exist, but not terribly smart.

So I will do some remembering of my own this weekend. I will look back over the images and listen to the sounds that rocked our world 10 years ago, and it will be as shocking as ever. These are the things that never get easier over the years. It never ceases to take my breath away.

It also never ceases to make me proud to be an American. We come together in times of tragedy, brush ourselves off, and carry on.

We always survive, and we always will. There are some things no terrorist can kill.

Bad Neighbors: Part 3 (Rubber Chickens, Bloody Corpses, and Dumb Dogs)

2011-09-06T15:38:00.002-04:00


Which way did he go? I have to poo! I love my master! SQUIRREL!!!

One thing I have learned from living in apartment buildings is that the people for miles around assume the building's dumpster is intended for the entire town. Though I live in a much nicer building in a much nicer neighborhood now, the same still rings true here. Random cars pull up to our dumpster all day. Strangers hop out, unload the contents of a small village, and drive away with no remorse whatsoever. Since we moved here, In recent years, I have turned to quietly expressing my displeasure by hanging out of my window and - when I'm really annoyed - shooting video of the offender. Once in a while, I'll go so far as to ask, "Do you live here?" and if I get a no, I add a "Well, then get out of here."

What would these people do if I followed them home and sometime the next day I put all of my trash on their front lawn? They would not like it, but it wouldn't be any different than what they do to me.

The family living in the house beside our second apartment was arrogant - the kind of people who ignored you if you said hello, then laughed as they walked away. They, too, had no problem using our dumpster for all of their disposal needs. Most people throw their trash away as fast as possible, presumably so they can avoid being caught. Our neighbors took their time, looked you right in the eye as they did it, and dumped their stuff several times a week.

There was no limit to the types of things these people would throw in our dumpster - trash, lawn clippings, tree branches, dead appliances, a bloody deer carcass...

It was November, deer-huntin' season 'round these parts, and my husband went out to the dumpster to unload some trash. First, he saw the familiar looking flies swarming the bin. Then he got closer and realized there was a huge bloody, skinned corpse inside. I wasn't there at that moment but, oh, how I wish I could have been. I imagine he had the same look I had when I first saw the bloody corpses dangling from the laundry rack next-door to our old place. I imagine he blinked at least 20 times to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

Mr. Arrogance saw the bag of garbage dangling from my husband's hand, and the glossy-eyed stare on his paralyzed face and came walking over. "Oh, sorry," he said. "I'm a hunter and I put my deer remains in there every year." Then, he walked away.

All my bewildered husband could say was, "He obviously doesn't know anything about skinning deer."

Our landlord - the one who replaced the exploded oven downstairs with a hot plate - put a lock on the dumpster. It felt like a small victory until everyone in the building complained about having to open it in the dead of winter and losing their keys. The lock came off as quickly as it went on.

The longer we lived there, the more I started to lose it. Shotgun fire woke us up in the middle of the night for weeks on end. The police suspected a deer poacher, but nobody could get to the scene (or the sound) in time to catch the offender. It wasn't in the distance - it sounded like the shooter was firing from our porch. And then, at the crack of dawn, the illegal daycare next-door had me on my feet. I don't think I slept for 3 months straight.

But gunfire became a regular sound in our home.
One afternoon, while trying to write my book with cotton balls stuffed in my ears and the paintings shaking on the walls from the herd of children running loose in apartment 1, I was startled out of my concentration by a loud "BANG!" Fearing neighborhood carnage, I ran to my window.

Mrs. Arrogance was standing there with a pistol as his dog, who was cute but dumber than a box of hair, ran around the yard in a frenzy. Mr. Arrogance went over to the corner of the yard and retrieved something I couldn't quite make out. He whistled for the dog's attention, threw the item in the air, and fired the gun over his head.

The dog ran in 15 circles, tried to bite his own tail, peed on a shrub, went over and licked his owner's foot...then ran to the tossed item and laid down on it.

Mr. Arrogance berated the dog for his stupidity and picked the item up off of the ground. That's when I realized it was a rubber chicken. The neighbor was trying to teach his dog to hunt with a rubber chicken, and it wasn't going well.

Again and again, Mr. Arrogance threw the chicken across the yard, fired his gun (I tinkled a little every time), and I watched as the dog did everything but fetch his intended prey. He pooped three times. He drank out of the bird feeder. He rolled on his back and howled. He chased a butterfly. He mostly ignored the chicken. His owner was furious, but it didn't register in the dog's mind. It was playtime! The more the dog failed to complete his tank, the angrier Mr. Arrogance got.

This went on every day until winter, when snow finally blanketed the ground and Mr. Arrogance couldn't back even his enormous SUVs out of the driveway. It's hard writing a book when a gun going off every thirty seconds, but I never complained to anyone because, honestly, it was hilarious.

I might have finished that book a lot sooner, had I not spent many afternoons staring out the bedroom window, giving that dog a high-five with my mind. Goooood dog, I wanted to say. Good puppy! Make daddy look like a weenie! That's for putting your bloody deer carcass in our dumpster!

*******************************************************************************

All decorated for Christmas, the Clampets sit down for a nice family dinner.

When the Arrogance family moved away, I was a little disappointed, knowing my autumn entertainment was leaving me. I wondered what the next owner might be like. That summer, I found out.

A family full of leather-clad hillbilly types moved in, parking numerous beat-up cars and trucks all over the street and on their front lawn. They had so many vehicles and so little concern as to the appearance of their property that one June afternoon they had their front yard torn up and replaced with concrete. After that, the house was nearly invisible behind their mud-encrusted, dented, 1970-something vehicles.

When Christmas rolled around, they were overcome with holiday spirit.
They placed a life-sized, antique-looking plastic Santa in a lawn chair on the front porch. There he stayed until almost February, standing on the chair and being held up by the garage door.

Merry Christmas.

Being a Nice Christian Neighbor

2011-08-30T23:05:00.000-04:00

I've been writing all of these stories about my neighbors in a pretty sarcastic tone, and while I'm attempting to be humorous and entertaining, I have a feeling that some Christian readers might get a little ticked off. What about witnessing? Didn't I do any of that? Or did I just get mad and poke fun?

Most of my neighbor stories were not funny at the time, they were frustrating and often terribly sad. (Like I said - I won't write about all of them because I don't want to hurt certain people.) We have always made great efforts to have a welcoming home (smells and all) and to try to help the people around us. I was once an undiagnosed, un-medicated woman with bipolar disorder and therefore not the easiest to live with. We're not above anyone.

Having said that, I DO seem to amass a large number of bizarre stories, both with neighbors and sometimes strangers. Sometimes you have to look back and laugh. After at least a dozen people tell you "this stuff only happens to you" you start to think... hmm, maybe I should write about some of this. Because it IS weird, and weirdness makes for good writing.

My husband and I believe God put all of these people in our path for a reason, that reason being to love them, which we did. And if I thought any of those people could read these stories and be hurt by them, I wouldn't write them. They're people I still pray for when they come to mind. But weird is weird, and funny is funny.

But don't think for a minute that I hate any of my old neighbors or consider myself better than them, because it's simply not true.

Happy reading.

Bad Neighbors: Part 2

2011-08-30T22:38:00.000-04:00

"Hey, you kids put those knives down and get me another pack of smokes."

In the fall of 2003, my husband and I were broke. Flat broke. Dumpster-divin', barely-thrivin' poor. We both lost jobs within six months of each other and could no longer afford the charming half-house next to the cat-cooking Chinese restaurant/family with the godfather teenage son. Forced to downsize, we moved into an old church that had been turned into apartments in the 1950s. Charming on the outside, Skid Row on the inside.

It was a dump, but I was determined to turn it into a home. It was harder than I thought, considering the bathtub that had so much mildew build-up that my husband's buddy once told us he felt like he needed to bath in Clorox after showering in it. The water ran constantly and the landlord didn't care. His idea of "fixing" the problem was to show up with a wrench and tighten the faucet handles so much that it took another wrench to turn the water on to wash our hands.

The stove in the apartment below us blew up one day. You might think I'm exaggerating for the purpose of writing an entertaining story, but I am the George Washington of neighbor stories - I cannot tell a lie. It blew up - kaboom - flames, smoke, everything. My landlord's solution? He bought our neighbor a hot plate.

There was a minor mold problem in our apartment... nothing too extreme... just, you know... mushrooms growing in the corner of our bedroom carpet, which was always wet, which the landlord also ignored. Oh, and the apartment produced strange, unidentifiable odors. Every day was a new adventure. What will the apartment smell like today? Raw sewage? What sorts of diseases would be develop from the mold contamination? Why were my eyes crusted shut every morning? It was never boring.

The town was not nearly as Rockwell-esque as the last one. It was more rural, with a dive bar on the corner of our street, but not entirely unfriendly. The neighbors smiled, flashing their tooth at you in a welcoming sort of way.

A single guy in his 30s called the basement home. The other people in the building described him as a "washed-up, wannabe rockstar." He boasted of sleeping with a middle-aged woman and her daughter on a regular basis, and left notes on my door asking me to "walk softly" because he slept during the day. (Too bad. It's a rickety old wooden church. Get a real job.)

At first, we loved the tenants in the apartment beside us. It was a single mom we'll call "Stella", her boyfriend, and her two teenage daughters. Four people, one bedroom, and a living room the size of a Pop Tart. I don't know how they did it. I worked nights and the single mom took pity on my husband by feeding him their leftovers and making small talk in the evenings. The oldest daughter, 17, had dropped out of high school. The younger one, 13, was in a special program for kids who needed a gentle beating now and then. They were the type of people, though, who would give you the shirts off their backs, and they once spent an entire afternoon doing us the favor of improperly installing a fuel pump in our car.

I was working with teen moms at the time and I enjoyed kids, so I was friendly with the neighbor girls. Unfortunately, I sometimes have a hard time being nice and helpful without turning into a complete doormat/therapist/safety net. The girls and I got along just fine until the night the youngest one wanted me to take her and her friends to the mall in the pouring rain at night and I refused. The little estrogen monkeys stood in the front yard and started pelting my front door with rocks. I hurt no one. I merely threw the door open as they scattered, and challenged them to a fight to the death. No more rocks after that.

They were hurting for money just as much as we were. Being the entrepreneur that Stella was, she decided to start a home business... running a daycare for 10 toddlers...out of the apartment. It was totally illegal, but I didn't care. I was a little bothered by the fact that Stella and her daughters chain-smoked and watched TV all day while the youngsters ran wild, but the cigarette smoking couldn't have been a mystery to the moms dropping off their tots. Just walking by their apartment gave you a whiff of smoke so strong you nearly passed out and needed oxygen right there on the front steps. If they were that dumb, who was I to say anything?

I got my book contract right before we moved into Le Toilet, so I wrote during the day and worked at the group home at night. No easy task. The walls were about as thin as toilet paper, and our living rooms shared a wall. Ten toddlers...one bedroom...a living room the size of a Pop Tart...paper-thin walls... I wrote my book to the sounds of a herd of children running and screaming from one end of the apartment to the other all day, every day, with no pauses.

Stella and her herd finally moved out a year later. She had broken up with her boyfriend to start dating a drug dealer. The oldest girl got pregnant. Shortly thereafter, I ran into the youngest daughter, who was working at a gas station and had just dropped out of high school herself. She told me her mom had become a crackhead. Nobody can say my stories are anti-climactic.

The Partridge Family was replaced by a kind 50-something trucker we both enjoyed chatting with. When his electric heat vents died, the landlord blessed him with a cooler-sized space heater. He had an adorable, sweet Akita who had a deviated septum or sleep apnea or...good Lord, I don't know what was wrong, but he snored to loudly we could hear him even when we went in our bedroom and closed the door.

It was the man living in the house next-door to our building who would eventually challenge my sanity and cause me to demand that we find another place to live...

Bad Neighbors: Part 1

2011-08-29T20:53:00.000-04:00

I did my best to ignore the stereotype...

Many people (many people) have asked me to write about the whacko neighbors I've had over the years. I haven't because it's like staring at a set of encyclopedias and trying to figure out which one to tackle first. Where do I even begin? Of course, I can't tell ALL my tales, for various reasons, but I thought I'd take a crack at writing down at least a few.

I guess a good place to start would be the Chinese restaurant next-door.

My husband and I moved into a half-house in a quaint town that looked like it had been painted by Norman Rockwell. It was right between his hometown and mine, and we loved driving through. We thought it would be a nice place to raise a family - the kind of place you could walk around after dark and not get murdered. That's hard to find these days, after all.

I was psyched about the fact that a Chinese restaurant was directly beside our house. So close, I could throw a rock out my living room window and bounce it off one of the cook's heads. It smelled so good on the day we toured the house that my mouth was watering. I couldn't wait to have eggrolls so easily within my grasp, even if it meant swelling up to the size of a rhinoceros. I had no idea that the town smelled like the local chocolate factory in the morning, like fried rice by noon, or that the two scents would combine into a noxious odor by evening.

People warned me about the restaurant. Wanting to be politically correct, I brushed them off when they said the pork fried rice was, in fact, kitty fried rice. Stuff like that doesn't happen anymore in America, does it? Sure, Jade Tiki in the mall had been shut down for cooking with kitties and pet food, but that was a long time ago. I ate up, all the while telling myself the texture of the chicken in my chicken lo mein was totally normal. My best friend at the time - a Korean-American - told me to stop being such a sissy.

But who was she to tell me to lighten up? I'd seen food in her house that scared me half to death. Her family munched on dried octopus tentacles as a snack and served up a "soft drink" that looked like something I can't write about in good conscious because of my conservative audience.

As time went by, I began noticing...oddities...over at the restaurant. There were always people riding bicycles through the kitchen, which was plenty unsanitary. I tried to ignore the large number of cats running in and out of the building at all hours. I told myself they were just "pet people," even though no one cat was like the other. They were different all the time, in and out.

One hot summer day, I went out back to put my garbage in the garbage cans and smelled something obnoxious. It smelled like death. Living in a farming community, I'm used to really bad smells. Farmers spray their fields with liquified cow manure in the spring. This kind of smelled like...liquified cow manure with a pureed decaying body thrown in. And there were flies. Where were those flies coming from? I followed one from my shoulder and up to my right...up to the top floor of the Chinese restaurant building. The owners of the restaurant lived on the second floor with their family. They never said hello and often threw tree branches in my backyard.

I looked up on their porch and saw where the flies were swarming - around a laundry rack with skinned, bloody, decaying animal corpses hanging on it. They were too small to be cats (do Asians cook with kittens or just cats?), but seemed too big to be dogs... unless they were cooking with Pomeranians or miniature Pinschers. I shudder at the thought... They appeared to be rat-sized, and they had rat-like tails.

Sometimes you see things...but you're not sure you're really seeing them. That's why I called a friend to come over and assess the carnage. My friend stared at the shriveling bodies, swatting the flies away, but couldn't figure out what kinds of animals were dangling above. "I don't know, dude. All I can say is, don't eat there anymore."

My husband wanted to call somebody, but we didn't know who to call. Animal control? The ASCPA? The Humane League? The local mental ward?

I was pondering what to do one day as I surfed the internet in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Through my window, I was within slapping distance of one of the family's teenage sons. On a nice day, we both had our windows open. We would glance at each other as if to say, "What are YOU looking at?" and then go about our merry way. On that particular day, I was listening to the whole family arguing with one another.

Usually, it was no fun eavesdropping on them because I don't know Chinese, but that afternoon, I heard the mother scream:

I KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU AND THE MAFIA AND I COULD CALL THE POLICE ON YOU ANYTIME I WANTED!!!

I don't know which family member she was referring to, but that was a defining moment for me. It was the moment I decided:

1. I wasn't going to call anyone about the skinned animals on the balcony because I was afraid they would skin ME and drape me over the laundry rack, too.
2. Not only was I never eating at their establishment again, I was going to warn people not to complain about the food...if they wanted to live to see another day.
3. No more eye contact with the neighbors.
4. I would let them throw as many tree limbs as they wanted in my yard and I would never say another word.
5. Just because it looks like a Normal Rockwell painting, that doesn't mean it is.

I thought it couldn't possibly get any weirder than that. Ha! So young, so naive. That was just the beginning of my neighbor troubles.

The Bad Boss Blog

2011-08-29T19:59:00.000-04:00

"YOU'LL EAT IT! YOU'LL EAT THAT CAKE AND YOU'LL LIKE IT!"

This story got me thinking today about some of the bad bosses I've had. Most of us have had at least one. I love my current boss... oops, wait, I AM my boss. That explains it.

I've had some great bosses, too, and honestly, before my bipolar disorder was stable, I wasn't such a great employee. I'm nothing if not honest.

But the bad bosses I've had were really bad bosses. One, in particular, takes the cake.

I was working for a group home for teen mothers - a job I loved and was pretty good at. My major flaw was that I didn't put my foot down as easily as others. I was the "good cop" and looking back, I wish I'd been a little more hardcore. But I loved my girls and their kids and the fact that several of them keep in touch with me 5 years after leaving the job is a testament to that, or at least I think so.

My second supervisor at the group home will always live on in my memory as a crazy person. To say we weren't friends is putting it nicely. On her first day - at the ministry-run home (important to note) - she first told me about her faith, then told me she had a reputation for being a b*tch, and that she was proud of that, because b*tches "got things done." Praise the Lord! If she had never said another word to me for the rest of her life, I still wouldn't have liked her based on that conversation alone.

She went on to tell me she had a daughter my age who was "bad." She ran away from home, got into trouble, that sort of thing. She never really went into detail about what made her "bad" aside from that. Anyway, when her daughter turned 18, she promptly kicked her of the house and told her to never come back. She had a son who was a little younger than me who was absolutely perfect and never did anything wrong. She felt like she was more of a "boy's mom" than a "girl's mom" and didn't really like teenage girls.

So she came to work at a Christian group home filled with teenage girls. Hopefully the "crazy" part is starting to come to light for you now.

I had been working there a year at the time, and she explained that if it had been up to her, the entire staff would have been fired so she could hire an entirely new team. Nice to meet you, too.

Over the next 18 months, she made it abundantly clear that she strongly disliked those of us who were there before her, slowly cutting our hours, writing us demeaning notes in the staff log, and praising the new staff up, down, and sideways in as public a way as possible.

On more than on occasion, I took my concerns to her. We never had a professional meeting in the nearly two years I worked with her. She would immediately begin screaming at me and even threw things across her office. We didn't have meetings, we had matches. She insisted I give a girl "restriction" one time when the girl had done nothing wrong. She said she "needed to know who was boss." When I refused, a stapler zinged past my head.

She spent no time with the girls and all of her time in her office, leaving before the girls got home from school so she wouldn't have to deal with them. She did her best to get rid of us, but most of us were stubborn and held out as long as possible before we were certain she was going to drive us to insanity.

What bothered me the most was how often she referenced her daughter when discussing an issue with one of the group home girls. It became obvious that she was one of those people who should never have been permitted to procreate, and certainly never should have been able to run a ministry. Many of us - with the exception of her pets, who bowed to her every beck and call - agreed that she was taking her anger towards her daughter out on the group home girls.

Finally, I decided sanity was more important than stubbornness, and I handed in my resignation. She never acknowledged it, just took me off the schedule. It was the shortest resignation I've ever written - I simply said I was leaving and gave the date of my departure. No flowery words, no complaints, just the facts. The day I left, there was no good-bye, no card, no nothing... not that I had expected anything.

A few weeks after I left, I got a call from one of my old co-workers who was also getting ready to take a different job. She told me my old boss had finally lost it. One of the girls refused to celebrate her birthday with the rest of the girls for 3 days straight. She was angry and lonely and didn't want to be bothered. On the third day, my old boss stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife, started calling the girl "that little b*tch" and massacred the birthday cake, forcing staff to eat heaps of the murdered dessert whether they wanted to or not. The ministry's administrator responded...by doing nothing. She continued to work there for years after that.

Until the administrator was charged with stealing from the ministry, and the group home finally shut down.

Hands down, THE WORST boss I've ever had. Everything else doesn't even seem worth writing about.

Lancaster, Pennsylvania Residents Reeling from Earthquake

2011-08-23T16:33:00.000-04:00

Major quake sends local residents into hysteria.

Hey, let's talk about that big earthquake that hit DC today. Might as well, right? That's all anybody is talking about.

We felt it here in little old Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. I was sitting on my couch working on my laptop when there was a big bang. I thought the neighbors downstairs slammed the door... but then everything kept moving. Some pictures fell off the TV. The fan in the dining room swayed. There was a brief moment when I thought "oh crap" and thought perhaps I should head for cover... but then I noticed the TV was rocking back and forth.

My choices were painful. They included:
1. Go stand in the doorway
2. SAVE THE TV!!!!!!!!!!!

I chose #2. If the building is still standing but there's no entertainment, what good is that? Just as I got up to rescue my appliance, the movement stopped.

The earthquake was big news here, of course, and local residents are slowly picking up the pieces and recovering from the mass devastation. These local tales of destruction, found at WGAL's website, will just smash your heart to pieces. Read on, if you are brave.

Raymond Miller, of Carlisle, said his house shook.

A Columbia, Lancaster County, woman said the tremor was quite severe, knocking over a cat water dish. She had time to leave her house from the second story before the tremor ended.

Kelly Clark from the Colonial Lodge in Denver, Lancaster County, said chandelier crystals were still shaking two minutes after the quake.

Linda Hess of Holtwood, Lancaster County, said she didn't actually feel the earthquake. She heard banging and rattling and saw the cabinet doors in her kitchen shaking.

Michael Myers, of Palmyra, said he was in his basement working and all of the sudden everything started shaking.

A Red Lion woman said her floors shook hard for about a minute.

A woman who lives in southern York County said the house shook and windows rattled.

Leanne Ferree, of York Township, could see her windows rattling.

I have my own tale of sorrow.
I was unable to send text messages for about 15 minutes.

God help us all.

And thank God for WGAL for covering this calamity with dignity and gut-wrenching narration as always. They might not be able to forecast a snowfall, but they certainly do know how to draw out the raw emotions of such a horrible natural disaster.

Christians and Porn Addiction

2011-08-21T12:43:00.000-04:00

I read this interesting piece this morning on CNN.com about the Christian fight against pornography. The piece details Christians going through therapy to deal with their porn addiction, and the ways in which Christian counselors are tackling the problem.

Many non-Christians feel that porn is just a fun way of spicing up one's love life...or dealing with the lack thereof. But Christians understand that a pure thought life is essential to a smoother, more fruitful walk with God. Of course, porn isn't the only thing that can clog your brain. Anger, resentment, fear - all of these are things that prevent us from focusing on the good things of God and push us to act in rather ungodly ways.

Pornography can become an addiction like drugs or alcohol, not because of the chemicals you put into your body, but because of the chemical reaction in the brain TO the pornography. Some people can look at pornography and not develop a major problem, but I can think of at least 2 people I know who have lost everything because it turned into a major battle they couldn't win.

There two points that I think are important to make.

1. Temptation is not a sin.Jesus was tempted in every conceivable way and did not sin. What's the difference? Temptation is a longing to act on something. It becomes sin when we act on it. Because God wants us and instructs us to have a pure thought life, acting on the sin of pornography can mean actually indulging in it, or dwelling on the virtual rolodex of images we have in our heads from past experiences. The Bible tells us that if we resist the devil, he will flee from us. 2 Corinthians 10:5 tells us to "take every thought captive to make it obedient to Christ." If you've looked at a lot of porn, or maybe have sexual abuse in your past, sometimes you need someone to come alongside you and help you do those things.

2. Why look in the first place?Why would a healthy, thriving Christian need to look at porn in the first place? I think the article makes an excellent point.

“If you spend your time in session talking about what God thinks and what the Bible says, you don’t get to understand what the patient thinks and what happened in their life up to that point that explains why,” Giugliano says.

Now, obviously, I don't agree with removing God and the Bible from the equation. But I do agree that every problem has a starting point and that you can't stop a weed from growing without tearing out the root. Being a new creature in Christ doesn't mean that actions don't have consequences - either your own actions, or someone's actions against you. Why would you retrain a mind that was trained properly the first time? What is there to guard your heart from?

My friend Shaunti Feldhahn did exhaustive research into the "inner minds" of men and discovered that a lot of men - Christian and otherwise - view porn out of a sense of inadequacy. Seeing an all-too-willing and enthusiastic woman on a screen, willing to do anything to please anyone, gave them a small-but-important esteem boost. It made them feel like they could do anything, and were sexually adequate.

Where do we get our sense of adequacy and esteem from as Christians? From God. He makes us adequate and worthy, it's nothing we can do for ourselves. We often need the help of Christian counselors to help us see who we are in Christ. It's important. Secular therapists don't get it, and it's sad.

But there's something to be said about finding out why it's so hard to grasp all of that in the first place.

Modern-day knowledge with ancient Truth can make for a great combination.

A Life Lesson from Terri Cheney

2011-08-18T23:00:00.001-04:00

I'm in the midst of reading Manic by Terri Cheney. Over the summer I decided to start reading memoirs by people suffering from bipolar disorder, but was pretty surprised to find there wasn't much out there. I finally found myself leaning over the counter at a local Books-A-Million, asking, bluntly, "Do you have anything written by someone with bipolar disorder?" I'm sure it was a strange request for them, but they produced Cheney's book and I've been reading it in the haphazard way I usually read books - in the five minutes I have before a doctor's appointment, or on the toilet.

At first, there wasn't much in the book that I could relate to. Cheney was a powerhouse LA entertainment attorney who worked with the likes of Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones. I'm just a freelance writer. Cheney writes a good bit about her money, connections, and success. I drive a 1997 Chevy and live in an apartment and don't have any big celebrity friends.

Cheney was also institutionalized more than once and attempted suicide numerous times. The suicide part I could relate to, having semi-attempted to off myself a few times as a teenager. Of course, my "attempts" were cries for attention, whereas Cheney really, truly wanted to die. And, to date, I have never been institutionalized. I've always thought my life has been crazy thanks to the BP, but now I feel incredibly boring by comparison.

So I've been reading this book and it's a great read, and I'm thoroughly fascinated and entertained, although I don't feel like I could ever sit down with Cheney as a girlfriend-sistah-child. There is only one thing I've been able to relate to so far...

Throughout the book, Cheney talks about how often she thinks of death, constantly wanting to be free of her troubled mind, always plotting her own demise. This part I could relate to. It's not the sort of thing you generally admit to people, but I'm admitting it now - I get this. It's nothing I've experienced lately. I've been pretty healthy for over a year, with few hiccups and certainly none I haven't been able to overcome. But it wasn't that long ago that I experienced the same things Cheney writes about as far as the constant obsession with death.

I would often drive through my town - a very rural and sometimes wooded area - thinking how easy it would be to drive my car into a tree at 100 miles per hour with no seatbelt on. At times I envisioned other ways of offing myself, right down to the nitty gritty details. It was a constant monkey on my back, a thought that was with me everywhere I went. Even on "good" days when I didn't feel particularly depressed, the thoughts still entered my mind at the most inopportune times.

What stopped me? The things that stop most people - too many people to love and be loved by, an underlying hope that eventually things would get better...fear of going to Hell. The last one was the biggie for me. If you give your life to Jesus, and then decided to end it, how does that go over with God? After all, I'm a Christian, which means my life isn't really my own anymore. I've had many people give me many different answers to that question but, in the end, I didn't want to find out the hard way.

I haven't finished this book yet, but I realized something tonight: death is my measuring stick. I haven't had those thoughts in a long time - I can't even remember exactly how long it's been. Like I said, I'm sure it has been at least a year.

But now I know that if I ever start thinking that way again, it's serious, and I need to ask for help.

Oh, and incidentally... if anyone knows of any other good reads, let me know.

New Book Links Mental Illness and Leadership

2011-08-18T20:02:00.001-04:00

I'm a little late on this one, but I had to share it with everybody.

I watched this Dr. Nassir Ghaemi fellow on The Colbert Report last week. Dr. Ghaemi recently wrote a book titled A First-Rate Madness: Uncovering the Links Between Leadership and Mental Illness documenting "the psychological and psychiatric research on positive aspects of mental illness" which Ghaemi applies to great historical leaders.

During Ghaemi's interview with Stephen Colbert, he suggested that the greatest future leaders of our country might be defined, in part, but by their instability, rather than stability. The things that make great leaders - in Ghaemi's words, realism, empathy, resilience, and creativity - are aspects that are often found in mental disorders. The psychiatrist believes this country would be wise to elect such leaders in the future.

But here's where it gets a little bit messy: first, in order for something like that to happen, the stigma attached to mental illness in this country (in this world, for that matter) would have to disappear. I don't see that happening any time soon. Two, Ghaemi suggests that perhaps presidential candidates' mental health records ought to be released to the public in the same fashion that their medical records are released.

I agree that people with mental illness are often pure geniuses, and that these characteristics would probably make for great presidents. And the fact that a politician is able to make it all the way to a presidential bid would indicate they are either not severely mentally ill, or their mental illness is well controlled.

However, a major problem sticks out in my mind.
In our society, mental health activists are constantly on a mission to "normalize" mental illness. They are trying to remove the stigma and help people understand that mental illness is, in fact, a medical illness. It's a disease of the brain, and the brain is an organ, just like the heart, lungs, pancreas, etc. At the same time, these same activists are the same folks who would likely fight tooth and nail to keep a presidential candidate's mental health history under wraps, saying it violates privacy and subjects the individual to undue scrutiny.

And until people stop viewing people with mental illness as a bunch of crazies, releasing a public figure's mental health history - whether they want it released or not - would probably result in that person being ridiculed and bashed on late night talk shows and water coolers all over the country.

All this to say - it's a nice dream, but I don't think it's going to come true anytime soon. Hopefully, Ghaemi's book will help people to understand what mental illness is, and what it isn't.

Upside Down

2011-08-16T13:16:00.001-04:00

It was four in the morning, and I was in the kitchen arranging my spice cabinet by alphabetical order and container size. Most of them were spices I never used. I didn't even like marjoram and I didn't know what coriander was but I kept them anyway, lining them up row by row. It could have been four o'clock in the afternoon, it didn't matter to me. I was wide awake and contemplated a trip to Wal-Mart to expend some energy.

"What are you doing?" I looked up and saw my husband standing in the hallway in his rumpled t-shirt, rubbing his tired eyes. This had become a predictable routine - my husband awaking in the middle of the night to find me elsewhere, usually in front of the TV, or quietly trying to pluck at my guitar, or writing depressing poetry. It scared him when he found me doing something productive in the middle of the night, like cleaning or arranging. It meant my energy was off the charts.

He took me gently by the shoulders and led me away from the kitchen. I imagine it must have looked a lot like a scene from the Alzheimer's unit of a nursing home - "Come on, Julie. Let's go back to your room." Of course, I was only in my early twenties and we were supposed to be happy newlyweds, except we weren't. I was not at all what he had signed up for.

We got married wanting a simple life - the kids, the dog, teaching Sunday school, keeping the white picket fence nicely painted so it glowed around our perfectly manicured lawn. He wanted a soft-spoken wife who could make a decent meatloaf, but instead he got me - exhausted and barely able to function by day, wide awake and wired at night. If he had known I'd be punching holes through walls or throwing plates at him, or contemplating suicide on a daily basis, he probably never would have walked down the aisle with me. Nobody signs up for Wifezilla.

Did I know I had issues before I married him? You could say there were a few signs. I believed, like a great many foolish women do, that once I got married I would "settle down" and the problems would magically disappear. Being in love would make the depression go away. Establishing a new life would make the anger subside. Being a wife would make me gentler.

The fits of rages didn't tear us apart, the expectations did. My husband walked on eggshells and tried to be the perfect man, hoping that if he could keep from rocking the boat, I'd be in a manageable mood. I expected him to understand that what he did or didn't do had nothing to do with how I felt or how I acted. When I whipped a plate at his head, it wasn't personal. I was angry, in general, and he just happened to be in the way. As many times as I tried to explain to him that I wasn't angry at him, he didn't understand it and certainly didn't believe it. To him, my actions proved otherwise.

It's hard to have a happy home when one spouse follows the other one around all day asking, "Honey, are you doing OK today?"

Translation: "Are you crazy today? Are you normal yet? How many fingers am I holding up?"

Realistically, the things that angered me don't anger 'average' people. Most people don't fly off the handle because they dropped a butter knife or something fell out of the freezer when they opened it. At least, they don't fly into a rage that escalates and escalates until they have bloody knuckles.

I found myself going through pastoral marriage counseling and sitting through individual therapy once a week, and praying for deliverance from my anger every day. I read books and hashed out a troubled childhood that I had hashed out many times before in counseling. Nobody seemed to understand - least of all my poor husband - that I wasn't seething with inner anger. I was having flashes of very intense anger that came out of nowhere, and I felt powerless to control it.

I was energetic and creative and had so many ideas, but was limited by my human capabilities. More often than not, that's what really ticked me off. How could I sleep when my mind was racing and my body felt like an engine revving at the starting line? How could I be happy and at peace when my hand was reaching for a plate but my thoughts were a mile ahead of me already contemplating what I would do the next morning and I was super-sensitive to noise and light and virtually everything around me?

I knew there was something wrong - something medically wrong - but part of me worried that I wasn't really a Christian. How could the Holy Spirit live inside of something so messy and frightening? Repentance means turning away from sin and walking as far away from it as possible. I was always 'sorry' after an angry outburst, always sorry for scaring my husband with my late-night antics, but I always did them again and again. Had I really received Christ's ultimate forgiveness? Could Christians be terrorized by demons?

Was it brain chemistry, or something demonic? Both? What was the answer?

I didn't have the answers to those questions.
All I knew was that nothing was working.

Good And Angry At God

2011-08-12T15:33:00.000-04:00

God has a big ol' lightning bolt with your name on it, you naughty, naughty thing, you.

Parents always embarrass their kids by talking about them, and since I don’t have a kid of my own, I’ve decided to embarrass my niece. She’s the closest thing I have to a daughter, which makes her the perfect candidate.

She’s pissed off at God for a variety of reasons I won’t share. (I’m not THAT bad.) At 17, she has experienced more hardship in life than some senior citizens. We have a lot in common, though teenagers won’t ever admit to being anything like an old person. The trouble with teenagers is that you try to impart life lessons but always wonder if what you say will be overshadowed by a rap song, whose lyrics will undoubtedly be quoted on Facebook.

My niece is a lot like I was at her age – a troubled young girl trying to make sense of the pain in her life while trying to figure out where and if God fits into the big picture. Unless you are raised steeped in Christianity, it’s easy to think that God sits on a cloud somewhere in the sky chucking lightning bolts at people who cross Him – even if those people have accepted Christ as Savior.

I have to say my view of God was perhaps considerably worse when I was a teenager. God was the head administrator of the universe, seated at a desk piled high with paperwork. Every now and then, an angel would wander in and hand Him a paper. “This girl is being molested,” he’d say, or “This boy’s father ignores him. Which pile do you want it on?” And God would point to the appropriate stack without even looking up and save the crisis for another day, if at all. He should have been on that heavenly cloud, chucking lightning bolts at evil people, but He was too caught up in red tape to do that. And when he did venture out with bolts in hand, He only shot them at the believers who screwed up and sinned against Him.

I suspect this is my niece’s view of God at this very moment. She wants Him to answer the age-old question of “Why?” but her queries seem to be met with silence.

Reverse Theology
Apart from the death and resurrection of Christ itself, all of Christianity is based on the premise that our identity, value, and worth can be found within the pages of the Bible. When facing hardships in life, the Bible is full of promises designed to give us hope and keep us focused on the reality that earth sucks, but it’s not our eternal home. In Psalms, God promises that that He will bless the righteous and show him favor (5:12); that He will be a refuge to the hurting (9:9); that He will give His people strength and peace (29:11), and that’s just to name a few. Throughout the Bible, God promises us healing, full forgiveness of sins, and freedom.

It was always hard for me to understand a book full of promises when I lived in a world full of painful uncertainty. Obviously, I’m not alone in that. Everyone has questioned why there is pain and suffering in the world. It is a part of human nature. For a young war-torn believer, it’s hard to reconcile what seem to be blatant contradictions.

The human brain weighs about three pounds. Did you know that? I actually learned that from a Chris Rice song years ago, but I promise I looked it up to make sure. I’ve purchased smaller bags of ground beef at the grocery store. Now compare that to the vast knowledge of God and suddenly it makes a little more sense how… none of this makes much sense. Only in the past couple of years have I realized that I’ve been trying stuff all of the wisdom of God into three pounds of gray goo. I’d have better luck trying to back my car into my laptop bag. Can you imagine how frustrating that would be? I get irritated when I can’t get the cover on my grill. No wonder we get angry at God.

Part of the problem, of course, is that we expect things out of God that He specifically told us not to expect. We have a sense of entitlement. We get too caught up in being human beings and believing that since we live here, we should have it all. My husband has a relative who lived in a house rent-free and when it was time to leave, he believed that meant he owned everything in the place.

Not so!

I got a grip on my anger at God through reverse theology. You’re less likely to hear this preached from the pulpit because instead of focusing on God’s promises, I focus on the things He didn’t promise, but it gave me great perspective.

A lot of people “get saved” believing that life will be wonderful now because we have Jesus in our lives. We don’t realize that the peace and joy of God comes from what we learn from circumstances, and not the circumstances themselves. We see “good” people getting what they “don’t deserve” and it infuriates us. I watched one of my cousins slowly die of ALS over the course of five years. He was a good man who loved the Lord, had a beautiful wife, and four amazing daughters. He was a musician with a brilliant mind who once designed and published a game that was promoted by MENSA.

According to my three pounds of brain mass, if anyone deserved to live a good, long life, it was him. But he became completely disabled and finally died in 2009. I don’t get it; I never fully will.

We can trace death and destruction back to the fall of man in the garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve decided to get uppity and directly disobeyed God by eating the forbidden fruit. God cursed man and said that from that point on, we would experience the things that hold us back now – shame, trouble, hardship.

Ah, that’s the part we missed. We missed the section at the front of the book where God said life would be hard. We miss John 16:33 where Jesus says that in the world we will have trouble. We just want the good stuff. We feel like we are owed it.

The first part of my life was inexplicably hard. I spent nearly the next half being angry about it because I felt like I didn’t deserve it. Whether you blame Adam and Eve or not, however, none of us deserve anything good, if only because we expect God to deliver our goods with no hassle, like a child demanding money from a parent.

It would be one thing if God honestly promised an easy, problem-free life and then all around us, the world was crumbling, our bills weren’t getting paid, and people were taking advantage of us, but that’s not really the case. In reality, we do stupid things on a daily basis, and it’s astounding just how cruel humans can be to one another. Maybe you never killed anyone. Good for you. Me neither. But have you ever thought something nasty about someone? Flipped someone the bird in traffic? Yelled at an authority figure? If you answered no, you’re still a sinner because you’re lying.

For me, it was much easier to stop being angry at God once I realized I wasn’t being duped.

Choices, Choices
Go to any church or Bible study and you will hear about how life is all about choosing to accept the good things God has for us, including those promises. I say you also have to choose to accept the things God never said, or the things He said that you didn’t like.

You can’t really accept Jesus as Savior until you’ve figured out that you need Him. It’s about more than not wanting to go to Hell. You have to understand that you do ungodly things on a regular basis and that Jesus died on the cross to pay for what you’ve done. In a huge, supernatural way, it’s like paying for an item somebody shoplifted to keep the guilty party out of jail. A good parent will love their child unconditionally; this is what God does for us.

It’s also about understanding that God cannot stand to be around unholiness – hence, Satan got kicked out of Heaven. When Adam and Eve screwed up, God got angry and gave mankind consequences. But like a good parent, He also wanted to see His kids restored, so He sent Jesus to die for us.

So we face a choice, and often make the wrong one. We have the option of loving God and thanking Him for His unconditional love and desire to make us whole again, or staying mad at Him because sometimes our actions have consequences, and the actions of others sometimes affect us. We have to decide what is more important to us – our earthly circumstances, or what God is capable of doing in our spirit.

We react out of hurt, and we hurt others. Think about it. A drug addict becomes a drug addict because they were neglected, abused, or unloved. That drug addict then turns around and steals from law-abiding citizens to fund his habit, and destroys the people who love him the most. The drug addict can blame God for his painful history without ever realizing how he is hurting others. There are no truly innocent people in this world, even if we don’t harm others deliberately.

We can’t go to God for a new life until we realize the life we’ve been living has at some point harmed others, the least of which is God himself.

Keepin’ It Real
For years I was unable to have a fruitful spiritual life because of my anger with God. I tried to out-think it and I believed in the Bible’s promises, but anger was like a little cobweb that got stuck in my brain and even when it wasn’t a dominant emotion, it was always in the background. I have two dear friends in my life who have served as mentors to me for years, and they constantly encouraged me to discuss my feelings with God, but I rejected the idea. It seemed like a terrible sin to feel anger, let alone talk about it.

In retrospect, it was out of character for me not to discuss how I felt. I am not obnoxious, but I am the type of person to always voice my opinion and speak up when I think it matters. If I have an issue with my husband or a friend, I confront it and try to discuss it to clear it up. God was different, though. I didn’t want Him to chuck a lightning bolt at me.

Through a support group and godly counsel, I began to realize that being honest with God was not only important, but also encouraged and modeled in scripture. I recently started the “Search for Significance” Bible study by Robert S. McGhee. The very first chapter of the book provides verses that demonstrate how David – whom the Bible describes as “a man after God’s own heart” – was very blunt with God throughout his life.

In Psalm 42:9, David questions his own pain a

nd God’s motives.
“I say to God my Rock,
“Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
oppressed by the enemy?”

In Psalm 58:6-9, David tells God how angry he is with others.
“Break the teeth in their mouths, O God;
   LORD, tear out the fangs of those lions!
Let them vanish like water that flows away;
   when they draw the bow, let their arrows fall short.
May they be like a slug that melts away as it moves along,
   like a stillborn child that never sees the sun.
Before your pots can feel the heat of the thorns—
   whether they be green or dry—the wicked will be swept away.”

More than once, David got frustrated with God and His timing, such as in Psalm 13:1-2.
How long, LORD? Will you forget me forever?
   How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
   and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
   How long will my enemy triumph over me?

And in case you’re quick to believe that God only listened to David’s emotional prayers because he was an all-around good guy, take into account the fact that David committed a number of serious offenses, including an affair with Bathsheba that got her pregnant, which David later tried to cover up. God did not listen to David because he had all of life figured out. In fact, the life of David would have made a good Lifetime Original movie.
God’s love is unconditional, which means He always has an ear for us. Anyone willing to talk to God in an honest way shows an open heart that is willing to be changed by Him. That’s really all He asks of us.

I stopped covering up my anger towards God for a number of reasons. One, it is very exhausting and damaging to carry around anger for a long time without making an attempt to resolve it. What I found was that you really can’t cover up anger. You can pile all the crap you want on top of it, but it’s going to dig its way through again.
Two, my anger was greatly alleviated once I realized that God never promised me an easy life and understood that I didn’t deserve one anymore than the next person.

Three, I took a look at my personal relationships and realized that a relationship wasn’t a deep one unless there was honesty. I don’t like shallow friendships. I want to get to know the people in my life on a deeper level, and a few of those people I hold extremely close to me. Our friendship is close and intimate because I allow myself to be totally forthcoming with those people. If we want to stop seeing God as an administrator or some sort of tattle tale, we need to form the same kind of intimacy with him, which includes confronting the things that need to be confronted.

We have to choose to believe that the God who created the universe, who loved us enough to restore us, is big enough and capable enough of handling even the very worst of us. If David could tell God off and still be a “man after his own heart,” why can’t we?

I think we submit our prayers to God a lot like we put quarters in a soda machine. In goes the money, out comes the prize. That’s how we think God should work. But prayer is a conversation, right? For years I couldn’t understand the purpose of prayer. It seemed pointless to me to ask God for things without ever really knowing if you’re going to get them. You pray for safe travels for a bus full of youth group kids, and then it goes over a cliff. I’m sure you’ve heard that God always answers prayer, but not always the way you want Him to. I don’t know if I buy into that. Sometimes God doesn’t answer prayer because it’s not His will, plain and simple. Does that mean you shouldn’t ask for things like protection or favor, or the healing of a terminally ill relative?

The character and promises of God don’t change, but that doesn’t mind God can’t or doesn’t change His mind. In Jonah 3:1-10, Jonah goes into the city of Nineveh with a message from God to change their evil ways, or else. Nineveh heeds the warning and because of their repentance, God “relented and did not bring on them the destruction he had threatened.” (vs. 10)

We also have to keep in mind that our actions have consequences, and our actions affect each other. A friend of ours had a nasty porn habit that broke his wife’s heart and kept the atmosphere in their home tense. After many second chances and years of counseling, his wife found out he had never addressed the issue in therapy and discovered more pornography that crossed the line into child porn. He may have prayed at that point for God to fix his marriage, but his wife had had enough, and rightly so. They separated and are now planning to divorce.

Our response to God, our willingness or unwillingness to honor Him with our lives, and the actions of others directly impact God’s answers to our prayers. God is unchanging. He will not break His promises, He will not contradict Himself, and above all He will always love His people unconditionally. We may not know how or if a prayer will be answered, but we should always remind ourselves and that God is good…all the time.

When you really stop and think about it, telling God how angry you are isn’t just confronting an issue so you can hopefully get past it. We are asking God for something – we are asking God to be the person He promised to be, even though we can’t acknowledge it at the time. If you’re angry at God, I think it should be a comfort to you, because that means you believe in Him, and that’s the first step in the right direction.

One of my favorite authors, Donald Miller, talks about an encounter he had with God in his book, Believing in God Knows What. What started as an angry confrontation with his Creator turned into a moment of reflection and, for us readers, humor. He told God He didn’t believe in Him anymore, only to realize that, unless you’re schizophrenic or on drugs, you don’t tell off someone who isn’t there.

Being angry at God was a miserable feeling for me. It took many years before I finally broke down and told Him what I really thought of the things He allowed to happen in my life. But it made me realize that even though I was good and pissed, I still believed…a little bit. In Luke 17:15, the apostles ask Jesus to increase their faith. In Matthew 17:20, Jesus said that even faith as small as a mustard seed could move mountains. Even the original 12 got it. I was not alone. And Jesus reassured them that even a little goes a long way.

I’m hoping my niece can go from seeing God as a cloud-dwelling lightning bolt-chucker to a confidant who can take whatever she dishes out. He seems to think we’re worth the hassle. That’s enough to grow your faith right there.

My Husband Dissed Jani Lane

2011-08-12T13:41:00.001-04:00

I walked in from checking my email on the balcony with bad news for my husband, a self-proclaimed metalhead: Jani Lane of Warrant was found dead in L.A.

"What?! Where?!"

I filled him on the few details - he had been found dead in a hotel room at the age of 47.

"He asked me to play cards once...," my husband said, his voice trailing off.

Ah, yes. The card story.

It's a story I've heard at least 500 times, a tale from my husband's glory days. He worked as an inventory manager for The Wall record store back in the 90s and often found himself hanging out in the tour buses of his childhood heroes.

As the Warrant story goes, my husband ran to Denny's for the band to grab some food. He was munching on a Moons Over My Hammy and was watching "The Mask" with a few co-worker friends and the rest of Warrant when Jani Lane entered the tour bus and asked if anyone wanted to play cards with him. Everyone blew him off, so Jani Lane went to bed.

I'm pretty sure turning down the lead singer of one of your alleged favorite bands makes you a diva. Just sayin'. But nothing gets between my husband and his Moons Over My Hammy.

Upon hearing the news of Jani Lane's passing, my husband looked at me and said, "I feel bad now."

I patted him on the shoulder and said, "Somehow I doubt Jani brought it up in therapy."

Still, that would be like me turning down Amy Grant's offer to paint our nails and talk about boys when I had dinner with her and the band back in March.

RIP, Jani. Scott says "sorry."

PU5MQZW65TDF

Seroquel, Take Me Away

2011-08-11T07:48:00.000-04:00

Last night was a no good, very bad night. I didn't sleep at all. I didn't doze off here and there. I didn't sleep AT ALL. And my muscles were sore. And this morning I was so nauseous I could barely sip my coffee.

I must have forgotten to take my Seroquel.

For someone my age, I take quite a few meds. I'm diabetic (my fault/genetic) and hypertensive (genetic) and have restless leg syndrome (who knows). And then there's bipolar disorder. I was tired and it was late last night when I took my fistful of drugs. Sometimes I mistake the Glipizide (for diabetes) for Seroquel. I take 2 Glipizide. Sometimes I look into my hand and think I have them both because they look almost identical.

First thing I did after almost vomiting my coffee was take a Seroquel. It will probably make me sleepy, and I can't sleep today. Deadlines. But I'm no good if I'm sick, either. Withdrawal doesn't make for a pleasant day.

Even though I encourage people to take these meds if they need them, it does sometimes strike me how crappy it is to have to take pills in order to be a functioning human being. There are people who fall asleep with no help, get out of bed with no help, and lead stable lives with no help.

I can't say I'm not the tiniest bit jealous

My Cat: She's Cute But She Ain't Real Bright

2011-08-09T20:11:00.000-04:00

Before I jump into this post, let me say this: I love my cat.

She showed up on my doorstep as a kitten 3 years ago and she has been a gift from God. To hear me describe her, you wouldn't think that's the case. She's not terribly affectionate and she doesn't like strangers. She hisses at little children. If I dropped dead in the middle of my living room, she'd nap on my body, then eat it.

But, man, I love my cat.

My only complaint is that she doesn't eat right. If you could watch her eat for five minutes, you'd think she isn't very bright. Heck, maybe she's not.

My cat is incapable of keeping food in her mouth. She cannot eat anything without flinging it all over the place. I am constantly having to sweep my kitchen floor because there are food nuggets everywhere. She loves her crunchy tuna treats, but those, too, get flung every which way and she refuses to eat anything that touches the ground. When I give her real tuna, I regret it later. I spend hours picking up little fish flakes.

The other day I picked up a couple of small cans of wet tuna food for her. It's basically horrible smelling tuna covered in cat-friendly gravy. When she heard me open the can, she came running. When I put it in her bowl, she immediately began licking it.

And licking it.

And licking it.

There is now a bowl full of bone-try tuna cat food in her bowl. She has not touched the tuna itself. No clean-up for me, but I could have used that fifty-seven cents on something for myself... a gumball, maybe. No, wait. I'm diabetic. I guess it wasn't a waste after all.

A lot of people like to treat their cat to a giant slab of lunch meat, or leftover dinner meat. We stopped doing this after Thanksgiving turkey bits showed up on the bathroom rug.

I don't even want to know.

Wal-Mart, Wheelchairs, and Weirdos

2011-08-08T23:39:00.001-04:00

You would think the Wal-Mart crowd would be accepting of a dude in a motorized grocery cart, but...no.

Hubby is recovering nicely from acute pancreatitis, but he doesn't have much energy. So, he decided to ride in a motorized cart while accompanying me on a short shopping trip today. It wasn't the greatest cart - it stalled periodically and when he took his hands off the controls, it nearly threw him over the handle bars. It also sounded like a meat grinder.

He was hesitant to board. He's only 40 years old and he's ticked off enough that he is almost all gray. But it was either ride the cart, or pass out in the canned veggie aisle... which he almost did a couple of days ago.

People don't like dudes in motorized carts. They take up a lot of aisle space and they beep when they back up. But people don't really know how to handle such a thing. It's the same as riding in a wheelchair, basically. In 2011, you'd think wheelchairs would be a normal thing, but not at Wal-Mart. No, not at all.

It's understandable that little kids would look at you funny when you're riding one. Most of them probably want to ride one. It's another thing when full-grown adults stare at you like you've got one ear and four eyes. Haven't you seen someone sit down before? Is this really new to you?

Some people over-compensate by being sickeningly polite. They're trying to be nice, but it's awkward. They take a giant step back and sweep the path in front of them with their hand, like your throne awaits in aisle 3. Some make a run for it, hoping to get in front of you so they don't have to wait, nearly knocking you and your items on the floor. Others stomp behind you, sighing loudly, letting you know that you're a total jerk for having some sort of disability.

It's really hard to excuse a 400-pound woman in a mini-dress from treating your husband like a moron.

Pot.
Kettle.
Black.

When we got in line, a young(er) dude got in line behind us. Out of 36 lanes, only a few were open, and the lines were crazy. Everyone was in a bad mood. The guy behind us was in an even worse mood because my husband's cart was blocking him from putting his groceries on the belt. There was nowhere for my husband to go, except the mini-fridge full of sodas. As soon as the person in front of us left, I told my husband to scoot in front of me so Prince Charming could put his precious margarita mix down.

Next time, I'm going to put a flag on the back of hubby's cart. The Vietnam vet with the enormous flag and the POW symbols on his cart drew no ire from other shoppers. Note: If you're a wounded vet, that's OK. If you can't walk for any other reason, you don't deserve to shop.

I got mild satisfaction from watching the looks on everyone's faces as my husband got up from his cart and gingerly made his way to the car, which I managed to park only 2 spaces away. I know it ticked some of them off. They probably thought he was just too lazy to walk around the store.

Now if only some people would muster up the energy to put on a real shirt and some pants.

Kindle, Nook...How About A Regular Old Book?

2011-08-08T21:42:00.004-04:00

I remember the first time I ever held my book in my hands.

My friend works at a radio station, and I was scheduled to appear on their morning show. They got their copy before I got my box full. My friend called to tell me and I don't even remember putting my shoes on. I think I blacked out and drove to the station in a trance. The next thing I knew, people were clapping and I was holding the neon pink chunk of words that represented my childhood hopes and dreams.

I remember the smell. I remember pulling back the clean, crisp cover. It was the closest thing to nirvana. (The Christian version, of course.)

The other night I made a trip to Barnes & Noble. The first B&N I ever went to was in Nashville, when I was a college student. They didn't have big box bookstores 'round here until close to 2000. When it opened, it quickly became the favorite hangout of my friends and I. The idea of being able to browse through books at your leisure without being obligated to buy them was a new concept, and so was the idea of being allowed to eat and drink over them before purchasing them. On a Saturday night, the place was hopping - good luck finding a table.

The crowd has thinned out, let me tell you. It was a quiet Saturday night at B&N this past weekend(not that I'm complaining about being able to find a seat) and the first thing that jumped out at me when I walked in was a huge display of Nooks.

Nooks. Fancy eeeeelectronic book readin' machines.
For sale.
In a bookstore.

I love technology. Hubby says my cell phone is surgically attached to my hand. My laptop is my prized possession and I would never reach my destination without a GPS. I watch Netflix and Hulu Plus on my husband's Playstation 3. I am in no way, shape, or form opposed to technology.

Except in this case.

What if books went out of print? Doesn't anyone else out there worry about stuff like that?
Hello?

I imagine my book arriving... in the form of a file. And how much that would stink. And how it would be totally not exciting at all. Now, I know people who have written e-books and I'm sure they will disagree with me, but as someone who has physically held my own book in my hands, it just doesn't hold the same punch. Good-bye book signings. "Would you please sign my Nook?" How would that even work?

What about that new book smell? What about cute, kitschy bookmarks? What about relaxing in a bookstore with a cappuccino while browsing the latest releases? What about reading a favorite book over and over until it's tattered and battered and has a special place on your shelf and in your heart?

I don't think the Nook or the Kindle or the random phone e-book reader can replace that for me.

I can't get into it. And I hate the idea of bookstores going out of business (i.e., Borders) just as much as I hate the idea of magazines going out of print. I don't care how old (young) you are or how in-the-know you are about gadgets. Nothing beats curling up with a magazine, or browsing a good book over coffee.

It's just one piece of technology I can't get into. Maybe I'll buy an e-book reader eventually, but it won't be tomorrow. Most likely, it will be out of necessity and not choice.

And I'll keep complaining about it on this blog, on the internet, out in the digital, paper-less world. How ironic.

Hospital Livin'

2011-08-04T23:48:00.000-04:00

After spending two weeks in the same hospital, I have a few observations and thoughts.

Food
I worked in a nursing home for 4 years in the dietary department. The food wasn't bad. OK, some of it was bad. For the most part, though, it was decent and I would know, since I had at least one meal a day there when I was on shift.

Several years ago, a new hospital opened in the town we were living in. It was new and posh, as hospitals go. The cafeteria was set up like a restaurant and the food there was good, too.

I wrongly assumed that this hospital would have edible food. Wroooooooong. The nursing home and new hospital had led me to believe that the era of hospital food tasting like Purina Dog Chow was over, but the hospital my husband was in this time served as a reminder of why hospital food stereotypes exist in the first place.

I saw the cafeteria staff serve up things there that I wouldn't serve to a stray dog. Neon red tomato sauce. Stomach-churning pork and sauerkraut. Mashed potatoes the consistency of hardening cement. I risked salmonella poisoning by giving the salad bar a go, and it turned out to be a winner. That, and their bagels, which were delivered from a local bakery. I think I ate 37 bagels and the equivalent of six tubs of cream cheese while I was there.

It was a matter of survival.

Nurses
As a rule of thumb, you should always be polite to people who can stab/inject/poison you while you are hooked up to machines. It is similar to the rule that says you should always be polite to people who can contaminate your food with anything from dirt to bodily fluids. (Advice from a former waitress here.)

As it turns out, you can also get improved service from any nurse that you are able to befriend, and my husband and I managed to do just that. It wasn't really intentional. We just live by the aforementioned rules and try to be nice people.

Everyone thought my husband was very sweet (most people do), which worked to his advantage. We also shared a love of "Gene Simmons' Family Jewels" with many of the nurses, who actually crowded into my husband's room to watch the season finale with him when things were quiet.

Here's a tip: want your pain meds FAST? Talk reality TV with the nursing staff.

Doctors
Poor doctors. They can't catch a break.
If you have one that has the personality of a tree stump or is very blunt, he is accused of having a poor bedside manner. If you get one that is too jovial, he is accused of barely graduating from Acme School of Medical Stuff. If he doesn't offer enough information, he is accused of being a spineless weenie.

Unless, of course, you're like us. We like the super jovial ones. We'd appreciate a doctor who wears a Spiderman tie. We're weird like that.

The doctors we encountered ran the gamut. The surgeons were very quiet-but-friendly Christian men who would have looked appropriate in Amish attire. The main infection specialist we saw both looked and acted like Lily Tomlin, only slightly nerdier. The doctor who removed the fluid from my husband's abdomen was fatherly and even called me "dear" and "sweetheart", though I am still trying to figure out if that's a good thing or a bad thing. One gastroenterologist had us stumped - did he look more like Gilbert Gottfried or Joel Osteen? We couldn't make up our minds. But he was the guy who told me I'd know my husband was in dire straights if I "saw him hooked up to a ventilator." Somehow he managed to say it in a very flowery and sing-songy way that would have made you feel good about facing a firing squad.

All of my husband's doctors were excellent, but some we greeted like Kramer on "Seinfeld", whereas others we greeted like the Pope, depending on how serious they were.

Other Patients
Hospitals are never quiet enough to sleep in, which is why most patients come home feeling like they just got sent home from the Vietnam War. Throw in a semi-deaf Amish farmer, an arguing old couple, and a confused elderly man and it might as well be World War III.

My husband's first roommate was the semi-deaf Amish farmer. He yelled at the nurses occasionally but spent most of his time on the phone, yelling at whoever called, in Pennsylvania Dutch. If you've never heard Pennsylvania Dutch spoken before, the best way to describe it is German gibberish with the occasional English word thrown in.

"Oof dah flergin HORSE!"

There was also a confused elderly man down the hall who screamed profanities at staff. He sat in the hallway in a wheelchair cussing people out from dawn till dusk.

And in my husband's last room, there was an old couple across the hall who yelled at each other all day. Usually they argued, sometimes they just couldn't hear each other. The volume on hospital TVs don't usually go very high, but this couple found a way to make it audible to the floors above and below them.

The beeping IV machines were a welcome respite from the screaming patients.

"The mulch! The mulch! The mulch is on FIRE!"
In order to prevent myself from developing my own blood clots, I got up about once an hour to walk around. Usually, the cafeteria was my destination, where I downed insane amounts of watery hospital coffee.

Because we were in the midst of a heat wave, and because we had not had rain since the Mormons crossed the plains in buggies, everything was very dry. (How dry was it??)

I walked out to the parking lot to make a phone call and headed for one of the gardens for some shade under a tree. I smelled something as I was walking... something like... a barbecue? Then, I saw smoke. As I approached, I realized the mulch was on fire. No smoldering cigarette butt... just flaming mulch.

This is where I become a hero.
I was in a skirt and flip-flops, but did that stop me from putting out the fire? NO! I jumped and stomped on that sucker until the flames were out and the smoldering had died down. My feet were covered in mulch and dirt, but I did my duty as an American.

I went back into the hospital and told the security guard that he might want to check on the garden at the end of the parking lot because I had put out a random fire with nothing between the flames and my flesh but a cheap, Wal-Mart brand piece of rubber. He looked over at the secretary at the ER desk, and they instantaneously broke out into song:

"The mulch! The mulch! The mulch is on FIRE!"

In closing...
The hospital was an ordeal. It is not the type of thing I want to do again anytime soon. Nice people, clean bathrooms, but not a good vacation spot.

And yet, as is the case with everything else in my life, the ordeal gave me some great stories and certainly plenty of writing material.

Plus, let's face it, those firefighting skills might come in handy again someday.

A Tale of Two Organs

2011-08-04T00:16:00.000-04:00

Nobody wants an angry pancreas.

Everyone has a pancreas and a gallbladder - at birth, anyway. Most people's pancreas and gallbladder live in peace with one another. In some, it's a love-hate relationship.

The two organs share a duct. When the gallbladder gets ticked off, it spits little stones into this duct. If that duct gets blocked, digestive pancreatic enzymes are blocked from exiting the pancreas. Those enzymes then stay in the pancreas, where they (get ready - here's where it starts sounding like a bad sci-fi movie) begin digesting the pancreas itself. The pancreas doesn't like that, so it gets inflamed, sometimes gets infected, and on a really bad day starts shutting down other organs.

When my husband started writhing in pain almost 3 weeks ago, we both assumed it was a gallstone. He was scheduled to have surgery the following week to have his gallbladder removed. But this attack was different. My husband was drenched in sweat. He looked like he jumped in a swimming pool. The whites of his eyes turned the color of Coke cans. So we went to the ER, where nurses were unable to do an EKG because he was too sweaty, and they struggled to put an IV in him because he couldn't lie still. They ran some blood work and it wasn't long before a doctor was telling me he was being admitted because his pancreas was severely inflamed.

I had no idea what that meant. The pancreas didn't sound like a major organ - certainly not a heart or a lung. I didn't realize that he was extremely ill. I nodded my head and waited for them to wheel him up to his room.

The next morning, the picture became a little clearer, when I walked in and found that my husband's eyes were now orange. He had been on Morphine, but it wasn't helping the pain, so they switched him to Dilaudid, which they administered every two hours. (Note: when Morphine doesn't help, something is wrong) His urinal held a liquid that looked like really dark iced tea. He didn't want to eat, talk, listen to music, or watch TV. He laid there, doped up, his orange eyes staring off into space...when they were open.

For the first few days, everything that could possibly go wrong...did. By the third day, and for the next week, his eyes were a deep yellow. His white blood cell count and enzyme numbers (known as amylase and lipase) were constantly on the rise. The reality of the situation hit me when he was moved to the ICU. He developed MRSA, a staph infection, and was placed in isolation. He developed an all-over body skin rash. He was running fevers. A pocket of fluid had built up around his pancreas. It never stopped.

Many doctors walked in and out of that room - gastroenterologists, infection specialists, surgeons, you name it. They all said they were "very worried", "quite concerned", or "scared" but nobody said exactly what worried, concerned, or scared them. My questions were met with answers like, "Well, we just have to make sure his numbers start going down." I asked one doctor how I would know it had gotten worse and he said, "When you see him on a ventilator." That was the only straight-forward answer I got. Nobody wanted to freak out the young wife who sat by her husband's side day in and day out. ''

When it appeared that his numbers were finally leveling off, they removed his gallbladder. Then, we held our breaths and hoped nothing would get worse. But they did. His numbers started creeping up again. More antibiotics, more fluids, more waiting.

Infection specialists entered the picture. They decided to remove the fluid around his pancreas with a needle. After two days of waiting, the results came back negative for infection, and his numbers started going down. He had turned a corner. Once his test results came back negative, he was finally sent home on a slew of medications. The two-week ordeal was finally over.

Looking back, there were signs that something was wrong before he went to the ER. His blood sugar was on the rise, his urine was getting dark, and he had a chronic, deep pain aside from the gallbladder attacks themselves. We had no reason to be "up" on pancreatitis, though, so we assumed it was all related to the gallstones.

When we went to the ER, we didn't have a clue that his pancreas was inflamed, or that an inflamed pancreas was anything to be scared of. Live and learn.

Had my husband decided to try and eat something, pop a pill, and suffer through the pain instead of going to the hospital, he might be dead now. That's just serious it was. He was in danger of going into shock, suffering massive organ failure, and of dying.

It was the scariest two weeks of my life. And I don't think I've ever loved my husband more than I do right now.

My husband has lost close to 50 pounds. That's 50 pounds in two weeks. I don't recommend the Pancreatitis Diet to anyone, but it works. If you want to skip the gym and shed pounds fast, just make your pancreas angry. You'll be shopping for a new wardrobe in no time.

I just hope you like Jello.

Wide Awake but not Bushy-Tailed

2011-06-18T01:09:00.000-04:00

Good morning, y'all. It's 1 a.m. Some of you are partying right now. Boring people like me are usually asleep by this time on a Friday night...or Saturday morning, however you prefer to look at it. I've got Seroquel and Ambien in me and I'm awake. Somebody suggested I try melatonin but that would be like giving someone a baby Aspirin for open heart surgery pain. My brain never shuts off on its own, or I wouldn't be taking Ambien. Sometimes it doesn't shut off at all, period. Welcome to the wonderful world of mania. What do you need done? I could probably paint your whole house right now, inside and outside. Give me a call, I'll come over. I've been known to rearrange spice cupboards at 4 in the morning, so that's another option.

It used to be normal for me to be up and at 'em in the wee morning hours before the sun even woke up, but these days I try to keep a normal sleep schedule both because I have to earn a living during waking hours, and also so I don't become "more bipolar." So this is weird to me. Lights out is at 11.

I will pay for this in a few days, that's the only bummer. I need to go do something boring...like playing Uno on Facebook or something. Something to throw the emergency brake on my brain. Sleep tight, everybody. Hopefully I won't need to be physically propped up tomorrow morning.

The Build-Up and the Crash

2011-06-17T18:18:00.000-04:00

This is the story of my life: I am energized by having a lot of work to do and a lot of projects on hand. Exciting possibilities keep me lit like a firecracker. When things slow down, I find myself face-down at the bottom of the trash heap. I get up, dust myself off, look back and realize... oh snap, I think I was a little manic there.

Some people jump out of airplanes (seriously, I have a few friends who literally do this), some people do drugs, some people go on spending sprees, all in an effort to stay "charged up" and alive. I don't do any of that - though I did actually go shopping for clothes and shoes last night, but mostly out of necessity - but I still consider myself an adrenaline junkie. I'm always looking to stay high. For me, work does it. Trying to start a business, trying to get a new book published, and looking for fresh writing gigs all make me feel like I'm on top. Whether or not they pan out is another issue. The pursuit keeps me hopping.

I had a very difficult writing assignment - one that I thought should have been fairly simple, but turned out to be a nightmare. I had my abilities questioned and insulted in a very passive-aggressive manner. I also got sidelined by a stomach bug for a few days - the kind where you writhe in bed hoping for death. All of it turned into one big crash. I'm now in the process of trying to build that energy up again. This is why people with BP don't like taking medication - because the highs are so much more fun and productive. (At LEAST more productive.) It just always amazes me how little it takes to knock me over and make me feel like I have to rebuild from scratch again. That isn't very realistic - I DON'T have to rebuild from scratch, but when I'm depressed that's how it feels. It's like running a sprint race. You start out full speed ahead, charging like a bull, but you become tired and slow down, and some of us just sit down on the grass for a while to catch our breath.

I'm still not totally over the stomach thing, either. I am not sick to my stomach anymore, but I still feel weak and sorta lightheaded. I just want to get over it so I can get back to the gym. A stomach bug may be a great way to lose weight fast, but I think I'd much rather stick to the treadmill.

What is Up With the Weather?

2011-05-26T19:45:00.000-04:00

I don't care what anyone says - the planet is changing. The weather, specifically is changing. I'm sitting here watching thick dark clouds roll in and we have a tornado watch, again. West of here, there is a warning. This seems to be the new normal, as we've had very few stormy days so far this spring that have not had the word "tornado" somehow attached to them. This is Pennsylvania, for goodness sake, not Tornado Alley.

I only remember one tornado watch throughout my entire childhood. Maybe there were more but nobody told me about them so I wouldn't freak out. My father has always been a weather buff, though, and the two of us used to actually sit and watch The Weather Channel for pleasure, so I doubt I really missed out on the tornado watches.

Throughout my adult years, I never took them terribly seriously until one day in March 2009. The storm hit and it just wasn't your "normal" storm. I can't tell you exactly what the difference was. Maybe it was a hunch or a notion more than a scientific observance. I just remember standing in front of the window and saying to my husband, "This isn't a regular storm." I grabbed the cat and we darted to the bottom of the stairs. Eventually we made our way to the apartment next-door and, in retrospect, that didn't make any sense. It wasn't any lower than our stairwell, and there were just more people for a twister to pick up and fling, but it seemed logical at the time.

About 5 minutes down the road, a trailer park was demolished. One of my co-workers at the time lost her home and had both of her ankles shattered. It hit too close to home that time and now I take those watches and warnings pretty seriously. Although, I will openly admit that when a tornado watch is issued, I do go searching for my camera. I'm the kind of person who would fly to the Midwest to take a storm chasing "vacation."

Wherever you are, in whatever kind of weather you're experiencing, be safe. I can't wrap my mind around the idea of mile- and two-mile-wide funnel clouds destroying entire towns and ripping loved ones from each other's arms. We have tornadoes here, but not tornadoes like that. God bless everyone who lives in that part of the country. They are far braver than I am.

The Unexpected Snare

2011-05-18T19:03:00.000-04:00

A good friend of mine - an author and speaker - was in town this past weekend to do a marriage event at a local church. I had been excited about her visit for weeks, since I rarely get to see her. I was excited about spending time with her, and also about helping out with the book table. By the time Friday evening rolled around, I thought I might explode.

This person has mentored me for the past eight years and I couldn't wait to see her, knowing that my bipolar disorder was under control and I was a stable person. There is not enough time or space on this blog to document all the painful things my friend has seen me through over the years. I felt like I was unveiling a "new me" for her. And, oh man, if you struggle with a mental illness, you know how cool it is when people start noticing how well you're doing.

So I was disappointed and humiliated when, on Saturday night, I ended up having a panic attack. I was standing at the book table and my job was to answer questions and basically mingle. It was a big crowd, certainly more than I am used to. The crowd, combined with a lot of emotions stirring around in my head, just sunk me. I was able to hold out until the end, but at that point I fell apart and my sweet friend ended up having to abandon signing books to come talk to me.

I used to get panicky a lot, but I felt like I'd dealt with my anxiety by working in a grocery store and working retail for a short time. I got used to a lot of people, or so I thought. I am also a greeter at church, so I'm used to shaking hands and making nice. No problems. So, I blame it on my emotions and not really knowing how to handle them. I spent a big chunk of my life trying not to feel anything; I consider this a case of sensory overload.

Truth be told, from the moment my friend arrived, I was already dreading her exit. I suppose it's normal to cry when someone you love has to leave, but I had to struggle to enjoy the time I did have, because I know the sad moment was coming. I don't want to live like that. I have to learn how to live in the moment.

It was a long and tearful drive home on Saturday night. I thought about a lot of things - I thought a lot about going back to some of my old ways that helped me not to feel. I considered really unhealthy stuff that I hadn't thought about in ages, and it scared me. It scared me, disappointed me, and embarrassed me. The person I was in the car that night is not the person God has changed me into. Those moments of doubt, of wanting to shut out everything I was feeling... it was another reminder that the enemy wants to steal, kill, and destroy all of the beauty that God has made. I guess you could say I was angry that I had a tender heart.

The irony of that is, the people I am closest to have tender hearts, and that's why I love them. That includes the friend I saw this past weekend, who has openly cried over my failures, as well as my victories. That's part of why I love and admire her so much - her heart is open, and it's OK for people to see it.

So I have to stop kicking myself for being emotional, but I have to learn how to deal with emotions in a healthy way. Some of it is just chemistry - anxiety is part of my brain makeup, even though I earnestly pray for a complete healing of it. But I think the handling of emotions, and learning to live in the moment, is something we have to learn. The more you practice it, the easier it gets. It's a skill, like anything else in life. Maybe getting control of those things will stave off the panic and depression.

The good thing about having an amazing Savior and great friends in your life is that they make you want to be a better person. So going backwards can't be a consideration for me. It has to be forward, all the way. I want to make my friends proud, and walk in the light of who I really am in Jesus Christ. There can be no going back.

Now if I could just crawl out from under this table I've been hiding under since Saturday...

Places to Find Me

2011-05-18T15:27:00.000-04:00

My Fine Living Lancaster column, about May being Mental Health Month, is up

I have a new article up at Hope for Women about Defending Your Marriage Against the Threat of Chronic Illness.

And I also have a blog post at Hope for Women about Stephen Hawking and his unbelief in the afterlife.

I'm also working on a blog for ya'll. Woot! About time, huh?

Mother's Day Mom-isms

2011-05-08T12:38:00.000-04:00

It's Mother's Day. Did you call your mom? Don't forget to call your mom! And if your mom isn't here anymore, don't forget to remember her.

In honor of Mother's Day, I decided to jot down a few thoughts concerning my own mom - nothing too personal, because I don't want her to kill me.

-Nobody messes with her kids. When I was about 15 years old, I'm fairly certain my mother wanted to give me away to the highest bidder - perhaps any bidder. I was a nightmare of a teenager, full of problems and flunking out of school. It's a good thing we didn't have eBay back then because my mom probably would have put me up for sale; however, even though she was probably wishing I wasn't carrying her genes, my mother would have gone Jack Bauer on anyone who tried to mess with me. Case in point: the evil home economics teacher who hated me and made it her mission to let me know on a daily basis. My mother made one little phone call to her and I don't know exactly what was said, but she was much nicer to me after that. As my mom has said many times over the years, "I'm the only one who's allowed to mess with my kids."

-She instilled her paranoia in me. Thunder is not dangerous; lightning is. But thunder makes more noise, and I was terrified of it as a kid. Unfortunately, so was my mom. So we huddled together, screaming our way through summer storms and often sat on the stairwell for protection. We laugh about that now because sitting on the stairwell would have only been effective had their been a tornado... and we had a basement, so we probably would have gone there. Also, bees were not something to be swatted away. Bees made my mother scream and run a hundred miles an hour in the opposite direction, which only made bees attack her more, which meant great entertainment for the entire neighborhood during the summer months. I once witnessed my mother trying to give directions to a man in the mall parking lot while sprinting and hurdling cars, waving her arms over her head like she was taking cover from napalm to get away from a bee. I got over my fear of storms rather quickly since my father countered her paranoia by standing in the middle of the front yard watching lightning strikes. It took me a lot longer to get over my fear of bees, though. Only recently have I discovered that honey bees won't bother you unless you're a flower, and that you should move away from hornets and wasps...slowly.

-There is no such thing as a quick voice mail. When I return a phone call from my mother, I usually already know everything there is to know before she even starts talking. Why, you ask? Because my mother leaves me 10-minute voice mails. It's never, "Call me back when you get a chance, bye." It's usually a recap of her entire day, followed by, "Call me back when you get a chance, bye." So I stopped listening to her voice mails because there was no more anticipation left. Now, when I call her, the first thing she asks me is, "Did you listen to my message"? and I say no and she gets mad. But at least the information is fresh. A few years ago, I saw a book promoted on "The Today Show" called Amy's Answering Machine about the hilarious messages a Jewish woman's mother would leave on her answering machine. It's my mom, minus the Jew.

-"I don't want this information spread around." My mother worries that I am going to spread the world's most mundane information around - mostly stuff nobody would care about, even if I told them about it with great passion in my voice and acted out the story with balloon animals and sock puppets. Sometimes, because I can't help myself, when my mother asks me if I've repeated some detail from one of her past stories, I'll tell her I blogged about it, and she always falls for it. I once told her, "Don't worry, Mom. I'm good at keeping secrets." She said, "Good." A second or two later she blurted out, "Wait, what does that mean?!"

-She likes Amy Grant. My mother used to refer to most of my music growing up as 'pots and pans being dropped in the kitchen.' A woman who was a teenager in the 1950s, when rock and roll music was in its infancy, my mother thinks the music of my generation is mostly crap. The one thing we could agree on, though, was Amy Grant. So much so that she asked me to get one of my t-shirts autographed for her when Amy was in town in March. This makes my mom awesome.

-She is good friends with my husband. Good in-laws are hard to find, but she found a good one in my husband, her son-in-law. My husband loves to pull pranks and practical jokes on my mother (who always falls for it), and my mother likes to enact revenge (which she did just last night). She confides in my husband sometimes and picks on him other times. Because my husband thinks my mom is such a hoot, he has no problem joking with her and my mom appreciates his warm, gentle personality. I can attest to the fact that sometimes in-law relationships can be a nightmare. I couldn't ask for more with this one, though.

She is MY good friend. I haven't always gotten along with my mother. In fact, there was a time when things between us were beyond terrible. I had a lot of resentment towards her, but I no longer do. My mom and I are good friends these days. We talk several times a week (twice that if you count the voice mails) and genuinely enjoy each other. We have both been through difficult times in which we needed each other and I think it changed the dynamic of our relationship. I 'get' my mom where sometimes other people don't.

As you get older, you begin to realize things about your parents. You see the times they were there for you and you begin to realize that they did the best with what they had. You start to recognize that they are just people, like you, who make mistakes and face tough choices every day. I became friends with my mom the day I realized she was a human being, too. Sometimes I can hardly believe I'm in my 30s, and I can hardly believe my parents are getting up there in years. Where does the time go?

The best Mother's Day gift you could ever give your mom is deciding to use the time that's left to really get to know her, faults and all, because you only get one mom, and you only get so much time. Being able to make her squirm once in a while is just icing on the cake. :-)

Where Were You When...

2011-05-01T23:30:00.000-04:00

Where were you when Osama bin Laden was pronounced dead?

I was on the phone. But to be honest... I heard about it on Facebook before I ever heard about it on the news. That's the world we live in.

Even his death is divisive. I suggested to one of my Facebook 'friends' - who apparently lacks a sense of humor or the ability to kindly disagree with others - that he should be happy about this news, because he blew it off as no big deal. He called me "sheeple" and deleted me. That sort of thing usually doesn't bother me, but tonight in light of everything... it was inappropriate and uncalled for and more annoying than usual. People are funny.

That's the world we live in.

Oh well. He's wrong. This IS good news. Big news. Kudos to our military for being so excellent at what they do.

This is one era I won't miss.

Oh, That Silly Satan!

2011-05-01T17:50:00.001-04:00

You won't hear me say this very often, so listen good: Satan doesn't get enough credit. He's a much bigger menace than we give him credit for. When there is a major tragedy or natural disaster, we give him lots and lots of credit. On your average day, however, I don't think we give the devil his due.

We seem to view the devil as an annoyance. He causes the baseball game to be rained out. He puts bumper-to-bumper traffic in front of us when we are in a hurry to get somewhere. He gets your Taco Bell order all messed up. We blame him for defiant little children, burgers that get burned, and phone calls we ran out of time trying to make. He's a great big do-do head trying to put a damper on our day. He's the kid who just ran through your newly planted garden.

He's Dennis the Menace.

And if you can attest to everything I just said, he is also - to quote Charlie Sheen - winning! Satan doesn't just want you to have a bad day, he wants you to believe that's his only mission. When people don't credit the devil with evil, that's exactly what he wants. He's pretty good at covert ops.

He wants you to see him as an impotent do-do head who can do nothing more than annoy you on a daily basis. He wants to take all the daily frustrations and disappointments he puts in your way and snowball them into:

-hopelessness
-helplessness
-depression
-zero confidence
-anger
-self-pity
-frustration with God

The enemy wants you to view the little nasty things he does as evidence that God has no power. He wants you to feel sorry for yourself, lose your cool, and trip over your faith.

Lately, the little things have been piling up here. For the past week, absolutely nothing has gone my way. I knew the enemy wanted to get in my way, but only today did I realize the enormity of the missile he was trying to lob at me. I found myself questioning all the things I was so sure I had heard from God, and debating whether or not I had the will to continue on in certain pursuits. Do-Do Head was probably laughing and mixing himself a cocktail as I quietly contemplated the direction of my life from the passenger's side of my car.

My advice to you is simple: if something doesn't go your way, you should completely freak out knowing that Satan is coming for you! Just kidding. That's not my advice.

My advice is... stay 'prayed up.' Stay in the Word. Fill your head with God's Truth so that you can easily filter out the devil's lies. He wants to bring you down. This ain't Dennis the Menace. The enemy comes to kill, steal, and destroy. It's not a big deal that your grill didn't light when you went to make dinner tonight. It becomes a big deal if you aren't on solid spiritual ground and those things start adding up. Satan wants to grill your will like a flank steak, baby.

So keep your eyes open and fill your brains with the goodness of God.
I promise you, when you're faced with trouble, it will be the deciding factor in how you see your circumstances, and how you navigate through them.

The Not-So-Delicate Balance Between Holy and Hothead

2011-04-29T22:30:00.000-04:00

I'll probably get flack for saying this, but you know it's true. It would be so easy to act the part of a Christian, if not for:
-traffic
-other people.

You can laugh at me all you want to, but I have a magnetic cross on the back of my car. It's not to announce my faith so much as it is to help me to keep my windows rolled up, certain body parts down, and my mouth shut. I know me. I know me. I need big reminders. I don't own any 'Christian' shirts (unless you count the 15 identical Amy Grant shirts) but I've been thinking maybe I need to stock up for the same reason I stuck a cross on my bumper.

Sometimes I think, "Wow, my heart has changed so much!" and other times I think, "Whoa! I've got a long way to go!" Take, for example, my visit to the doctor this afternoon. It's a Christian practice. The walls of the children's section of the waiting room are covered in a Veggie Tales mural. Worship muzak is piped in over the speakers. There is a Gideon Bible on every table, and there is one in every examination room. The people are always nice, even though they charge a fee for everything under the sun. It's not the type of place you would expect to find confrontation, unless the doctors started fighting over who gets to open in prayer.

The office closes at 5:00 on a Friday, and I managed to squeeze in a last-minute 4:30 appointment. There were four people in the reception area - me, my husband, an elderly woman, and an older man who smelled like turpentine who also had extremely greasy hair. I went over to the magazine rack to grab some reading material when he stood up and got there before me. OK. No problem. Except that he stood there, blocking the whole rack, spending several minutes reading each magazine he picked up. He knew I was there. I was coughing. He didn't care.

I should have sat down. I could have read a Gideon Bible. But I didn't. I stayed there, moved a little closer, bumped his elbow just slightly, forced him to move. I really, really wanted to say something smart, but I didn't. That's a victory in itself - openly rude people drive me crazy.

A few minutes later, as I was coughing up a lung and reading about Taylor Swift in WebMD magazine (it was either that or a 2-year-old issue of National Geographic), I heard a loud, "UUUUUUUUUHHHHHH." I'm nosy, so I leaned forward to look in the direction of the grunt. It was him. He put his hands on his head and yelled, "I SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO SCHEDULE AN APPOINTMENT ON A FRIDAY!"
The old lady pretended not to hear him. (On second thought, maybe she really didn't hear him), and I looked over at my husband who was wide-eyed and nervously mouthing the word, "DON'T!"

Ah. He knows me so well. Too well. There was a time when I would have told the old grump to save the drama for his mama and just be glad he got a Friday appointment at all. It might have escalated into a full-on confrontation. My husband would have been dragging me towards the door by my arm. My mother always told me, "God gave you a mouth; use it." That wasn't quite what she meant, but she can't ever say I didn't listen.

But I've grown. I've changed! Now, instead of getting in someone's face... I sweat profusely and mumble under my breath.

Grumpy Pants made his way up to the reception window.

"Hey, I've got things to do! I can't be sitting around here all day!"

They asked him if he wanted to reschedule. But, no, he didn't want to reschedule. He wanted to complain. He repeated his displeasure, sat back down, and let out another grunt. I kept my face buried in WebMD, muttering to myself as my husband smacked me in the knee and told me to be quiet. It was painful. It was like being tied to a chair while someone waved a million dollars in your face. Pleeeeaaassseee let them call my name before this guy's! I was picturing the whole thing in my head. They would call my name, I'd mosey on up to the nurse in my own sweet time, and then I'd say, "Man, I've got a lot to run by the doctor today!"

But they called him first. I'm sure you'll be shocked to know that he complained the whole way down the hall and into the exam room - I could hear him. They called me five minutes later.

As I sat in the exam room waiting for the doctor, I was struck by what a hothead I am, and how pointless most of the things I get frustrated over really are. Someone with the mind of Christ would have engaged that man to find out what was so heavy on his heart... or they would have been smart enough to just leave well enough alone. And someone with the mind of Christ wouldn't have been plotting ways to further annoy him, but would have willingly offered to let him go first if the opportunity presented itself.

"Whoa! I've got a long way to go!"

If there's any sort of encouragement to be found in this story, it's that I at least realized how ridiculous I was being. In the past... I don't know, I think I would have felt completely justified in my annoyance and in my comments. Not this time, though. This isn't who I want to be. God gave me a mouth and I want to use it to speak Truth into the lives of others, not gripe at grouchy people who are obviously in need of encouragement and not curses.

The Christian life is an interesting thing. Why is it that when we take a step forward it seems so insignificant, but when we take a step back it seems to huge? Oh, that's right - the enemy. The one who wants us to believe we haven't improved and never will.

I guess if you screw up, realize it, and want to change... that's evidence of God's work in your heart. So I am trying to be encouraged....but not as encouraged as I'll be when I face a similar situation and my first thought is love and compassion.

Now THAT is the mind of Christ.

Mania & God

2011-04-19T19:35:00.000-04:00

Wow, this is SO different from my experience with God and bipolar disorder. Mania can make people feel superhuman and they do risky things as a result, but it has always been easier for me to believe in and follow God when I'm manic. It's when I'm severely depressed that my faith struggles. This guy's article is spot-on, however, though we don't share this particular experience. Wouldn't mind reading this dude's book.

4 Myths About Bipolar Disorder

2011-04-19T19:27:00.001-04:00

The second myth is that people with bipolar disorder are very happy when they’re in a manic phase.

Some people have been known to punch inanimate objects and curse at silverware. Just sayin'.

Childless Christian Women - Square Pegs in a Round World

2011-04-18T21:09:00.001-04:00

I just can't get the baby thing off my mind. This is driving me a little bit bonkers. Where do childless women fit into the church? Why do I feel like an alien?

I got a call from a woman I've never met from my church. Somebody told her I was childless and needed to be mentored because I was so lost because of it. It was well-meaning. I ended up making a new friend, but it definitely didn't play out the way the other church ladies intended. My new friend didn't have children by choice. I don't have kids...well, not by choice. BUT I'm OK with it. I'm at peace with it. We ended up laughing over how judgmental people can be - assuming, of course, that if you don't have kids, you must be terribly selfish and have nothing but spare time in which to do completely unimportant things. We agreed that women's ministries, in general, do cater to moms and don't really know what to do with people like me.

We both wondered aloud if some homeschooling moms don't feel a little bit spiritually superior to those who send their kids to school. Now don't misread me - I'm not saying all homeschool moms have a superiority complex. Just saying... some seem to act like we should pity how busy they are when, in all actuality, this is a choice they made. There is no biblical mandate to homeschool your children.Go ahead, homeschool. Most homeschooled kids are geniuses. But don't play it up like somehow you are a notch above moms who, for example, can't afford not to work and HAVE to send their kids to school.

My point is... I just want to be a godly woman, but lately I've really been feeling like so much of a woman's spirituality is viewed through whether or not they have kids. Hey, listen, I wanted to be fruitful and multiply. God didn't have the same plan in mind, at least not yet. And I'm comfortable with my life. Is this actually being held against me, or do I just have my own inferiority complex. Look at the internet. You can find lots of websites devoted to Christian moms. Not many for childless Christian women.

I know my value to God does not change, but what about within the Church?

Is anyone taking me seriously?

Game Your Way to a New You!

2011-04-18T20:20:00.001-04:00

I apologize now for my use of the word "butt" and in no way do I advocate shooting people in real life. You shouldn't let your kids play violent games. I don't advocate that either. Oh, and I love Jesus. OK, you can read now...

I haven't been into video games, really, since Nintendo came out when I was in middle school. My husband has a Playstation 3 and I got into Guitar Hero and Rock Band but little else. Then....

THEN...

...he got the MOVE.

A friend of ours gave us a gift card a few weeks ago so hubby traded in a bunch of games and used it to buy the Move and a few games to go with. I'M. HOOKED. You know I have to be serious to actually blog about video games.

The Wii is good... if you're 5 years old. The Move, however, is way more accurate and you don't feel like you're in preschool when you use it. Most of you probably don't care about that, but I'm weird that way. Anyway, I have gotten rather addicted to ping-pong. There are a million other things to play - volleyball, bocce ball, fencing, etc., but the ping-pong is my game, for sure. I'll be honest - I've always kicked butt at ping-pong, tennis, badminton, and anything that includes swinging something at things flying through the air. Maybe it's the Smart family temper in me, I don't know.

All I know is... dude, you can get a SERIOUS workout playing Move ping-pong. Surprising, considering ping-pong isn't exactly a full-body sport, but I find myself swinging like a mad woman and working up one heck of a sweat. Want to tone your upper arms? Play this game. I think my arms have gone numb. I just finished an hour-long tournament and I can't really lift them above my waist anymore. Tomorrow I will probably have to learn to type with my feet.

Ladies, you're probably thinking this sounds lame. You could be doing something more girly-like, such as knitting, clipping coupons, or sharing diaper stories with your girlfriends. Oh no, honey. This is for you, too. Are you too lazy to drive to the gym like I am, despite having a gym membership? GREAT. Go git ya a MOVE! Wanna lose weight without having to go out in public on a bad hair day. MOVE MOVE MOVE! Well....first you need a Playstation 3, which is pretty expensive. But then...GET THE MOVE!

Also, girls, the Move is prettier than the Wii. Who needs a boring white controller when you can have what looks like a glowing ice cream cone?!? See? You know you want one! What woman wouldn't want a pretty video game accessory? Oooh, ahhh! Look at the purdy colors! Don't they just make you want to run out and buy a matching purse? FOR REALS!

And who can argue against becoming a more civilized human being! I didn't know a thing about bocce ball (let alone how to spell it) until we got the Move. Now I feel like I finally have something to discuss with the next old man I hold a door open for.

I'm telling you... this thing rocks. It gets old watching your husband play Black Ops all night. Now there's a fashionable alternative that the whole family can play! (Did you notice the Move glows in pink?) And if hubby still insists on shooting people, why, that's OK too! Grab two Move controllers and you've got yourself a gun! No more pointing buttons in your underwear - now you can stand UP in your underwear and actually PICK PEOPLE OFF!

So give it a try. Forget the Wii. If you want to get exercise while still being a bum at home, and you're tired of looking like a bouncing Weeble on your TV screen, go get the Move. You're an adult. Do the right thing. I believe in you.

What are you, 5? Go get the MOVE!

On Your Mark...Get Set...Pray!

2011-04-13T13:28:00.000-04:00

I love God. I love the Church. I love my brothers and sisters in Christ.

But I spend a lot of time trying to figure out why they do some of the things they do. This isn't a post about politics, war, or sexuality. I'm not talking about trying to figure out why they believe big things. I'm literally talking about...the stuff they do. This is a short post because I'm basically trying to empty my brain and one of the things that has been on it lately. These are the things I contemplate in the bathroom, mostly.

Let's look at prayer, shall we?
Is prayer a contest?
I've been wondering that because lately I've picked up on the way Pentecostals, in particular, pray.

It's not uncommon to hear "yes, Lord" and "thank you, Father" whispered by others while you're praying. Christians are supposed to pray in agreement with one another. But what about when everyone closes their eyes and bows their head and before anyone has uttered a single word of prayer, someone in the group starts going:

YesLordthankyouLordAmenComeLordJesusYesYesThankYouThankYouFather..

And why do people say it in rapid succession? Nobody talks to their friends that way, and if they did... they'd probably lose a friend. When I call my friend, Linda, I don't start immediately chanting as soon as she picks up the phone, right?

HelloLindaYesLindaIt'sgoodtotalktoyouLindaThankyouLindaYesLinda...

Are people like that trying to beat out the other pray-ers? Are they trying to get psyched-up for their turn? Were they raised a Hare Krishna?

What about the post-prayer squeeze-and-wink? You're praying in a group, you're holding hands or someone has a hand on your shoulder... and at the end of the prayer, they give you a little squeeze and wink at you. This symbolizes that the prayer is officially over. But why do we do it? I can't disconnect from the internet without taking the wireless card out of my computer. Is it sort of like that? Can we only 'disconnect' the prayer with a squeeze and a wink?

It doesn't really matter, truly. I don't care. It's just stuff I notice because I have the attention span of a flea. But it sticks with me until I blog about it, so... now I've blogged about it. I just wonder why things are they way they are.

There is no shortage of things to notice!

Resentment, Anger, Fear, and God

2011-04-12T09:37:00.000-04:00

Life is a choice. Bummer, huh? It takes me ten minutes to figure out what I want on the Taco Bell menu. It's a thousand times harder when I have to decide something important. It's easier not having to decide. Sometimes when I send my husband to the grocery store (eh hem, I would not suggest this), he calls me and asks me what kind of ice cream I want. "I trust your judgment," I tell him. Don't read the flavors to me if you don't want to drain your cell phone battery.

Making decisions about spiritual issues makes Taco Bell seem like nuthin'. The funny thing about spiritual matters is, the decisions are usually pretty obvious. If somebody held up an ice cream cone and a salt lick, you wouldn't have a hard time deciding which one to grab. Spirituality is a lot like that, at least from my perspective. You can either do what God says and have a happy life, or NOT do what God says and struggle. But being the person that I am, I have to lick both the ice cream and the salt a few times first.

I have always believed IN God, but have had a hard time BELIEVING God. I know He's there. I believe He created the universe and the color pink and my cat's wet little nose. No problem. I just haven't always believed He would take care of me. My childhood was miserable but I don't resent any of the players involved anymore. It's just...gone. Those issues completely disappeared with no help from me. The only person left to resent was God, who allowed those things to happen.

When I was little, one of my brothers and I used to put a towel on the stairs and go sliding down as fast as we could. It was all fun and games until I smashed my face on a piece of furniture at the bottom of the stairs. After that, I didn't want to go stair-surfing anymore. I have always felt that my relationship with God was similar. He let go; I got hurt; Let's not do that again.

Then try having an illness that makes you feel depressed, angry, and hopeless against your will, all while the Bible says that Christians are supposed to be the opposite. Where is God in that?

But God says He keeps His promises, which means He either means it, or He's a liar. And so I have been looking into the things God promises, and the things He does not. For one thing, He doesn't promise a problem-free life. If anything, He promises that things here are going to be rough. John 16:33 says:

I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.

Going through life expecting a problem-free existence is foolish and not at all what Jesus told us to expect. So getting angry at God because we have pain doesn't make sense... especially considering we make a lot of our own pain.

God HAS promised the following:

-God will meet our needs
Needs... not to be confused with luxuries. (Phil. 4:19)

And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus.

-God promises that His grace is sufficient for us.
In other words, God's grace is all you need. (2 Cor. 12:9)

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.

-God will always provide a way out of temptation.
I think this should be called "the teenager verse" because it reminds of what my parents used to say when I was a teen: "If you're ever in a bad situation, call us and we'll pick you up, no questions asked." God works the same way. (1 Cor. 10:13)

No temptationhas overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted,he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.

-God has promised us victory over death.
The death and resurrection of Jesus Christ sealed eternity for believers. We don't end at the grave. (1 Cor. 15:3-4)

For what I received I passed on to you as of first importance: that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, ⁴ that he was buried, that he was raised on the third day according to the Scriptures,

-God promises that all things work together for the good of people who love and service Him.
This is the hardest one to grasp because it's not easy to see why God allows people to die young, in terrible ways, etc. (Romans 8:28)

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.

Nope. Nothing in there about having a trouble-free existence. Bummer.

But has He kept His promises to me? Has He met my needs? Has his grace been sufficient for me? Have I seen good come out of my darkest days? I can answer all of that with a confident "yes." So I've decided it's time to drop my defenses and believe God. It might not be an overnight process; it may take a good bit of work. But I see how God has taken care of me, I have seen that He is real, and I want more of Him. That means being honest about how I feel and admitting that I've been angry and resentful towards him.

I started this morning off by reading a bit of Praying God's Word by Beth Moore. This caught my attention:

God applies the same power to our need that He exerted when He raised Christ from the dead. Does your stronghold require more power than it takes to raise the dead? Neither does mine! God can do it, fellow believer. I know because He says so. And I know because He's done it for me. Believe Him...and when you don't, cry out earnestly, "Help me overcome my unbelief!"

Read that also leads me to believe that the same God who put up with the antics of Thomas and who watched His own son suffer and die on the cross is strong enough to hear my anger and fear. He's big enough. When we don't give those things to God, we're basically saying we don't think He can handle it.

HELLO. HE'S GOD.

I'm not carrying this around anymore. Gimme the ice cream cone. The choice is obvious, at least from where I sit. I want to try some of God's goodness because I've been a tired girl and I don't think I can get through another day without the sweetness of God's grace.

It seems like a lot to lift off my shoulders, but it's nothing to God.

Huh. That was Weird.

2011-04-11T20:46:00.000-04:00

If I could describe my day in five words or less, I would say: "Huh. That was weird."

First, I am convinced I am being stalked by local animals. There has to be an APB out describing the make, model, and year of my car, not to mention my physical appearance and the "most-likely" locations where I will be driving on any given day. Sometimes they win, sometimes I win. Not too long ago, I hit and killed a chicken with my car. Why did it cross the road? To hear me scream as I swerved to miss it... which I did not. I neither screamed nor missed it. I picture a coop full of laughing chickens chiding that one brave frat boy chicken on. "DO IT! RUN! FASTER!" Then I imagine their horror as I turned their friend into a tasty Chik-Fil-A meal. As Charlie Sheen would say: "WINNING!"

Today I was accosted by a pheasant. I was driving down a familiar country road where I had never had an animal cross my path before when I came up around a curve and there it was. The pheasant won today. He might be missing a few tail feathers, but he survived. He bobbed up a hill, all arrogant-like, and I shook my fist and challenged him to round two. We'll see if he shows. Can you eat pheasant? If not, what do you do with a dead pheasant? I need to know for when I win.

I went to a church meeting this morning to discuss the expansion of our women's ministries. I commented that women like me are in a strange position at church - we're in our thirties, we're married, but we don't have children. That was when I realized that if you don't have kids, other women (particularly Christian women) automatically assume that you are heartbroken about it. When I told them I was childless, they reacted the same way someone might react if their friend just announced they had a woeful disease. There was much sympathy for me, as one woman told me to hang in there because it took her and her husband three years to conceive. There were stories of miscarriages and sadness and I just didn't know how to tell everyone that...

I'm actually pretty OK with not having children.

I've blogged about this before, so I will only briefly rehash. We can't have kids. It used to bother us immensely but not we're used to it. We might adopt someday but not right now. And I've decided my life is pretty full despite not being a mom. But only a few people get that. We're women. We're supposed to have babies. I guess I'm weird for not being broken up about not being able to.

The other assumption that moms make, I found out, is that if you don't have kids, you must have all the time in the world and nothing truly meaningful to do.

And this week, that's totally true of my life, but still... in general, it's not true at all.

So I came home and sorted all of that out in my mind. I wasn't angry about it. It's not like anyone was trying to be rude. It was just... interesting. Interesting to see how women in the church perceive each other. Interesting to know that I am both sympathized with, and yet seen as someone who should take on some of the 'harder' ministry because I have lots of unused time to throw around.

When I got home, I turned on my A/C. It was in the mid-80s today and my apartment was roasting. I had this spongy, foamy liner on top of my A/C to keep the bugs out and when I went to adjust it, it disintegrated into dust. So I grabbed a towel and stuffed it between the windows... which looked really terrible, so I tried to remove it. It was too far down to grab it, so I tried to fish it out with my TV remote... which I promptly lost between the windows. In a last-ditch effort, I grabbed my husband's barbecue tongs and fished the remote AND the towel out with that.

See? I told you my life was full.
If I had kids, there wouldn't be time for do-it-yourself home repairs like that, now would there?

What Do We Trust God FOR?

2011-03-24T15:04:00.000-04:00

Have you ever read any of Donald Miller's books? You should. You absolutely should. I was introduced to his work a few years ago in a small group I was attending. We read Searching for God Knows What and dissected it over the court of several weeks. I read a few of his other books after that, but Searching remains my favorite. (Yes, even over Blue Like Jazz.) I've actually started re-reading Searching and I am reminded once again of why I love Miller's work so much - he offers views and thoughts, not answers.

His blog post today, Grappling with Control and the Fear of Dying, hit a nerve with me. I've been thinking a lot about death lately. It's hard not to with the tsunami and nuclear crisis in Japan. But I think it has been on my mind more because of a recent fire near Harrisburg in which seven children died. If I'm honest with myself, I'm struggling with it, not just thinking about it. It has been a while since I really struggled with something like that. The last time I did was when my cousin was dying of ALS.

The question that has plagued me lately is, "What do I trust God for?" I know I'm supposed to trust God, but what am I supposed to be trusting Him FOR? You can trust God with your career, but that doesn't mean it will take off. You can trust God to protect you on a long drive, but that doesn't mean you won't get hit by a truck. I don't mean to be so morbid, but this is how I think. We have zero control, but we try to, and the harder we hang on, the more of a shock it seems to be when we realized we've been hanging onto thin air.

I understand that one of the things we do have to trust is that God is good, that even if our world comes crashing down in the next five minutes, God is the same. He never stops being good. We have to trust that God's peace can overshadow the harshest circumstances.

I guess, when it all comes down to it, we have to trust that our spirit and our eternal destination is far greater concern to God than what these bodies of ours go through. That doesn't mean God doesn't care; God cares about our ins and outs. It's so hard for me to see beyond this earth, my flesh, and my plans. It's so hard for me to grasp that the deepest pain I could ever feel in this life will barely register in a Heaven where there is no more sorrow.

So maybe that's what I'm supposed to trust God for - hope and eternity. But it seems like there should be more to it than that. "What do I trust God for?" could just as easily be translated into, "What do I pray for?" It seems so odd to me to pray for something - traveling mercies, a sick person's healing, financial help - while knowing that if it's not on God's agenda, it's not going to happen. But we're supposed to trust God...

The Bible says that God answers prayer, but when He doesn't, we like to say that He DID answer, just not in a way we wanted Him too. That seems ridiculous to me. If you ask God to help Bob get to his squash tournament safely, and he crashes and winds up in the hospital in a coma, how is that God answering prayer, just in a different way? Personally, I think that God sometimes doesn't answer prayer, and we don't know how to explain it, so we say that He did when He so obviously didn't. Have you ever prayed for the healing of a terminally ill person over the course of years, only to watch that person die? I have. I'm not angry at God for that (anymore), but I don't buy that God answered my prayer, but in a funky way none of us can understand. He just didn't answer it, because this was the path my cousin's life had to take. Which just shows you right there that we have no control, because my cousin and his family had a totally different plan mapped out than the one God allowed them to take.

And that's fine. Like I said, my days of anger and 'wandering through the desert" have ended. I saw God work in my cousin's life and in the lives of his family. I know he wasn't alone, and I know I will see him again. But He didn't answer our prayers for healing.

Not that we deserve it. You can't earn your prayers, nor is God a vending machine. You don't put your prayer in the slot and out pops the prize. I'm not saying that's how I view God, either. I'm just confused. Do we just trust Him to be there for us? I know God desires us to pray because He wants an open dialogue with us. He wants intimate conversation.

I'm just a little lost on this issue. When I think I have a grasp on it, I lose it again. Donald Miller's blog just got me thinking about it in earnest today. I was glad to know I'm not the only one who thinks these thoughts. I'd like to be able to believe and not question, kind of like my husband. He doesn't doubt, really. He believes in a very child-like way and I admire that about him. Sometimes I drive him a little crazy with my own questions and doubts because he doesn't understand how I could have them in the first place. I suppose I am just wired differently. Logic takes over where I wish faith would kick in.

I don't know which would be easier - understanding these questions, or just not needing to know.

Bored!

2011-03-23T14:04:00.000-04:00

Business is a little slow right now. For the first time in quite a while, I don't have any work sitting in front of me.

It's driving me crazy.

I finally finished my book proposal on Monday. It was a massive project that had taken up a lot of my time for several months. Now I don't know what to do with myself. I tried to create work for myself, but that was unsuccessful. I sent writing samples and my resume to a number of new publications, which always translates into "hurry up and wait." When I see the number change on my inbox, I check it as fast as I can and so far it has been nothing but ads. AAARRRGGGHHH!!!

I watched YouTube today and ate everything that wasn't nailed down. Now what? I know better than to try and nap around here. This is not a nap-friendly apartment building.

I need some work, ya'll. Give it here!

Charlie Sheen and Mental Illness: Can We Laugh?

2011-03-10T17:04:00.000-05:00

I don't wish mental illness or drug addiction on anyone. But, boy, Charlie... you'd better not be faking this.

I admit it - I've been keeping up with the Charlie Sheen saga. It's hard not to when it's everywhere you turn. I'm torn as to how I should react. No, I'm really torn. It's entertaining and if that were not the case, nobody would be paying attention. No doubt Charlie is in a bad place. Seriously? You know you're in a bad place when witches think you've lost it.

Everyone is trying to figure out what his major malfunction is. Is he mentally ill? On drugs? Both? I have even wondered if he was pulling a Joaquin Phoenix for publicity. But as my friend pointed out yesterday, pulling a Joaquin certainly cost him a lot, if that's the case. He got fired, his coworkers were in jeopardy of losing their jobs (still might), and the general public thinks you're the village idiot.

So if he's mentally ill, and I'm mentally ill, and I write about mental illness... am I terrible person for laughing at some of his antics? If he's mentally ill, I feel for him. I can't imagine having a breakdown in front of millions of people. I feel even worse for him that he obviously doesn't have any real friends or an effective support system in his life. True friends would not try to gain fame and profit from his mental state. True friends would demand that he get treatment.

In a perfect world, everyone would be insisting that Charlie seek help - regardless of what kind he needs - instead of egging him on, as many seem to be doing. We definitely should not be encouraging him to act more out-of-control, and yet if you look at his Twitter page or his little online "TV show" (which I won't post a link to), it's obvious that there are A LOT of sick people in this world who would genuinely LOVE to see Charlie Sheen crash and burn in a big public way.

OK, fine. But can we laugh? Is it OK to admit that some of the stuff that has come out of his mouth recently is humorous? Some of it is disgusting, ridiculous, and downright vulgar, but I'm sorry - BUT I'M SORRY - hearing him say that he credits his "grand wizard master" with his thoughts makes me laugh. You know, the witches and warlocks got mad, but I don't think Charlie even meant it literally. I think Charlie's definition of his "grand wizard master" is the the genius that he considers his own brain... if you can imagine such a thing.

I feel like I should be speaking out against anyone who pokes fun at his behavior because, after all, I said some strange things before I was treated. (Though nothing quite as extreme as old Chuck here.) I can now laugh at some of my own antics because, face it, it's weird. I don't feel that I'm doing anything wrong or being politically incorrect by laughing at my antics. I think it's a serious thing that requires laughter because without laughter, it would almost be too serious to handle.

There is also a line between poking fun and encouraging. It does infuriate me that there are people out there telling Charlie Sheen to keep going because they could very well be pushing him towards a drug overdose, suicide, or a true nervous breakdown. It's wrong and even though it's wrong, Americans love to watch celebrities screw up, so nothing I say or do is going to stop people.

But having a laugh while hoping and praying the man finds real friends and real help? To me, it would seem almost worse NOT to laugh. If we really want to "normalize" mental illness, then I believe nothing is worse than refusing to have a sense of humor and treating it like the big scary elephant in the room. If comedians can get onstage and make fun of their own cancer then why are we so terrible for thinking that some of the stuff Charlie says is kind of funny?

I may be setting myself up here for a virtual "smack-down" but this is how I see the Sheen situation, my own life, and mental illness in general. Let's all have a laugh because if we all gather in a corner to tremble together, we're only making it seem weirder.

That's just me.

But there are other issues to consider. This is where I'm torn. On the one hand, some of this is funny and I think it's OK to laugh. On the other hand, a grown man pretending to be mentally ill for press is like an 8th-grader pretending to commit suicide so her parents will un-ground her. It's stupid and dangerous. Like I said, part of me wonders if he's pulling a Joaquin, and I'm not the only one. If that's the case, then Charlie Sheen is one selfish jerk. He's got young children who will grow up having to cope with their father's bizarre and offensive behavior. And - oh yeah - if this is all an act, he's making people who do have legitimate mental health issues look really bad. Yes, folks, this what the public thinks of right now when you say "bipolar disorder." Forget the fact that there are people like me in the world who have mental illness and yet manage to have a happy marriage and successful self-employment. They picture a haggard-looking, middle-age man chain-smoking and pontificating into a web cam about everything from tiger blood to "The Wind Beneath My Wings" being a little flat on "American Idol." Really, if Charlie is faking this, then somebody ought to consider smacking Charlie & Joaquin's heads together.

Gilda Radner made fun of her cancer. That was cool. We got it.
If any celebrity PRETENDED to have cancer to get attention and got CAUGHT, we would DEVOUR them. It would be THE END of them. We would not stand for it. We would be disgusted to the point of vomiting.

If Charlie Sheen is on drugs, I pray he goes to rehab.
If Charlie Sheen is mentally ill, I pray he gets treatment.
If Charlie Sheen is pretending, I pray that everyone reacts to him with the horror and disgust that his little game truly deserves. Because it's not genius, or "poetry at his fingertips." It's filth. It's wrong. It's a slap in the face to all of us who legitimately struggle with mental illness.

If that is the case, then this publicity should be the LAST publicity he ever gets.

Staying "Caught Up"

2011-03-09T15:13:00.000-05:00

I am not the world's best housewife. I'm supportive and loving (usually - hopefully hubby would agree) but I'm really bad at housekeeping. Take for instance the fact that I'm blogging when I could be cleaning. There's a prime example.

I don't know how people with children do it. All I have is one husband and one cat and I feel like I can never stay on top of the housework. I have a pile of clothing next to my bed that has to go. Every day I look at it and tell myself I'm going to grab some trash bags and sort out what is wearable and what needs to go to Good Will. I think I've been telling myself that since at least August. We won't even talk about my kitchen.

Then there's cooking. I also hate to cook. When my husband asks me what we're going to have for dinner I always answer, "Ugh!" This is code for "I haven't thought about it and I was really hoping we would order takeout." But we can't order takeout every night. It's expensive, it's unhealthy, and that means I have to cook. That's why "ugh" eventually turns into "something quick." My idea of cooking means peeling carrots. That's a lot of cooking to me. If it weren't for frozen veggies, I'd weigh 400 pounds and I'd sneeze cholesterol.

I watch this show "Ruby" about an obese woman trying to get healthy. She eats these Hour Glass weight loss meals. Pre-packaged, perfectly measured, healthy meals you just take out of the fridge and microwave. She often complains about how boring they are, but I always sit there and think how wonderful it must be to just reach in your fridge and every meal is right there, waiting for you. Peel back the plastic and your cooking is done. AND it's healthy.

Today I planned on eating leftover chili for lunch. There was a lot left over from last night's dinner. I can handle spooning things from one container to another - that I can do. When I opened the fridge, I realized my husband had taken the whole thing to work, which left me with a problem. I was going to have to make lunch. The only thing in the house - as far as I knew - was tuna. Open the can, DRAIN the can, fork it into a bowl, add the ingredients, mix, THEN slap it on some bread. WHOA! WAY TOO MUCH WORK FOR LUNCH! I was very excited to find a can of Spaghetti-O's in the cupboard. Full of sugar and salt. Terrible for me. But all I had to do was open the can and nuke it.

Cooking might be more palatable to me (har har) if it didn't require clean-up. You might be thinking I have to stand at the sink and wash dishes for an hour but no...that's not the case. I have a dishwasher. If I didn't have a dishwasher, I would have been on the show "Hoarders" by now. I don't mind loading the dishwasher but for some inexplicable reason I hate UN-loading it. Generally, when dinnertime rolls around, hubby and I get our plates and utensils out of the dishwasher, not out of a cupboard. Cooking means more time spent bent over the dishwasher. See where I'm going with this?

Months ago, I designed my home office, or as my husband calls it, "Amy Grant Land." Lots of memorabilia, my own artwork, candles... it was so nice when I first put it together. You should see it now. It's a nightmare. I should try throwing things away every once in a while. It's not all my fault, though. Husband uses the office for his schoolwork. Want me to call out 2 things that are sitting directly in front of me at my computer desk? OK. A bottle of honey and a bag of Fritos.

During my brief stint in college, I had a friend who was constantly disgusted/horrified by the state of my dorm room. She would come to my room to meet me so we could go somewhere and would wind up cleaning it for me just so she wouldn't have to look at it in disarray anymore. I'm not as bad as I used to be in college, where I once broke 6 bottles of IBC root beer on my floor, swept up the glass but never thoroughly wiped up the soda, and stuck to the floor for the next month. I'm not like that anymore, I promise. But sometimes I wish my friend lived nearby so I could "invite her over" and get her to clean my apartment.

And now it's 3:10 pm which means I should probably get a shower. I DO bathe every day... it's just that sometimes I don't bathe until mid- to late-afternoon. If hubby isn't home, who do I need to smell good for?

The cat doesn't care. She poops in a box.

Amy, Michael, My Shirt, and Stupid Things I've Said

2011-03-08T22:58:00.001-05:00

I guess I'm a loser for not blogging about Sunday night's Amy Grant/Michael W. Smith show until now. It was awesome - don't assume that just because I'm a lazy blogger I didn't enjoy myself.

One minute I'm 12 years old, watching Amy Grant videos in my VCR. The next thing I know, I'm eating a salad across from her as she talks to me with only one side of her hair done. One minute, I'm slapping Michael W. Smith posters on my wall and swooning over him. The next thing I know, I'm introducing him to my husband. It's a crazy world, isn't it? That was Sunday night. That's my take on it. I've met both of them but Sunday night was the first time I really thought to myself, "Gosh, this is weird." Weird in a GOOD way, but still...weird.

What do famous people eat for dinner? Thanksgiving food. Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, pie... Yup, that's what we had. The salad I mentioned - KILLER salad dressing. Raspberry? Something with fruit in it. Who do you ask for a recipe in a green room? Nobody. A bummer, because that salad dressing was the bomb. I wish I could get the recipe, make it for my friends and say, "Oh yes, this is my Amy Grant Michael W. Smith Green Room Recipe. You like?"

Anyway, back to Amy and Michael. I stared at both of them in the green room and had no idea who either of them were. I KNOW, RIGHT?!? Colleen, the merchandise girl (for lack of a more formal title) had to introduce me to them before I realized who they were. Now that's weird because I've been staring at these people for 20 years. At one time in my life, my bedroom wall was completely blocked by posters. I blame it on the fact that I was in the emergency room until 6:30 am Saturday morning, or maybe I was just manic. I didn't talk to Michael that much at dinner. He was engrossed in conversation with two other band mates and I didn't want to go over and start sounding the way I felt, which was like a middle school-age girl with braces. Amy came in, Colleen the Merchandise Girl introduced us (for about the 10th time in my life, but I still said "nice to meet you") and she sat down with my husband and I and chatted with us for a few minutes.

If you've never met Amy Grant before, you realize two things immediately: she's very pretty up close (not all famous people can pull this off, trust me), and she's very kind. I was a little startled because, as I said at the beginning, only half of her hair was done and for the first 30 seconds I wondered if she was aware of it. After all, it WAS pouring down rain. Maybe she stepped out of the tour bus at one point and that was the result, how did I know? Then she said, "Only half of my hair is done." OK, good. Relief. No more wondering if Amy was the Crazy Cat Lady. She knew.

She thanked me for designing the shirt. I said something about wanting to be her backup singer or her opening act when I was a kid. I have no idea what the two had to do with each other, but I've never said anything particularly intelligent to Amy Grant in my entire life. I take pride in the fact that I said it with a cool demeanor and wasn't all "OMIGAWD I LOVE YOU!!!" about it. That would have been SO lame. I told her - to top off my stupidity - that I'd designed it as a gift to her... and lost the artwork.
"I bought you a birthday present and accidentally threw it away." I'm sure she was touched.

We mostly talked to the tour manager, a guy named Joey who reminded me of my high school psychology teacher. He was a lot of fun and very sweet. I especially appreciated that he had two servings of dinner. It gave me permission to have two desserts. Who cares that I'd just gotten out of the hospital? (Mmm...key lime pie!) Colleen the Merchandise Girl introduced us to the band members as they came in... Kim Keyes, Jenny Gill (who has a new married name I couldn't pronounce and won't attempt to spell), Mike Brignardello... OH BABY. Lots of Christian music history sitting in one room. It was Heaven with raspberry salad dressing as a crown from Jesus - HALLELUJAH! We didn't realize, however, that one guy was from the band Delirious. Had we realized this, my husband would have gushed and I would have excused myself to the bathroom to avoid embarrassment.

We had all-access passes. For some people, that means they just flash their pass and go wherever they want. For us, it meant being scared we were going to open the wrong door and set off an alarm and making my friend Sharlene go everywhere with us. I used the female band restroom and had to walk past Amy's dressing room to get there. Nobody arrested me, questioned me, or told me to back up. It was amazing. I almost tried to drive the tour bus.

At the meet-and-greet, which immediately followed dinner, we talked more to Michael. Mostly, I listened to my friend Sharlene - who knows both Amy and Michael - talk to him and then I blurted out, "I'm making shirts for you too!" He smiled big and said, "Great! Let's do it!" As he walked away, Sharlene and I marveled at the fact that he has 5 grandchildren. My teenage crush. Grandchildren. NEED MORE SALAD DRESSING!

When Amy got to us, I asked her to sign 2 of my shirts - one for me to frame, and one for my mother, who didn't believe I'd ever ask Amy Grant to sign something for my mom. You'd think she'd know me by now. I may not say intelligent things, but I'm not afraid to bleat them like a shell-shocked bird. Again, I eavesdropped as she talked to my friend, Sharlene.

The show itself was amazing. All the songs I remembered from my youth!! So great to be able to sing along to EVERY. SINGLE. SONG. and know EVERY. SINGLE. WORD. I loved it. It was also so cool to meet up with other Friends of Amy fans that I knew 15+ years ago!! It was an amazing experience. Definitely a dream come true. I am a blessed girl.

I just wish I could come up with smarter things to say when I'm on the spot!!!

Column Clarification, T-Shirt Design, and the 2 Friends Tour Comes to Town

2011-02-27T22:52:00.001-05:00

I'm a Christian. Seriously.

After being sick for what seemed like an eternity I finally began feeling like a living, breathing human being at the end of last week. I had been working on a big article for the May issue of Fine Living Lancaster and I was so stinkin' proud of myself because I jumped right in and got a lot of stuff done right off the bat, but then I kept hitting road blocks, and then I got sick. I was incredibly frustrated but I got it done and that's all that matters.

The February issue of FLL came out last week and I was eager to see my column which was about politics. It's funny how this column started out as a humor column and has sort of turned into an anything column. Anyway, I was in a McDonald's reading my column when I came across this line and almost had a stroke:

Don't ascribe to any theology or political system that believes only one side can be right because once you start believing that, you have become the butt of the joke.

It was the first time in my writing career that I ever thought, "Oh no!" It sounds like I'm saying you shouldn't believe Jesus is the only way to Heaven, but that wasn't what I was saying. I was TRYING to say that Christians shouldn't believe that Conservatives OR Democrats own Christianity, because nobody really knows exactly how Jesus would have voted. People think they do, but the fact that we fight over it shows that it's open to interpretation.

For the record, I believe John 3:16:

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

I believe that Jesus is the ONLY way to Heaven. The column wasn't about that... but in case anyone out there read my column and scratched their head in confusion, I want you to know exactly where I stand.


Sunday is coming. Act casual!

Onto other news!
I am hoping this week goes by quickly because I can't wait to get to next Sunday. Amy Grant & Michael W. Smith are coming to town on their 2 Friends tour. I have tickets and backstage passes, and my husband and I are having dinner with Amy, Smitty, and the band before the show. I can't tell you how many times I've filled out those goofy surveys that included the question "who would you love to have dinner with and why?" I've always answered Amy Grant, and now I'm going to get to live out my little daydream. I got to spend a Saturday afternoon with her when I was 17 which was wonderful, but unfortunately I was so scared that I didn't say anything intelligible. I'm hoping things go better this time... and that I don't wind up wearing dinner on my shirt - you know, like I usually do.

I'm also really excited about getting to talk to MWS. I've met him a few times before, but only for about 30 seconds at a time. His 1993 "Change Your World" tour was my first real concert when I was 13. I also had a mad crush on him. MAD crush. I once bought a slice of pizza from his wife at a Christian school fundraiser when I was in college and thought I had arrived.

"Um, Mrs. Smith? Will you sign my pizza?"

I've also been asked by Michael W. Smith's marketing people to design a shirt for him, as well. Actually, I'm discussing this with them tomorrow. (I'm guessing they are going to want less flowers.) This is another huge dream come true for me.

I keep trying to picture this dinner in my head. I'm sure everyone is very nice, but I keep thinking they will all be sitting around talking to each other about stuff I know nothing about while I pick at my food. That's almost as scary as me dumping a beverage on my lap. Or tripping over something. In middle school chorus, I tripped over a power chord and unplugged everything. It comes to mind whenever I do anything that requires me to seem especially intelligent.

I want to take pictures at this dinner... but I don't. I don't want to be the weird starstruck chick with the camera who keeps asking everyone to put down their chicken and pose with me. But I wanna take pictures at this dinner. I'm a little torn.

To sum all of this up... someone please pinch me.

I have a very specific goal for this week and that is to have plenty of stuff to think about until Sunday gets here. I'm sure I'll have quite the blog for you on March 7.

Getting Down & Dirty

2011-02-12T12:55:00.002-05:00

My new post at BrokenBelievers.com is up - Getting Down & Dirty

I Guess I'm a T-Shirt Designer

2011-02-03T14:13:00.000-05:00

It's official: the shirt I designed for Amy Grant is now on sale for the duration of the Amy/Michael W. Smith "2 Friends" tour! I guess this makes me a t-shirt designer? This makes me blessed, I know that.

I became a fan of Amy Grant when I was about 12 years old. I've been fortunate enough to share face-to-face conversation with her over the years - a feat many music fans cannot claim as their own. My husband can't believe I haven't blogged about this at length. It's a strange feeling... It's so outside of the realm of the norm that I almost don't know where to place it in the puzzle of my life. That's the best way I can explain it. It's an incredible honor, and since it's unlikely I will go on to become some kind of professional artist, that makes it even more special.

I feel the tiniest bit guilty that I didn't make anything for Michael W. Smith. After all, he WAS my first-ever REAL concert, and I WAS madly in love with him as a teenager. Those were the days - back in the early 90s when stubble and mullets were "hot." Next time, Smitty. Next time.

I have to say, there is one major benefit to never having returned to live in Nashville, and that's the fact that I can still have some childlike wonderment about things like this. I can still be a fan and think it's sa-weet. I think some of the people I knew when I WAS there have lost that. It almost seems... embarrassing or unprofessional for them to take any joy in it, or even acknowledge that they are fans of anything. Heck, maybe they aren't fans of anything anymore, and that's just about as sad. I'm personally glad I haven't lost that. I have no one to impress. I'm a writer who happens to be a big Amy Grant fan. I'm crazy psyched about being able to see a shirt I designed for sale at next month's concert! I'm glad I have that tiny bit of childlike innocence left.

There's something about this t-shirt thing that makes me feel like a 12-year-old prepubescent girl, dancing in my room to "Baby Baby" again. I hope I never lose that. I need a little break from adulthood sometimes. If any of you see my shirt for sale, I expect you to buy at least 20 copies. No pressure or anything.

Beauty Sleep

2011-02-01T14:05:00.000-05:00

My new blog post this week at Broken Believers is up. This week it's all about Mr. Sand Man refusing to visit...without a little help.

I Hate Cars

2011-01-31T15:51:00.000-05:00

My husband and I had a revelation the other night while putting down the highway in our '93 Ford Escort: Maybe God wants us to be Amish.

Think of it. Imagine the ease of driving. Sure, little kids could outrace you on their decked-out Huffy bikes (possibly with training wheels), but you'd never have to pay for gas, you'd never have to let your car run for ten minutes before driving it in cold weather because a horse is always "on," and Mr. Ed doesn't have to pass inspection once a year.

Less than two hours from now, I will be the proud owner of an extremely used new car. Again. Cars and toilet paper - we go through them at the same speed. A few years ago, a guy named Dave Ramsey (look him up) told us we needed to buy "beater" cars instead of making payments on new ones. Well, he didn't tell us this personally. It was in his workbook and I'm pretty sure he talked about it on his show. Either way, we could just sense he was speaking directly to us.

And that was OK with us because we were already buying them. We have owned one brand new car in our ten-year marriage and I totaled it less than a year into holy matrimony. Apparently, I went temporarily color blind at the very worst moment, sped through a red light, and a minivan slammed into me at 50 miles per hour. That was the last new car we had. That was 2001.

The beater car thing is great in theory. I don't like making payments on anything, and things like credit cards scare me. The idea is to buy a car that is used, that you can buy outright. The idea is to buy a used car that doesn't suck. But I'm here to tell you...there's no way you can really tell. You don't know what you're going to get. People lie. And even when they're honest, sometimes there is no way to know what kind of mood a car is going to be in once it lands in the care of new owners.

As one who has stood alongside many a roadside, kicking and yelling at a dead car, this truth haunts me. And tonight I'm going to go pay a nice chunk of money on something with less predictability than a southern Pennsylvania snowstorm. God help me. God help all of us.

Dear Toyota, this is your new mother speaking. Please live. OK? Just please LIVE. I promise to put oil in you every 3,000 miles if you promise not to die. You're running great right now. Don't pull one over on me in a day or a week. Don't make me kick you or throw things at you, because those who have gone before you can attest to the fact that I CAN and I WILL. So, just to reiterate, please live. Live or suffer harsh consequences in front of thousands of people on the highway.

Love,
Mother

Broken Believers: Upgrading to Joy

2011-01-25T10:01:00.002-05:00

My new blog post is up at Broken Believers, Upgrading to Joy. Check it out. More blogging here later.

New Post at Broken Believers

2011-01-20T20:56:00.000-05:00

I'm running a little behind, but my weekly post at Broken Believers is up.

Other "Do's" I've Rocked in the Past

2011-01-12T17:17:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was not the first time I had a mullet.
Sadly, my mother paid for me to have one in the 6th grade.

In my teen years, I earned the nickname "Big Ol' Fro" because of this bush on my head.

I later transitioned into a wannabe Pearl Jam groupie.

In 2005 I got my hair cut right before going on national television to promote my book. It didn't work out so well. It became known as my "lesbian haircut."

My hair is naturally curly and when it's long, I can't stand drying and straightening it, so I just let the kinks fly.

The Story of One Girl's Hair

2011-01-12T16:47:00.002-05:00

What do you do when you're home alone, bored, and your husband has your car?
You cut your own hair, that's what you do! That's exactly what I did yesterday. I'm not sure what possessed me to do this other than not wanting to pay somebody else to do what I could do myself. That's how I roll. I may write for a "fine living" magazine, but I'm as practical as practical gets. And cheap, too.

The life of a struggling writer isn't very romantic, you see. In fact, it sort of sucks - especially when you're waiting for checks to arrive in the mail. Money is pretty tight sometimes, but I'll be darned if I'm going to let it keep me from getting something I really want...something like a haircut.

I did a little research online about how to cut your own hair. It sounded simple enough. You get your hair wet, comb it all forward, and measure it with your fingers as you snip away. Sweet! I can totally do this!!

I always figure, hey, it's just hair. It grows back. It can be corrected. And, if not, you can just shave your head. I wasn't too worried. There's nothing a little gel and a good sense of humor can't fix.

So I went to it. I started hacking away in the shower. I didn't want to chop it all off, just hack off an inch or so. When I finished, I rinsed my head and felt my head with my fingers. It didn't feel any different. It seemed to be about the same length. Then I realized what I had done...

Oh snap!! I gave myself a mullet! A sweet, sweeeeeeeeeeeet mullet. My hair said "sophistication" in the front and "point me to the keg!" in the back. I laughed my butt off as I looked in the mirror. I wish I'd taken a picture. But, alas, the mullet had to go. I dried my hair, straightened it, and did about 3 more rounds of snipping. This is the result.

My 1-inch trim turned into about 4 inches. Oh well. I like it better short anyway. Do I rock or what?!? It's all even... at least from what I can tell. I made my husband examine me thoroughly like he was searching for lice and he confirms that it is, indeed, straight.

Go me. And that's my story.

Latest Blog at BrokenBelievers.com

2011-01-10T18:01:00.000-05:00

My weekly blog is up at BrokenBelievers.com. This week I talk about acting on fact instead of feelings.

So...This is What Morning Looks Like

2011-01-05T08:54:00.001-05:00

I got up very early today, which is rare for me. I'm not a morning person and I avoid early mornings as much as possible. When you work from home you can pull stuff like that off. I got up crazy early today because I missed a Fed-Ex delivery yesterday which contained my husband's new cell phone. Hubby made me promise to get up early and hang out where I could hear someone knocking on the door. I kept my promise but I can't help but think Fed-Ex Guy is going to show up when I'm perched atop of the porcelain throne or taking a shower. When I do get up early, I always tell myself I'm going to hit my book project hard, but I usually wind up sitting here in a near coma until at least 10 a.m.

I made breakfast smoothies this morning. It didn't take a lot of energy - I opened the bag of Yoplait frozen smoothie contents, threw it in the blender with a cup of milk and hit "high"... all the while checking out the window to make sure Fed-Ex Guy wasn't banging on the door while the blender whirred like a jackhammer. (Note to self: defrost Yoplait frozen smoothie contents for a few minutes before blending.)

I'm still working on this book proposal. Have I mentioned I hate book proposals? I hate book proposals. I hate anything administrative in nature. And math. I really, really hate math. The down side of being creative is that anything that ISN'T creative feels like a nightmare. There is something about the phrase "annotated table of contents" that stirs up emotions in me not unlike the emotions I used to experience in algebra class. I've lit a fire under my own butt because you never know - somebody else might be having the same idea right now and, frankly, I'd like to beat them to the punch.

So, good morning, Wednesday. It's ON. It's on like DONKEY KONG.

Emotional Sobriety and the Fear of Losing It

2011-01-04T23:22:00.000-05:00

I spent the first part of 2010 in a pretty deep depression. Actually, it was a really strange kind of depression, as it only seemed to occur at night. I felt incredibly sad, anxious, and I fought insomnia for months. I try not to blame everything on Bipolar Disorder, but somehow it always comes down to that, so after doing everything else I could possibly think of, I finally saw the doctor. He changed my antidepressant and within two weeks, I was feeling back to normal... well, my version of normal.

Actually, a very funny thing began to happen. I became stable. Truly stable for the first time in my adult life. I don't mean financially or professionally, but emotionally. The crushing depressions all but went away, as did my anxiety, insecurities, and the feeling that if someone so much as tapped me on the shoulder, I would plunge into a mental health crisis. Those were the things I worked very hard at hiding from most of the world, as well as my family. Sometimes it showed even when I tried to cover it up, I'm sure. But there were only a few people who knew the depth of what I went through. They were the ones receiving the fed-up, sometimes desperate phone calls and emails.

My life became so stable that I didn't even realize it. I was so used to feeling like I was an inch from losing it all that I never noticed how downright sane everything was. A dear friend/co-worker of mine told me how remarkable, drastic, and noticeable the change had been, and that was honestly the first time I had ever stopped to evaluate the true state of things, and realized how smooth the road had become. Indeed, my friendships had deepened and become more give-and-take (versus me sucking the energy out of people), I was able to focus on new writing projects, and I found that some of my old stumbling blocks (addictions?) no longer had me trapped.

I'm a little embarrassed to share this part, but I will. I think one thing that really helped me was leaving the 9-5 daily grind. I started working from home solely as a writer and while I'm not exactly rolling in the dough, there is no doubt it has changed my outlook on life. It's not that I'm lazy (it's that I just don't care - only kidding), but with sleep being such a hardship for me, and since not enough sleep makes me super bipolar, working from home and making my own schedule has been a huge health improvement. Plus, doing something you actually enjoy for a living helps!!

I have been enjoying what I like to call "emotional sobriety" and it's so amazing to feel like a whole human being. I love spending time with friends and not feeling like I'm a downer. I love that this normalcy has been lengthy enough that it's noticeable and encouraging to the people who have loved me and stood by me through everything. Even my relationship with God has improved. When you stay in bed all day because you're too depressed to move, it makes it kind of hard to have quality one-on-one time with Him, but now I'm able to do that. (Though I'm learning that these are the types of things we have to force ourselves to do whether we "feel" like it or not.) It's amazing and liberating! But I have to admit... I am fighting fear.

When people tell me they don't "believe" in mental illness, I always think, wow, try it for a few weeks and let me know if you still think it's all pretend! The truth is, it's hell. It's a feeling of being constantly out of control. Anyone who has experienced any kind of freedom from it knows that the last thing you would ever want is for a relapse to occur. Yet, the very nature of Bipolar Disorder means that the other shoe could very well fall, and the idea of that freaks me out. I've been ASSURED by my own doctor that as long as I do the things I need to do (getting proper sleep, taking my meds, etc.) that I can remain stable. I take great comfort in that, but sometimes I still worry.

Yesterday was a rough day. I hadn't slept very well the night before because of a lovely post-nasal drip and I felt down and out all day. 2 Corinthians 10:5 says:

We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

I've written about this verse so many times because I am constantly having to follow its instructions. I don't know about you, but when I get down about one thing, ten other depressing things come to mind. That's what happened to me yesterday and I had to practice 2 Corinthians 10:5 because I was dwelling on every little annoyance in my life. I was struck with a sense of panic and I wondered if my bad day was becoming a bad bipolar cycle.

Fortunately, it was not the start of a cycle. A good night's sleep made the following day much better and I was able to see things more clearly. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God that the new, stable me was still intact.

Someone once said that "normal" is only a setting on your dryer, but I'm pretty sure whoever said that never suffered from mental illness. Maybe there is no true definition of "normal" but in my darkest days, I have often found myself saying, "Normal is anything but this."

And when you've experienced it for yourself, the thought of going back to the way things were is terrifying and gut-wrenching.

Broken Believers

2011-01-04T21:24:00.000-05:00

Just wanted to let you know I'll be guest blogging at BrokenBelievers.com every Monday now. BB is a blog dedicated to serving Christians with mental health issues, and I'm excited about writing there.
Check out my first post here.

Year in Review

2011-01-01T20:12:00.000-05:00

I celebrated 10 years of marriage to the love of my life.

My nephew was born in March.

Went to war with the in-laws.

My mom broke her tailbone and had a cancer scare. (All clear.)

One of my closest friends dumped her husband, dumped her faith, and turned into an alcoholic.

Another friend had another problem that was deep and complex and frightening beyond what any of us could help him with.

Our best friends moved away.

Our best friends had a baby.

Our best friends split up.

Both siblings bought new homes.

'Twas a roller coaster year of apartment living, complete with people peeing in the parking lot, guns, and drugs.

The apartment complex got peaceful. (Knock on wood.)

I ditched my day job to write from home.

Hubby started college.

A year passed since my cousin's death due to ALS.

My cousin's wife got remarried.

I found the right meds and got "emotionally stable."

I got my own column.

My husband found his biological father and discovered he has two sisters.

My brother-in-law spent the year being very sick... and then abandoned his whole family.

I started painting and instantly fell in love with it.

I designed a t-shirt for Amy Grant, to be sold on her 2 Friends tour with Michael W. Smith this spring.

I started working on a new book project. Seriously, this time.

Same God, Fresh Perspectives

2010-12-20T16:35:00.000-05:00

So there I was, parked outside of this house decorated for Christmas with about 45 different colored lights blinking at a rapid pace, as a (I think?) animated Santa Claus held a candle and waved from the upper right window. I wasn't the only car there. Several people had stopped to take in the sight, but I was the only one hanging out the window with a camera, publicly ridiculing the house as the worst-decorated home I had ever seen. I say "publicly" because I came home and uploaded the video to my blog. This blog.

I have driven by that house more times than I can count this holiday season, and I have never driven by when there were not cars parked out front. I'm guessing they were cars with little kids in them. It reminded me of when I was a child, and my dad and I would always pick one night during Christmas to go out and drive around to find the most decked-out houses. Sometimes we went into Lancaster City. The mansions down near President Avenue never failed to delight.

God took those precious memories and showed me something unpleasant about myself: I am negative and cynical.

I don't know when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way I began speaking sarcasm as my first language. A little sarcasm fits perfectly sometimes; other times, sarcasm hurts. It may not hurt any human being, but sometimes it hurts God. I realized that I was out ridiculing the houses with the most Christmas spirit, not people who need professional decorating help. I was being a jerk about the same thing that used to thrill me as a kid. When I was little, the more lights there were, the happier I was! When did I become the grumpy old cat lady who complains about everyone and everything?

Maybe it sounds like a small revelation, but it was big for me. I have to acknowledge I have not always been a shining example of the fruits of the spirit. So I made a very deliberate decision that I was going to let God change my heart, and it has been amazing how quickly He has been doing so.

The way I joke around has changed; I'm not constantly judging people and situations; I have more patience. Most of all, I have real joy. I never realized how uptight I was about so much of life until I let go and decided to let God unravel me. You don't always see God's handiwork immediately, but in this instance, I can't STOP seeing it. On Saturday I was out Christmas shopping for my baby nephew when another checkout line opened up. The cashier called over to my husband and I and as we made our way to her line, another woman RAN past us and got in line ahead of us. I almost didn't know what to do with myself when I realized it wasn't even bothering me. Not that I pick fist fights with people at the Hobby Lobby, because I don't, but in the past I would have made a handful of snide remarks under my breath, at least. It was almost this sense of... wait... MY TONGUE ISN'T MOVING!! Here I was just cut off by a woman buying a bunch of crosses in a Christian store, and I had nothing to say about it. It was...weird.

All my life, I have wanted to be gentle and soft-spoken, but I've always been the exact opposite. There was always a little chunk of my childhood getting in the way, giving off the message, "If you mess with me, prepare to kiss the pavement." I was always on the defensive, always coming across harsh and cold for the sake of protecting myself. I was always scared of vulnerability. So imagine my shock when vulnerability turned out to be so joyful and peaceful!

Last week one of my neighbors put an inflatable yard thingie beside our apartment building. It's a couple of penguins, I think. (I admit, I haven't really stared at it for very long.) When I first saw it, I got angry. Yes, I'm serious - I got angry. My husband commented in the parking lot that I was the only person he had ever met who got mad at Christmas decorations. It made me think. And think. And think.

It made me ask God for a purer heart and a fresh perspective. I think God must have injected me with turbo grace because my line of vision is vastly different from what it was this time last Monday.

I've been celebrating a little something I like to call "emotional sobriety." I haven't been waging war against depression lately, or cycling out of control as I have in the past. I guess this joy thing started long before the blinky Christmas house of the inflatable yard thingies, but it TOOK those things to make me realize how different I was. I'm handling things better. I'm trusting God more and flipping out a lot less. I can thank new antidepressants for that, partly, but I'm pointing more towards God. There are some things even a pill can't do.

A few months ago, I made another deliberate decision - I decided I was going to stop comparing myself to other Christian women. It's an issue that is more widespread than you might think, but I had a pretty severe case of it. I was never good enough - never blond enough, pretty enough, perky enough, spiritual enough, etc. I had even stopped enjoying church because I felt like I didn't measure up and that everyone could see right through me to what a fraud I was. A good friend of mine told me a long time ago that I was a frequent participant in "reverse judgment." Instead of thinking I was better than everybody else, I had decided everybody was better than me. She was right, and I thought about what she said for a long time, until I finally decided I was being ridiculous. It wasn't easy; it took a lot of effort on my part. I had to, as the Bible says, 'take every thought captive' and tear it down. I had to stop myself from thinking the things I was thinking, but the more I practiced it, the easier it became. When I went to a church greeters meeting in November and was finally able to look at the other women around me and feel like we were on an even playing field, I knew my efforts were successful.

We try so hard to be certain things, when all God really wants us to do is knock it off and let Him do His thing. We have to be willing. That's all God asked of me, and it took me this long to figure it out and open my heart. This doesn't mean I'm going to run out and put an inflatable nativity in the yard, or put 10,000 blinky lights on my deck. But I can appreciate someone else's expression of joy and not hold any judgment against it.

I've made life out to be a lot harder than it needed to be. Believe it or not, that's a really nice Christmas revelation to me.

The Gift of Hope for Healing

2010-12-14T08:48:00.001-05:00

God kicked my butt in church recently.
The pastor was preaching about hope and healing, and how we should never stop praying for healing, or hoping that God will answer in full. It wasn't like I had never heard that message before. All of Christianity is based on hope, isn't it? Maybe God was sick of my stubbornness or maybe I was just more willing to hear the truth, I don't know; all I know is that God took that particular sermon and smacked me with it.

I realized that I had come to an awful place of acceptance in my life. Not the kind of acceptance that a terminally ill person finds in the last few moments of their lives, but the kind of acceptance that says, "OK, this is just my lot in life. Forever. Amen." I not only accepted that my husband was chronically ill, and that I had a mental illness and diabetes, but that it was permanent. That's just... the way it is. Get used to it. That's life.

I wasn't bitter or angry about any of those things, really. I didn't blame God or wonder whether or not I was being punished. I had just accepted it. It was as much a normal part of my life as, say, running the dishwasher every afternoon. I took my pills and injected my insulin and that was that. In fact, I used to get angry at people who said they were praying for our healing. What was up with that?!? Didn't they know I had already prayed, like, at least 10 times? And when someone professed healing from depression in Jesus' name, that really set me off, too. My response was to always fold my arms and mutter, "Then you never had REAL depression."

You could say that my God was a God of maintenance, not transformation. Yes, God works through doctors and medications, but God also works through... God. He doesn't NEED a pill. He can command the waters to be still, and they will obey. Pill or no pill! The more comfortable I was with my life, the less power I attributed to Him. God heals people through medicine, but God still heals people outright, with nothing but His own sheer will.

I had been dismissing the omnipotence, power, and mystery of God. I had also all but abandoned any real communication with Him about the issues my husband and I face daily.

I could go on about how Jesus' birth was a gift to all mankind, but that has been done before. I know a lot more about how Jesus has been a gift to me. He has given me the fresh gift of hope, and wide-eyed wonderment at all that He is capable of. Many years ago, when I was a baby Christian who didn't know how to pray, a friend of mine told me to pull out a chair and pretend Jesus was sitting in it. That works fine if you're a teenager, but it gets stuffy when you grow up. Jesus is as close as a brother, and yet I don't understand Him completely, nor do I want to. I want a Savior who has more power than I do, and more knowledge than all of us combined. Buddy Jesus is great, as long as I don't forget about Sunday School Jesus - big, mighty, awe-inspiring.

That's the Jesus who was born to a virgin, healed the sick, saved the world, rose from the dead, ascended into Heaven, and allows the Holy Spirit to dwell in the hearts of everyone who calls Him "Lord." And that's the Jesus who changes my perspective, perfects my imperfect heart, and gives me hope that with the slightest touch of His hand, or a whisper of His voice, I can be healed.

Pill, or no pill.

The Tackiest Lights in Town and "Creeper Claus"

2010-12-06T16:23:00.000-05:00

Remember that terrible house I told you about with all the blinking lights? I finally caught some video on my way home last night from babysitting. Unfortunately, they didn't have it set to "tremble" like they did the first time I saw it, but it's still pretty bad. And what's worse is that there is a Santa Claus in one of their upstairs windows holding a candle and waving to passers-by. We couldn't figure out if it was animated or real, but I'm assuming it was animated. I hope, anyway, otherwise somebody has nothing better to do than dress up like Santa Claus at 10 o'clock at night and wave to people on the street. (Cars were pulling over to stare at the holiday train wreck.) Either way, it's creepy. It looks more like a ghost taunting the neighbors than a jolly old elf trying to please little children.

The first video is of the lights. The second one - though poor quality - is of Creepy Claus in the window.

Epileptics, beware!

The Naivete of Rachel Ray

2010-12-04T21:42:00.001-05:00

"Oh, this is so fun and easy to make! First we'll harvest the wheat for the roll and grind it up! Then we'll pick the perfect heifer, slaughter it, and slow roast it over an open flame just like the settlers did! Now let's go over here to our organic onion patch and pick out the onions we're going to saute! And when THAT'S done, we'll go back to my family farm and pick 16 vegetables that we can throw in the food processor to make our steak sauce. YAY! ISN'T THS FUN?!?"

If you love to cook, this probably won't appeal to you; but if you would rather order out than cook a meal any day of the week, you will most likely understand where I'm coming from in this post.

So there I was on the treadmill at the rec center yesterday, flipping through the channels on my personal little television set. There is not much on TV during the early afternoon, unless you're into soap operas or "People's Court," so I settled on Rachel Ray. She is helping a girl lose a lot of weight - I want to say 50 lbs. but I didn't pay much attention that part - by the time her senior prom rolls around. A commendable enough task, no doubt. The girl complained that she didn't know how to cook healthy meals and that she was living on a steady diet of boring turkey burgers. Rachel Ray swooped in to save the day and show her how to cook more interesting healthy meals.I thought I might be able to learn something, so I turned up the volume.

The goal of this particular cooking lesson was to trick this girl's mind into believing she was eating something fattening and delicious. I smirked a bit as Rachel informed her that spaghetti squash got its name from being so similar to that carbo-charged devil, spaghetti. She said once you cook it and hack it apart with a fork, it looks and "feels" like pasta. I noted that she said "feels" instead of "tastes." It may look like yellow vermicelli, but it doesn't taste like spaghetti. I know because I make squash pretty often.

Rachel then taught her how to make her very own nutrient-rich marinara sauce using garlic, eggplant, a can of whole tomatoes, and a whole red pepper. You slice the eggplant and pepper in half, drizzle them with olive oil, and broil them for 45 minutes. As for the garlic, you chop off the bottom stem part and broil the whole bulb also for 45 minutes. When the eggplant is done, you scoop the middle part into a blender. You remove the seeds from the pepper and throw that into the blender, too. Then you squeeze out the guts of the garlic bulb into the blender, add the can of tomatoes, and voila, your very own healthy marinara sauce.

I watched as Rachel Ray hacked up the squash and poured the sauce over it right in the shell. They oohed, aahed, and yummed it up. So healthy! So delicious! So...so...

See, here's the thing. That's an awful lot of veggies to buy for one meal. Not cheap, either. I'm not even sure I could fit it all in my oven at the same time. I think the girl was thinking the same thing. You could read it all over her face. Actually, you could read a couple of things all over her face.
-Won't all these vegetables give me diarrhea?
-Why does Rachel Ray keep saying she loves me when she doesn't even know me? Is that an Italian thing?
-I don't care what you say, Rachel. Spaghetti squash is not as delicious as real spaghetti.
-You know I'm just going to go out and buy a jar of sauce, right?

When it was all over, Rachel asked her, in her best cheerleader voice, "Wasn't that FUN?!?" That poor girl gave her the most bewildered smile. I know that smile. It's the same smile I gave my dad after a 3-hour algebra tutoring session in which I got 3 out of 50 example problems correct and at the end he said, "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

I'm lazy, so the thought of cooking a bunch of veggies for 45 minutes, waiting for them to cool, and then blending them is too much. Too, too much! I'm going to have to wash at least 2 cookie sheets and then clean out my blender... and it's a Rachel Ray blender, no less! Why would I do all that when all I gotta do is buy a jar of sauce and sprinkle a bunch of garlic powder in it? Maybe throw a carrot in my much smaller, much easier to clean electric chopper. Yes, my dishwasher is finally in good working order, but it's still easier without the extra cookie sheets and the dang blender to wash. I have better things I could be doing with my time, like spending quality time with Jesus, praying for the persecuted church, or watching my new favorite show, "Psych."

Sure, taking charge of your health requires a little work. If that weren't the case, I wouldn't have been watching Rachel Ray on a treadmill. Exercise can best be defined as "necessary work." But broiling and liquefying a bunch of veggies are a waste of time. If Ragu can do it for me, I refuse to do it for myself. And how about some protein there, Rachel Ray? You've got the fiber down, but where's the protein? I am half the size of that girl on your show, and I'm outrageously diabetic. Type 2, the kind you get from eating too much real spaghetti. I'm guessing that girl is either diabetic or on her way there. SHE NEEDS PROTEIN!

I am weary of Rachel Ray after she duped me 3 years ago. I had cable then, and I was watching her show one day when she started blabbing about the amazing new Rachel Ray blender that had just hit the market. My eyes glazed over as I watched her process veggies, fruits, made bread crumbs, even turned a baby squirrel into a delicious high-protein smoothie. (My memory might be a bit fuzzy on that last part.) I envisioned myself making breakfast smoothies every morning before work (back when I had a lousy office job) and the next thing I knew, my husband gifted me with one of her blenders. I had never owned a blender/processor before. I was excited until I realized what a pain in the butt it is to clean one. I made about 5 smoothies and it now sits covered in an inch of dust in the corner of my kitchen.

Rachel Ray makes it look easy, but anything looks easy when it has been pre-cooked before the show. It's not that easy, people. It's not that quick. It requires effort. I think we can all agree that any meal that requires unnecessary effort is not a meal worth cooking. Of course, when I say "we" I mean, you know, those of us who couldn't give a rip about creating kitchen art and just want to get to the eating part.

Open that bottle and heat it up. You can work it off later while you channel surf on the treadmill.

Ho Ho Ho, Ha Ha Ha, and a Couple of OMGs

2010-12-02T23:20:00.002-05:00

The other night I saw this awesomely bad house in the town I used to live in. It was so terrible and wonderful all at the same time that I nearly peed my pants. Terrible Christmas decorations excite me to no end. I try to crawl into the minds of the people who do the decorating. I can see that sparkle in their eyes as they inflate their Santa-on-a-Harley; I sense the way they smile when they throw that single strand of 100 twinkle lights over an enormous oak tree with as much accuracy as someone throwing a beer can into a dumpster. But what I saw that night, driving by the Christmas House of Horrors, was the end-all of terrible Christmas decorations. How can I describe it... It was like Kris Kringle threw up and then had an epileptic seizure in the middle of his own yack. Think Trans-Siberian Orchestra...and all of the musicians are on crack. Imagine a large, modern house with a great big front yard with lots of trees and shrubs... and they're all covered with every conceivable colored light in the world. Now add some faux LED light trees. Now make them blink rapidly in all different colors. Now make them... what's the word?... TREMBLE... yes, tremble AND blink. Epileptics beware: if you drive anywhere near this house, you're going to steer the old 4-wheel drive sleigh directly into a tree.

I had it in my head this morning that I was going to pass that house on my way home from running errands tonight. I even wrote myself a note on the dry-erase board on my fridge. I was going to go out there and take a video of it and post it here so that we could all revel in the patheticism... but I forgot my camera. What am I good for, anyway? I kicked myself all the way home because not only did I miss out on the Christmas House of Horrors, I also missed out on a good number of other sad displays of misguided holiday cheer, including the aforementioned Santa-on-a-Harley.

I have major issues with Santa Claus driving a Harley. It doesn't make sense. I may hate seeing an inflatable Santa on the front lawn, or a plastic Santa and his 8 tiny reindeer on the roof, but at least it's traditional. And not only that, but how would Santa REALLY be able to arrive undetected on a Harley? I've never seen a reindeer fly, but I'm pretty sure they're agile, swift, QUIET. If a deer can fly, I'm sure it can land softly. I've never seen a quiet motorcycle.
"Now, Jimmy, if you listen carefully, you can hear Santa off in the distance!
"BBBBRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPRRRRRRNAHNAHNAHBRRRR...

I also came across some beautifully decorated homes and I want to get some pictures of them, too. I saw quite a few that made me smile, made me feel warm and fuzzy inside, and made me hate living in an apartment complex. They deserve as much recognition as poorly decorated houses deserve ridicule. Consider me the Christmas Equal-Opportunity Blogger.

I spent a few hours at the home of a friend who has the most killer house. Seriously, I"m not just fluffing her up. A cozy, well-decorated place with a lovely fireplace, free of neighbors having loud sex, rap music, or potholes the size of the Hoover Damn in the parking lot. I sat there, sipping my coffee, as her kitten tore my right hand to shreds, imagining how I would decorate a house like hers.

A chill rippled through my body as I realized that somewhere out there, at that very moment, someone was sitting in an equally beautiful home, gathering thumbtacks so they could tack a 15-foot plastic Grinch on top of the garage, and then erect life-size wooden carolers on the front porch..What's worse? Then they would stand back, smile, and pat themselves on the back.

What a cold, cruel world.

Nativity Kitsch

2010-11-28T20:36:00.001-05:00

I shall begin this blog post with an apology to my friends, Mark and Jen.

Several years ago, when I was really into Sculpey polymer clay, I made them the most God-awful Nativity set the world has ever scene. I thought it was adorable, of course, or I wouldn't have given it to them. It took me forever to make it, and in my defense it was a heartfelt gift. But now when I think about it, I realize it was also horrible, horrible, horrible.

Which brings me to this blog post. Tomorrow I am hitting the streets with my camera in the hopes of catching something awesomely terrible, but until then you will have to settle for a post about Nativity kitsch. There are some downright frightening Nativities out there and I have collected a few for the Christmas Hall of Shame. Let me just say that I love cats, but I will never - NEV-AH - purchase a cat Nativity.

Sometimes words cannot do something justice, so I'll just post the pictures. See for yourself... and weep bitterly.

This site has a great selection of Nativity kitsch. Glad to know I'm not the only one out there with an eye for the distasteful.

You have to admit, this took talent.

What do the letters S-A-N-T-A spell? SANTA! And also SATAN if you mix 'em up. Coincidence?

Hopefully nobody needs to explain to you why this is so wrong.

I can't even figure out what this is exactly...

Holidays Are All About Survival

2010-11-26T18:24:00.000-05:00

Happy Black Friday, everyone. Did you survive Thanksgiving? I did. In fact, I got the world's best night sleep last night. I don't think I've slept like that since I was in diapers. If they could put turkey into pill form, I'd swap it out with my Seroquel.

It was an interesting holiday, but aren't they all? This year was particularly interesting because my mother injured herself recently and needed extra help hosting the holiday. She called me sometime around Halloween and said, "I want to have Thanksgiving here this year. How would you like to come and cook it?" Usually, my contribution to Thanksgiving is a delicious sweet potato casserole that nobody eats. Every year I swear I'm never making it again, but of course I do. I haven't always had the best relationship with my mom in the past and it has been going so well I just couldn't say no. But I said yes without fully grasping what I was agreeing to.

"Cooking" Thanksgiving, as it turned out, also meant cleaning my parents' home from top to bottom. This would not have been such an overwhelming task if they did not own a vacuum cleaner that weighs approximately 4,000 pounds. I could have pushed a donkey around the house with greater ease. It's one of those vacuums that sucks up the stuff and you can see it spinning around in the plastic canister. What nobody realizes is, when the vacuum sucks things up and spins them around at warp speed, things get destroyed...things like stink bugs, for example. I sucked up only one in the apartment but it was pulverized by the vacuumed and smelled so terrible that my mother and I both had stinging eyes for about an hour after the fact. Pennies, as it turns out, are harmless, but sucking one up into the vacuum sounds like shelling along the Afghanistan border.

I have been on my own for 10 years, and I have owned my own vacuum for just as long. Despite this, my mother does not have a great deal of confidence in my vacuuming skills. For the most part, I vacuumed while she followed along behind me, telling me I was doing it wrong. First I vacuumed too fast, then I didn't vacuum at the right angle. Then I was down on the floor with a paper towel snagging spider webs from the corners of the floor. Even though all of my parents' dining room chairs are identical, I was told that I didn't put the "right ones" in the "right spots" when I returned them after vacuuming around the table.

When I mopped the kitchen floor, my mother stood in the dining room and instructed me not to make puddles. She told me I needed to ring out the mop before actually mopping. At this point, I stopped what I was doing specifically so I could put my hands on my hips and give her a look that said, "Really, Mother. I do have a normal IQ." She stopped herself and had to laugh. She realized she was being ridiculous. But after I mopped the floor, she handed me a paper towel and told me to mop of my non-existent puddles.

By the time we got to vacuuming the bedrooms, I was exhausted from dragging the donkey vacuum around and she was tired of being the gestapo. "Do you want me to move this and vacuum under it?" I'd ask, and she'd shake her head and say, "Just vacuum around it. Screw it."

On Wednesday, she offered me lunch. Liverwurst. On my way to her place on Thanksgiving day, I stopped at Sheetz for a hotdog.

When I arrived at my parents' place on Thursday, the turkey was already in the oven. I was a bit perturbed at first because I really wanted to learn how to cook a turkey. On the other hand, my mother was right - it was just easier for her to do it. I'm not sure how you can stuff a turkey wrong, but I'm sure I would have figured out a way to do it. I made a few things and mashed a cheese ball together and put appetizers in the living room in an effort to keep all unnecessary personnel out of the kitchen (it worked) and thought things were going fine. They were, actually, going great. It's just that everyone in my family has the patience and overall calm of a squirrel, and so my mother officially started freaking out about two hours before the other guests arrived. This was when my parents started bickering at each other, a la Frank and Marie Barone from "Everybody Loves Raymond."

I have learned that following my mother around saying, "Calm down, Mom!" doesn't help. It anything, it just lights her fuse. Pointing out that everything was ready and that the turkey just had to come out of the oven only made her chain smoke. I tried a shoulder rub but she told me to get off of her because she was sweaty. All I could do was sip my cup of my father's famous old coffee (he drinks the same pot for 3 days in a row) and listen to my mother tell my father that if he didn't go shave, she was going to lose it.

With nothing to do in our spare time but sit and listen to my mother stress over whether or not her turkey was going to turn out dry, my father recruited me to help him fix his computer. My parents' computer was built somewhere around 1950 and runs on Windows 98. They still use dial-up internet. To be honest, I didn't think dial-up internet service still existed. My parents have regular computer problems because my father tinkers around with it and doesn't really know what he's doing. Oh, and also because it was built in 1950 and runs on Windows 98. Did I mention that? My parents are not techies by any stretch. My brother and his wife got them a cell phone a few years ago for Christmas and I think my brother was a little peeved at me because when my parents opened it, I immediately erupted into uncontrollable laughter. Nobody likes someone to tell them that they wasted their money, but I had to speak the truth. To date, the phone has been used about 5 times... by me, trying to show my folks how to use it. It now sits atop my dad's stereo, collecting dust. He has no idea where the charger is.

It took his computer about 30 minutes to load when I turned it on. Upon discovering that he had old AOL software slowing down his system, I attempted to open the control panel, which took an additional 30 minutes to load. After waiting nearly an hour to open the application to uninstall software, I declared it a lost cause and gave up. My brother - the same one who gave them the cell phone - said he'd stop by tonight to help him. Again, I dissolved into uproarious laughter. My mother pulled me aside and whispered, "You do know your father has no clue what he's doing, don't you?" I assured her that, yes, it was apparent. She rolled her eyes and cursed at her messy kitchen.

Dinner itself went well... apart from a niece who refuses to eat anything that isn't a goldfish cracker or dessert, and my mother nearly tripping over her own chair and killing herself. Like little sardines stuffed into a can, we sat elbow-to-elbow at the table, all 11 of us, pigging out as my mother's blood pressure slowly returned to a normal level. The turkey was perfect - neither raw nor dry, as my mother always fears it will be every year. Every year I slave over that stupid sweet potato casserole that nobody touches, but this year I just mashed them with brown sugar and put some marshmallows on top and there was barely a drop left after dinner. Note to self.

And now it's officially Christmas. I didn't shop today. I have never shopped on Black Friday and I never will. My husband was going to brave the crowds but opted to sleep in instead. My tree-in-a-box has been successfully assembled and my oldest niece is on her way to help me decorate it. This is the part of the holiday season I enjoy the most. Nearly every ornament has a story behind it and I get a little misty when I hang them on the tree. Maybe not this year, though - my niece will never let me live it down if she catches me crying over a Christmas ball.

Let the season take wing! Here's a clip from "Everybody Loves Raymond." This is par for the course in my family.

We Interrupt This Job for an Unnecessary Blog Post

2010-11-16T14:04:00.000-05:00

What is WRONG with me?
Those of you who write for a living might know what I'm talking about. You know what you want to say, but it won't come out the way you want it to. It's like getting a Pez stuck in the little dispenser. I always tell people I'm much better at writing a story than I am at telling it off-the-cuff because I always forget important tidbits and have to say "let me reverse" and go back the parts I missed that are necessary to understanding what I'm trying to say. I very rarely have this problem when I'm writing, but I'm having that problem today.

I'm still 99.9% sure I have ADD. Nobody could be this distracted all the time and not have a chemical imbalance. I used to go to coffee shops to work, but I'd wind up spending the day people-watching or re-reading the menu 800 times. Now I write from home but I'm just as distracted. The cat needs to be fed, laundry needs to be done, the dishwasher needs to be unloaded, dinner needs to be figured out. Even taking a shower annoys me. Sometimes I walk by my art supplies and have to fight the urge to drop everything and paint.

I never did homework when I was a kid. Like, ever. I think I got into college because God knew my parents needed an extended break. It's not any easier for me now, except that if I don't do my work now, I don't eat, have clothes, or have a home. Twenty years ago, my only consequence was having to deal with my furious mother. Now, the consequences include homelessness and starvation. Homelessness and starvation are pretty good motivators, but they don't kill distractions.

I am getting better, however. I've learned that all necessary housework MUST BE DONE before I try to write. If not, they are little open windows in my brain that refuse to close until I take care of them. (Read Shaunti Feldhahn's book For Women Only for more on this concept.) If I know the kitchen looks like a war zone, nothing can be truly accomplished until I have cleaned it.

I have also learned that dry-erase boards are a wonderful thing. I have one on my fridge and that's where I write down my deadlines. Day planners are nice, but I usually lose mine or forget to look at it. I go to the fridge, however, on a daily basis.

And now I have run out of things to say and I know I need to get back to work. I have about 90 minutes left of quiet isolation and I need to make the most of it. Books don't write themselves... though that would be super awesome.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Inflatable Hell

2010-11-15T19:19:00.001-05:00