Baby, Remember My Name

At the end of every year, I clean the movie stubs out of my wallet. Usually, I am with my friends Judy and Heather and as I pull out each stub, I offer my reflections on each film. Since I am away from them this December, I offer my ticket stub review to all of you.

January 3rd—Rachel Getting Married
This was one of those movies you go to because a bunch of your friends are going, not because you’re dying to see it. What I remember is Anne Hathaway giving a good performance and Rachel’s wedding, in which a Jewish girl married an African-American guy in an Indian-themed backyard wedding.

January 20th—Bride Wars
Entertaining, instantly forgettable. Brain candy.

February 21st—Confessions of a Shopaholic
I love, love, love the Shopaholic books, so I was pretty excited to see the movie. As a movie, it was cute, sweet and fun. As an adaptation of the book, it failed. I prefer to think of it as a movie that happens to have the same name as a book I really like. One thing I can’t figure out is why they set the film in New York and made Isla Fisher fake an American accent. Why not stay true to the novel’s London setting?

June 19th—The Proposal
Super-fun. Can’t get the image of Oscar from The Office dancing around in a Speedo out of my head, but overall, liked this one a lot.

August 7th—Julie and Julia
Meryl Streep’s Julia Child was ebullient. It looked like she was having an amazing time portraying the famous chef. Stanley Tucci was darling as her husband. The Julie side of things was charming for the simple fact that Amy Adams was in it. A Google search of the real Julie Powell left me disappointed.

October 1st—Fame
How excited was I for this movie? I loved the show when I was growing up and I was anxious to see Megan Mullally and Bebe Neuwirth playing teachers at the performing arts high school.
How disappointed was I? The movie was a mile wide and an inch deep. Quickly passing through the characters’ four years, we never really got to know anyone. The pervasive, “You can’t trust adults, they will squash your dreams” theme wore thin mighty fast.
An interesting side note, my friend Katy and I were the only people in the theater. Katy actually answered her phone and had a conversation during the movie.

November 20th—The Twilight Saga: New Moon
Yes, I was there opening night. Even though the first movie makes me snicker and I’m completely over the tabloid Robsten frenzy, I still wanted to see this one. From what I can remember, it stayed pretty faithful to the book. Taylor Lautner spent a lot of time with his shirt off. Lucky guy will always have this movie as evidence of his amazing physical condition. When I found out he’s 16 (17 now?), I had a lot of repenting to do. Rob Pattinson’s agent must have negotiated for him to be shirtless as much as Taylor in the film. No wonder Team Jacob got so many new converts…

November/December?—The Blind Side
My ticket stub for this one has disappeared, so the date will remain a mystery. I don’t generally see feel-good movies, but an article I read about Leanne Tuhoy and her faith caught my interest. So I saw it, and so help me, it made me feel good.

December 12th—The Princess and the Frog
Fresh from my trip to Disney World, I was propelled to see this movie. I’m so glad I did! It was delightful. Tiana has earned her place in the pantheon of Disney princesses.

Look Around, Leaves are Brown, and the Sky is a Hazy Shade of Winter

The summer manifesto was really awesome. It kept me from frittering away my summer months and spending them in an idle, selfish wasteland. The fall manifesto, however, might have proven to be too ambitious. Working full-time, maintaining my home, and involvement with ministry pretty much guarantee that I won’t be frittering my time away.

That being said, here’s a review of my fail, I mean fall, manifesto…

Prepare more food at home, eat out less. Invite friends over for dinner instead of meeting in restaurants.

I fared miserably on this one. I can think of two occasions when I prepared a meal and had friends over to eat it. In contrast, I can’t count how many times I ate in a restaurant. On one occasion when I had a friend over for dinner, I found myself being so distracted by the requirements of serving a meal that I couldn’t engage her in conversation as I would like. As I tried to talk to her while cleaning dishes and dashing out the door for my next meeting, it occurred to me that there’s much to be said for the convenience of a restaurant.

Use the farmer’s market regularly.

Despite the convenience of the grocery store, I have purposefully driven to the farmer’s market on weekends to stock up on produce for the weekend. Laura introduced me to the curb market, which is smaller and more crowded than the outdoor farmer’s market, but I dug its downtown vibe.


Catch up with Debbie.

This was on the list to keep me accountable for getting together with this dear friend. We squeezed in a conversation right at the fall/winter wire; sandwiched in between holiday parties, swim practices and a Christmas concert.

Keep reading—do not let books pile up on nightstand.

I’ve done a lot of reading, but there is still a pile on the nightstand! This fall I was introduced to Anne Shirley as I read the first three books in the Anne of Green Gables series.
I put Anne on hold to reconnect with another beloved classic, Little Women, which we tackled in our fall book club meeting. Through Librivox, I was able to listen to the novel with different volunteers reading each chapter. From the Australian guy to the 10-pack-a-day English lady, the readers each put their own spin on Jo and the girls.
Recently, I picked up Twilight for a second reading. I’m hoping to remember what I liked about these books before Robert Pattinson’s constant media presence made me forget.

Attend a Gaelic Storm concert somewhere in North Carolina.

One happy Friday night, Beth, Laura and I headed to Winston for an evening of blarney and rumpus. It was great craic!

Be a light in my work place.

Most days, it takes all my strength not to be overcome by the darkness at my job, let alone to be a light for others. I try to avoid the gossip and the grumbling, which often means not leaving my room. My friend Tonya started a Bible study for our co-workers, which was awesome, but our workplace is a battlefield—guess I’d better go and get my armor.

Have conversations about women’s ministry.

I don’t know that I’ve had many deliberate conversations about women’s ministry, which is what I meant when writing this in August. I wanted to get a sense of what was important to and for women so that when the church plant opens its doors, I will be able to hit the ground running. Instead, my fall has been filled with doing ministry and talking about the church plant in bigger and broader terms. I’m trusting that, when the time comes, God will show me what to do for the women of this fledgling congregation.


Attend a Flyers game, completing a Philadelphia sports trifecta (Phillies on August 14, Eagles on September 13. Sadly, there is no Flyers game on October 12.)

The Flyers will be in Raleigh one week from tonight. Perhaps I will see them there. Before abandoning the subject of Philadelphia sports, I must express my delight with the Fightin’ Phils who gave me October baseball for another year. This crusty, cynical Philadelphia sports fan has learned to hope because of these guys. I can hardly wait for Spring Training…

We Can Drive It Home with One Headlight

Tonight I went to Auto Zone. They might as well call the place Man Zone. I knew as I walked out of my house that I would have to be assertive and confident. I also touched up my make-up—not that it made a difference after the torturous cardio class I did earlier in the day.

I stood in line and waited for an available employee. A man got in front of me, but aside from an indignant little huff, I didn’t protest. After all, his $4.30 purchase was probably easier than my need for a new headlight. Once he was gone, the employee walked away from his register. This time my indignant huff was louder, so he turned and said, “Can I help you?” I said, “Not if it’s too much trouble.” He told me I would have to wait for Brian to get my headlight fixed. Then, he grabbed his coat and said goodbye to the other men working, saying, “14 hours is long enough. I’m going home.” I felt really bad for speaking to him so rudely.

Not knowing who or where Brian was, I continued standing in line while another worker was helping a man buy a new battery. A few more customers began gathering in front of the counter. One asked me, “Are you next?” I replied, “I have no idea.” It turns out I was next and the man behind the counter happily sold me headlights and told me I’d have to wait for someone to help replace it, as long as it wasn’t too difficult a job.

So I returned to my car and waited. One employee was helping a man change his van’s battery. When he finished, he went inside, got a Coke and came out for a cigarette. When he saw me, he said, “I’m sorry, are you waiting?” Convicted about my earlier snarky remark, I said, “No worries, take your break. You’re really hustling.” Turns out this was the elusive Brian. He was willing to come check out my headlight, as long as I didn’t mind the cigarette. He fiddled around under the hood for a while, went into the store for a tool, fiddled some more, and then said, “You’re going to hate me.” I said, “I figured it would be too much for you to do. No worries.” He slammed the car’s hood closed and said, “Wait a minute. Let me rub your head.” And then, friends, he came over and rubbed both of his hands on my head! He said, “When I slammed the hood, it come back on.”

What else can I possibly say about my Auto Zone experience?

After my hair had been through the aforementioned cardio class and the Brian incident, I ran into my hair stylist at Macy’s.

Mr. Telephone Man, There's Something Wrong with My Line

I stopped by the Verizon store on Saturday morning to see what, if anything, could be done about my phone’s battery. After charging the phone overnight, sending and receiving a text message, my battery was half-full (or was it half-empty?). A 20-minute conversation the night before ended when the battery was completely sapped and the phone died.

I explained this to the Verizon man who was very accommodating, and possibly still drunk from Friday night. After looking around for a replacement battery for my phone, he came up empty. He told me that everyone who had my phone must have replaced its battery, leading to a Verizon-wide shortage. It was kind of a cute conversation.

He: Why did you buy that phone? It’s terrible.
JW: I didn’t buy the phone. It was free.
He: Did you get it online? I’ve never seen it before.
JW: Yes. It was free and it had a keyboard.
He: Well, it’s a horrible phone.

After a discussion with his manager, he returned with the news that they would have to replace my phone with something similar. Because my horrible phone was a Smartphone, they would give me a Blackberry. It would be shipped to me by Tuesday. Just like that, free Blackberry.

The next conversation went something like this…

He: It comes in pink or silver. I’m guessing you want silver.
JW: Why? Is it because I’m wearing a bandana?
He [flustered]: No, you just don’t seem like a pink-phone kind of girl.
JW: I am, in fact, a pink phone kind of girl. I had a pink razor phone.
He: Really? So did I. For like a week, it was embarrassing.

So my pink Blackberry arrived on Monday. After activating it, it took about 10 minutes for me to understand why people call them Crackberries. Sitting there, in a little pink case, are sports scores, weather forecasts, text messages, e-mails from Harris Teeter, and many more features I have yet to discover. Its capabilities scare and overwhelm me and I am hoping it’s the last new phone for a while!

Oh, Cookie Cookie Cookie Starts with C!

Every year, my mom and I bake cookies at Christmas time. It seems like every year we wait longer to start baking and are more frenzied when the last day of school before break arrives (this is the day on which most of the cookies are delivered to co-workers). We can be found in my mom’s kitchen the night before, feverishly packing Zip-Loc containers with doilies, cookies and Hershey’s kisses, while my dad sits placidly in the living room watching Law & Order reruns.

This year my friend Carrie is doing a cookie exchange on her blog. (Sorry, Carrie, I can’t even blog about holiday baking in a timely manner!) Hopefully, digging out this recipe will kick-start my holiday baking season. Enjoy!

Light Sugar Cookies
Light is kind of a misnomer, as you will see from the ingredient list, but this is an old favorite of mine. I wrote it down while watching The Frugal Gourmet back in high school.

Combine:
2 sticks (1 cup) margarine
1 cup sugar
1 cup powdered sugar
1 cup vegetable oil
2 eggs
4.5 cups flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. cream of tartar
1 tsp. vanilla

Chill dough for two hours. Roll into walnut-sized balls. Press with bottom of a glass dipped in sugar. Bake on ungreased sheets at 375 for 10-12 minutes. (Yields quite a few, I often halve the recipe!)

I Feel the Earth Move

Today I visited Disney's Hollywood Studios while vacationing in Disney World. It was my first time to Hollywood Studios and I was eager to check out its American Idol Experience. Upon arriving at the park, I begged my family to indulge me with a stop at the American Idol auditions.


Here I am in the Coke lounge choosing my songs. I went with Carole King's I Feel the Earth Move and also took on Heart's Alone. My performance of I Feel the Earth Move was good enough to get me into the 5:00 show.


Rehearsing before the show.


Being introduced with the other contestants: Paula, a pregnant former cruise-ship singer and Justin, a 17-year-old who performs in show choir (but says his life is not like Glee).


To vote for me, the 800+ people in the audience had to push button number 1.


The teenage girls in the audience voted Justin through to the show's finale later in the day.


While Justin waited around to do another show, I got to have fun in the park.


My dad, who also auditioned, was pretty proud of me. That added to the fun of the day.

You're so Vein

This morning was a perfect morning to sleep in—a midweek day off from work, rain and wind blowing outside. Instead, I woke up at 6:15 to hit the gym, knowing it would be my last chance to exercise for a couple days. Today was the culmination of a process I began seven months ago—getting varicose veins removed from my left leg.

My friend Emily dropped me off at the doctor’s office and I moved very quickly from waiting room to surgical table. The nurses were awesome, as they have been throughout the process. They were very thorough in answering my questions. I asked about returning to my regular exercise routine and the head nurse told me there would be no cardio classes or running for the next two weeks, not even an elliptical! At times, I swear she was reading my mind. I would be thinking, “I don’t need to take ibuprofen” and she would say, “Even if you’re not in pain, you have to take ibuprofen for inflammation and you have to take it with food.” Then I would think, “I won’t be eating much because I won’t be burning many calories,” and she would say, “And not just a handful of crackers—meals!”

The atmosphere in the operating room was very relaxed. I was surprised and disappointed that it wasn’t fraught with drama like an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Dr. Todd has a well-stocked iPod that he plays while he works and he takes requests. He graciously indulged me with some Bruce Springsteen, which led him to telling stories of his first encounters with the Boss’s music in college. He continued to wax nostalgic about his college days and the guys he knew when. As I suspected, Dr. Todd had a lively young adulthood. And though I trust his work, there was something a little strange about hearing my doctor describe himself as a “dumb redneck” while threading an IV through my thigh.

The anesthetic kept me from feeling what was going on, although I was very aware of Dr. Todd pulling veins out of my leg. Think about pulling the seam out of a garment. I was angled on the table so that my head was closer to the ground and my legs were elevated, so I couldn’t see anything that was going on, which is probably for the best. Meanwhile, Dr. Todd and the nurses were talking about Thomas Jefferson and the John Adams mini-series. (You mean doctors don't talk about affairs and love triangles during surgery? Have the Grey's doctors been perpetrating a lie all these years?) The worst part of the procedure was that about an hour into it I had to go to the bathroom. How is it that, when I’m teaching, I can hold it for six hours at a time while drinking 2 liters of water?

After the nurses mummified my left leg and cut me out of my paper shorts, I was able to get dressed and limp off to the bathroom. From there, I maneuvered into the back of Emily’s car and headed home for the hard part: taking it easy and allowing my body to recover. Another of life’s ironies: when I have so much to do, all I want to do is lay on the couch. When I am ordered to lay on the couch, I can think of 100 things I want to do!

Deep Enough to Dream

Lately a lot of things I’ve listened to or read have mentioned Heaven. Heaven is usually a fleeting thought for me, as in, “Heaven will be better than getting up before dawn and going to the gym.”

But as I was driving to church on Sunday I was listening to Chris Rice’s Deep Enough to Dream, and this lyric, “Deep enough to join a billion people for a wedding feast…” gave me pause. The thought that came to me was, “Ugh. I hate crowds. That’s going to be awful.” This thought was quickly followed by, “WHAT??!?!?” So I began thinking about how, in Heaven, I will not have my claustrophobia/discomfort in crowds, because I won’t have to fear people trampling me, because there is no trampling in Heaven.

I couldn’t get my head around it, so I went on to another incomprehensible thought: in Heaven, I won’t be plagued by this icky, sinful nature of mine. Right now, my sin is so familiar to me; I don’t even know it’s there unless someone/something brings it to light. It’s kind of like this pain in my legs—try and follow me here, I know it’s a stretch. Because of the varicose veins in my legs, they have been hurting for over a year. The whole time I’ve been running and taking zumba classes, I have done it with pain in my legs, but I am not aware of the pain. It’s something I am used to and have managed to live with. Next week, one set of veins will be gone and I will experience what not-hurting legs feel like and I can’t imagine it. It’s been so long since I felt normal; I have forgotten what normal feels like. In the same way, I’ve never been without sin, so I can’t imagine what a day-to-day existence without sin (mine or other people’s) will be like. But, just like I believe my legs will feel better, I believe my life in Heaven will be better.

One more thought about Heaven. I read today how, in Heaven, Jesus is going to reveal a special name to me—a name for me that’s just between me and Him. I hope it’s a really cool Irish name, like Siobhan.

Sweet Land of Liberty

I’ve mentioned here before how interesting Facebook has made my life. A couple weeks ago the girl who sat beside me in fifth grade found me. It was a laugh reconnecting with her, realizing that my current sentence to a lifetime in fifth grade was probably punishment for all our shenanigans.

This week brought another blast from the past. In 1992 I went on a mission trip to Germany. I met a kindred spirit on that trip. We hit it off immediately and enjoyed a month of adventure together. After the trip we wrote letters (this was pre-internet) and she visited me in Philadelphia once. Somewhere in the middle of our college years we lost touch—until last week.

It has been an enormous blessing to reconnect with this old friend. She is married, a mother of four, living on a farm in rural Tennessee. We’ve been emailing frantically this week, trying to catch up on 17 years a little bit at a time. Our conversations have been the highlight of my week.

This sweet reconnection exposed an ugly part of me, though. When I saw my friend’s “stats” on Facebook, I was instantly disappointed with my boring life. (When I related this story to my high school small group girls tonight, they were quick to say, “Joy, you are NOT boring.” I heart those girls so much!!) When I see a friend has married and had four kids in the past 17 years and I’ve taught fifth grade and, um, taught fifth grade in another state, I can’t help but feel like I’ve missed out.

It was no coincidence that I also found this quote from Charles Spurgeon this week, “If there were any place better for you than the one in which you find yourself, Divine Love would have placed you there.”

As I start this new week, I want to remember that Divine Love has placed me here. And I am thankful that Divine Love has placed a dear friend in my life—again.

I've Been through the Desert on a [Church] with No Name

I’ve been wanting to post something on here about the church plant of which I am a part. What has kept me from writing is an inability to give words to what excites me about this process.

The current associate pastor of my church has been moved to plant another church in a different part of our town. This summer, he invited me to join the plant and to coordinate its women’s ministries. At first, I was simply excited about the possibility of growing a women’s ministry from the ground up. Now my excitement is for the whole project. As my pastor has shared his vision with a group of us (the launch team) and as we’ve read articles and surveyed people in the community, I’ve become really eager to see this church get going. But why?

The church has no name. We’ve got some ideas, but no clear favorite. The church has no address. We’ve got some locations, but nothing is decided. Still, every Wednesday night, a group of people gets together to plan, to dream and to pray. It’s given me a picture of what the Church really is.

I grew up in a Philadelphia neighborhood where I could walk to a number of churches—old churches, established churches. It never occurred to me to ask how they got their names. And their buildings were old, stone things with steeples and pews. But someone built them. Being a part of this church plant has given me an appreciation for the magnitude of starting a church; of taking an old warehouse and making it a place of worship, of taking an idea and making it a name.

Most importantly, I’m seeing that a church is more than its name or address. The people are the church. Every Wednesday that we meet, I am growing to love the people in the room more and more. I can’t wait to be part of a church that bears the mark of our Creator, as well as of these passionate, creative people.

They're the People that You Meet Each Day

I’ve been going to the same gym for about a year. To commemorate the occasion, I offer some observations about the people I see when I am there.

For two days in a row, there has been a guy in workout clothes smoking outside the gym. Sometimes, I will go to Chick-fil-A after working out. I rationalize that I’ve burned off the calories in my waffle fries, so it’s all good. But I have to wonder, does working out negate the effects of cigarettes?

Snaps to the girl wearing pearls in Zumba tonight. (Zumba=one hour of Latin, hip-hop, cardio mayhem.)

There’s this awkward trainer who doesn’t have a lot of clients, so he wanders around a lot (earning him the nickname “the Lurker” from my friend Beth). Tonight said trainer sniffed a girl. It wasn’t a “You smell nice, what is that?” sniff either. It was more like, “Hi, I’m a collie. What a fine looking poodle you are.”

My absolute favorite trainer, henceforth to be known as Cute Trainer, is a highlight for me. He’s just adorable. He makes everything look fun—even riding a spin bike, which is, like, the opposite of fun. Sometimes he brings his clients into Zumba to dance with us for a song. He always tries to dance along with us, freely, joyfully making mistakes. It totally distracts me. I always try to be extra Fergalicious when he comes in, only to wind up tripping over my feet.

There are other notable characters who don’t need their own paragraphs, but who bring delight to me regularly. There’s the pastor of a local mega-church who works out twice a day, and a guy who is so flexible he can stand on one leg with his other leg at a 180 degree angle, propped on a machine, all while working his arms. There’s a man whose love for the ab machine is so intense I’m afraid one of them is going to snap in half, and a small man who doesn’t look like much, but when you use a machine after him, you realize he’s been lifting 150 pounds with his legs.

What flavor do I bring to the gym? I think I would probably be known as weird t-shirt girl. I enjoy buying strange t-shirts at Goodwill. Here is a current favorite, nice and wrinkly because I got it out of the hamper for the photo op!




And my mother wonders why I’m not meeting nice, young men at the gym.

Saturday in the Park

In July I listed all the things I have come to love about my current city of residence (I still can’t call it home). A friend of mine said a few weeks ago that this is a great place to live for the life we want to live.

I’ve thought about that a number of times since she said it and today was one of those days when I experienced it. This is a great place for my lifestyle.

It’s a great place for relationships.
The first reason today was great was because I got to have breakfast with my family (with the exception of my brother who was working). We met at a cafeteria. I find the cafeteria amusing and overwhelming, but I most enjoy being able to sit down with my parents and sister over eggs and turkey sausage. This morning we debated whether or not we should say grace, since my brother is the one who insists that we do. After much snickering and my attempt at a “God’s neat, let’s eat” blessing, my dad ended the discussion with a gruff, “Let us pray.”

It’s a great place for a simpler, greener lifestyle.
After breakfast, my sister-in-law and I headed to the local farmer’s market—I should say one of the local farmer’s markets. Lately, it has become very important to me to support local farmers and to buy fresh produce that does not have to be shipped across the country. I seem to have developed an allergy to the fruit shellac grocery stores use, so having farmer’s markets nearby is wonderful not only for me, but for the people sitting near me when I am having an allergic reaction and sneezing apple all over the place.

When I came home I baked zucchini bread and did my laundry. It was the perfect day to open the windows and let the breeze blow through my house, rustling the clothes on my massive drying rack.

It’s a great place for a healthy lifestyle.
This afternoon, Emily and I took our bikes out. We rode through a city park, a National Historic Park, and along the city’s greenway to another city park. There were plenty of people out enjoying the day—including some folks setting up for a wedding in one of the parks.

We encountered one family with two little kids riding bikes with training wheels and another toddler in a stroller. Dad was running along beside the kids as they went down a hill, the boy yelling, “I am not having fun! I don’t like this ride” while Mom hefted the stroller up a hill. We commended all their efforts and the mom replied, “It’s hard now, but I know they’re supposed to do this so that they can do what you’re doing one day and we can enjoy bike rides as a family!” (And how cool is it that she stopped to talk to us?)

Emily and I were inspired to go off-roading in one park. As we entered the super-steep trailhead, I shouted, “I am not having fun! I don’t like this ride!”

It’s a great place to produce more and to consume less.
Earlier this week my Thursday night Bible study had a pot-luck supper. It was so fun to see the girls showing off for each other. These are hard-working ladies who, in the middle of the week, took time to prepare something amazing for each other. Sweet potato pie with homemade crust, pasta with an unreal homemade sauce, homemade salad dressing, I could go on an on, but then you’d be hungry.

Because my friends are so useful in the kitchen and are always talking about their experiments, I am motivated not to take the easy way out. For instance, tonight felt like a good night for pizza, but instead of calling Papa John, or stopping by the grocery store for a frozen pizza, I made pizza crust from scratch and topped it with ingredients I already had in the house.

Tomorrow my brother, sister-in-law and I will head to Charlotte to watch the Philadelphia Eagles play. We will stop at a Philadelphia Soft Pretzel Factory in Mooresville along the way and maybe the Rita’s Italian Ice next door will be open when we get there. I will have some of my favorite people and favorite things from home in this strange place I am coming to love.

She's Got Legs, She Knows How to Use Them

Earlier this spring I had a consultation about getting some varicose veins removed from my legs. Today I had another appointment with the vein specialists. After my first visit, I was given the impression that today would be the magical day when my nasty veins got zapped and I could return to wearing short skirts without being self-conscious.

My friend Hannah agreed to drop me off and pick me up from my appointment. Not only is she a star for scheduling her baby’s nap around my appointment, but she also had a Caribbean Living magazine and two chocolate bars waiting for me on the passenger’s seat. She believed that, if I had to have a procedure, I should not have to think about it—I should think about the Caribbean instead.

If you look back at the post I wrote about my May appointment, one of my concerns was about seeing a doctor named Todd. As if having a person called Todd examining my legs was not enough, this afternoon I met an ultrasound tech named…wait for it…Cody! Without making me any promises of a future, or even buying me a drink, Cody got pretty familiar with my legs.

What followed was a lot of waiting (reading up on the Caribbean) and then finally a visit from Dr. Todd. It turned out that today was not supposed to be the actual zapping day, but another consultation. Dr. Todd’s very kind nurse explained about how they needed to submit my case to the insurance company and get it approved before any zapping could occur.

So now it looks like the great event will be happening in November—far past short-skirt season, long after my tan has faded. It also means two more months of miserable, achy legs and trying to manage my lively new crop of fifth graders while sitting down.

The more time I spend around health care, the less I like it. I went in today expecting surgery, but instead got a consultation and another three months of waiting. Why did I have the wrong idea? I think it came from the way things were explained to me at my last appointment. Am I the only one whose doctors always seem to be in a hurry?

And then there’s the matter of my insurance company. It seems to be pretty tight-fisted when it comes to covering procedures. The nurse told me that insurance companies don’t want to cover this procedure in young women. Old women, yes. Men, yes. But they want to make sure I’m not just milking them for a “cosmetic” procedure, so they have all these hoops for me to jump through. Except, I can’t really jump because my legs hurt…

It is not my intent to start a health care debate on my blog, so if you feel the need to post anything remotely political, send it to Glenn Beck. This girl is staying out of it.

I Keep on Fallin'

Having a list of goals propelled me through the summer. Knowing what I wanted to do kept me from wasting time and feeling like I didn’t get the most out of my vacation. Students arrive tomorrow, signaling the beginning of fall (before Labor Day—ugh!), but before that happens, I want to share my fall manifesto. It’s quite a bit shorter than my summer list because I don’t anticipate having as much time on my hands…

--Prepare more food at home, eat out less. Invite friends over for dinner instead of meeting in restaurants.
--Use the farmer’s market regularly.
--Catch up with Debbie.
--Keep reading—do not let books pile up on nightstand.
--Attend a Gaelic Storm concert somewhere in North Carolina.
--Be a light in my work place.
--Have conversations about women’s ministry.
--Attend a Flyers game, completing a Philadelphia sports trifecta (Phillies on August 14, Eagles on September 13. Sadly, there is no Flyers game on October 12.)

After the Boys of Summer Have Gone

This has been one of my favorite summer vacations. It has been wonderful staying close to home, spending restful days in my house or with friends. I am thankful for this Summer Manifesto (as it has come to be known) that helped me give some structure and purpose to my idle days. I posted it on here a few days before school let out, so I will now revisit it a few days before school returns—how poetic…

Sit by the pool with my girlfriends.
I’ve spent quite a few afternoons at the pool with some of the girls.

Regularly meet with two recent high-school graduates before they head off to college.
The thing about recent high-school graduates is that they are busy trying to earn money for college and making last-hurrah trips all summer. Sadly, this item was a fail.

Go for a jog/walk with Tracey.
Had a great time exercising with Tracey in her neighborhood one evening. Came back to her house and enjoyed some distilled water (with distilled ice!) while being introduced to Fail Blog.

Catch up with my long-lost mentor.
As her fourth baby will be coming along any day now, I was very fortunate to spend some time with her at the beginning of the summer.

Read the ever-growing pile of books on my nightstand.
Read the pile and then some! I have made many trips to the public library this summer and will probably not remember 75% of the things I’ve read. Some summer reading highlights were Marian Jordan’s Wilderness Skills for Women and Sandra Dallas’s Prayers for Sale.

Visit Campus Outreach students during Summer Beach Project.
Not only did I get to see Megan during SBP, I got to worship with her at Surfside PCA, a church I’ve been hearing raves about for years! (But no one told me it was pink!) I also got to visit Whitney who was in Myrtle Beach doing Summer Shine at the KOA campground. It is always exciting to hear how God is moving and shaking in these students’ lives as they devote their summers to him.

Go to a Phillies game (this could be tricky).

Used my last summer weekend to make a quick trip to Atlanta. The Phillies beat the Braves 3-2 and I got to see why Shane Victorino is truly the Flyin’ Hawaiian—he was all over the outfield, denying the Braves homeruns like a beast.


Buy an enormous drying rack for my clothes; use the dryer less.



Take a couple former students to the movies with Shannon.
Another summer manifesto fail. Between our travels and her adjustment to life with a new baby, Shannon and I barely hung out at all this summer. If there’s a bright spot to going back to school, it’s being able to see more of this dear friend!

Read, mark and inwardly digest the Bible.
This is something that needs never be checked off the list. There’s always more to be read, marked, and digested!

Spend quiet days by myself, allowing the Lord to restore my soul.
So many lovely, quiet, restful days! What a blessing to be able to read and think and nap!

Keep working out every day; add morning cardio classes to my regimen.
I kept up the exercise program. My weeks at the beach gave me the chance to jog along the ocean and I’ve also taken my bike on some little treks. I’ve done some morning cardio classes at the gym too. Zumba sculpt was awesome, cardio sculpt made me want to cry. Water aerobics is always entertaining, even if the “regulars” are not particularly welcoming.

Miss my workout partner like crazy.
It’s really good to have her back. Exercise is just so much more fun when there’s someone with you—someone to witness the strange goings-on at the gym.

Have coffee and conversation with lots of people.
I've had great conversations with old friends and gotten to know some new ladies. I even got 10 cents off for knowing the answer to Caribou Coffee’s question of the day once.

Try quilting, or at least find a quilting class I can try.
Found the classes, just can’t find the time to take them.

Talk about starting a multi-generational small group for women.
Another fail! I was going to talk about it with a woman from my church and I think I’ve seen her once since May…

Facilitate the second meeting of the women’s book club.
August 29th, can’t wait!

Tell my story.
The Thursday night girls have had a wonderful summer of hearing each other’s stories. It’s been a real blessing to get to know these women a little more deeply and to find out how God won our hearts.

Visit old friends.


Be purposeful.
Another item that I can’t check off the list. I’ve been calling this my “Summer of Intention” for ages, but living with a purpose is not seasonal. My days off have given me more opportunities to encourage ministry, to learn about ministry and to do ministry. The challenge for me now is to continue being intentional about ministry, even as I go back to working full time.

Build houses and friendships with high school students.



Swim in the ocean.
Something about the sunrise
Reminds me of Your faithfulness
Something about the ocean
And I’m lost in love again
--Ten Shekel Shirt

Doo, Doo, Doo, Looking Out My Back Door

When I bought my house four years ago, the development was brand-new with houses still being built around mine. One reason I chose my house was because there were no houses directly behind it, just a steep drop and some tree trunks. The ground was that distinct Carolina clay color with some weeds sprouting up and a trickle of water running.

Looking out my back door now, I am amazed at how the landscape has healed from the shock of bulldozers and backhoes that disrupted it a few years ago. Instead of red earth, what I see now is leaves. The tree trunks I thought were dead are sprouting. There are wildflowers on the hill behind my house. Lately a rabbit has been spending time in my back yard. Cosmo, who is usually hanging on by a thin thread, goes absolutely bananas when the rabbit appears. There are birds all over the place. (For those of you who know me well, as long as the birds and I are separated by windows and walls, I can deal with them.) They jump around on my deck, they chirp in the trees outside my windows.

When this development was being built, the squirrel population must have died out or moved elsewhere. I have yet to see a squirrel here. I can’t say I really miss them (I know how they drive my bird-feeding and tomato-growing relatives to distraction), but I think that when I do see a squirrel in the neighborhood, it will be a sign that the landscape really is back to normal.

All the Single Ladies

I had the privilege of attending a conference this weekend featuring three dynamic women teaching from the Bible. These women are among the greatest voices of our generation and they drew a crowd of over 11,000 women to my hometown arena (note to the Florida Marlins: you might get bigger crowds if you sign these ladies). The teaching was first-class and I am so thankful to have been there.

To close the conference, all three speakers took the stage for an informal question and answer session. The first 20 minutes or so were devoted to encouraging wives and mothers. It got raucous in the arena as jokes about sex and breast pumps flew (jokes flew, not the actual pumps). There is nothing like being a single girl in an auditorium full of women who are shouting “Amen!” when someone is making a joke about not wanting to have sex at the end of a long day. What immediately followed that outburst was, “Let’s encourage our single sisters.” So after 20 minutes of feeling like an outsider I was really excited to hear what these three gifted, godly women were going to say about my situation.

Let’s just say I turned to the woman beside me and said, “If I had nickel…” All the biblical knowledge on that stage and the best they could do for the single sisters was, “Enjoy your singleness. Serve Jesus.” There is nothing wrong with this teaching; it’s pretty much a paraphrase of God’s inspired word to Paul in 1 Corinthians. But it deflated me nonetheless.

Enjoy your singleness (which is always accompanied by the suggestion to go to Europe) and serve Jesus is advice you give to freshly-minted single people. Once you’ve been single for a few years and you’ve got a few stamps in your passport, you need deeper encouragement.

If I had been on that stage today, here are some things I would have shared with my single sisters. At different times during my single season, each of these lessons has taken its turn being most important. Maybe some day I’ll put some meat on the bones, but for now they are bullets…

--You don’t have to keep your desires a secret—not from your married friends, not from your single friends, and certainly not from your God. Desiring marriage doesn’t make you weak (although typing that sentence makes me a little shaky…)
--Marriage does not mean you’ve arrived and can finally start your life. First of all, no one ever arrives in this life. Second of all, your life started a long time ago. Do something with it (have you ever been to Prague?).
--You don’t have to be a missionary!
--The girl who has everything you want has hurts, disappointments, and unmet desires of her own. Don’t avoid her.
--No one deserves blessings from God. You can’t earn them for yourself and you’ve got no business criticizing the girls who are getting them.
--Be careful where you put your hope. It’s easy to put your eggs in the wrong guy’s basket. There’s only One who won’t disappoint you.
--You know the girl who says, “You just need to be content. As soon as I was content with being single I met Bob.”? Hit that girl—someone needs to stop her. Contentment is not the secret entrance to the next season of your life. It’s just a nice place to be. If you find yourself there, enjoy it!
--Serve Jesus. Ugh! I can’t believe I’m agreeing! When that advice is given as a spiritual pat on the head it really bugs me, but the reality is, the best way to be in fellowship in the body of Christ is to get involved! Very few married people are inclined to reach out to single sisters—unless they get to know you first. And how do they get to know you? From the way you serve.

Leave it to me to experience six hours of amazing biblical teaching and then walk away fired-up by a five-minute afterthought. But if being fired-up about singleness (yet again) gets me crying out to God and committing my future to Him (yet again), then so be it!

She's a Good Girl, Loves Her Mama, Loves Jesus, and America too...

Sometimes I get a little worried that I should have been a boy. These thoughts usually enter my mind when I’m recalling random sports statistics. I am a big sports fan. I love my Philadelphia teams passionately and can carry on an intelligent conversation about most other sports. This blog will probably be desolate during the fantasy football season.

There are other reasons why I think I’m not very good at being a girl. I have no use for Lifetime, TLC, or hair straighteners. Nicholas Sparks can’t make me cry (just throw up in my mouth a little). I own a really beastly drill and a plumber’s snake and I’m not afraid to use them. I kill all my own spiders (I admit calling my brother to get a dead bird off my porch) and I don’t like weddings.

The truth is, though, power tools and Sports Center do not make the man—or a man. Underneath my macho interests, down in my emotional wiring, I am all girl. I was having lunch with a girlfriend the other day and sharing with her some of the worries that are consuming me this week. I talked about desperately wanting to find a balance between two extremes (“My world will end if…” vs. “My life will begin when…”). Wisely, my friend said, “Of course you do. You’re a girl.”

During another lunch with the same friend, I vented about not being able to turn off my brain, about not being able to keep it from getting 10 steps ahead of my actual life. Again, she said, “Of course not. You’re a girl. We all do that.”

These conversations have brought huge relief. First, they have assured me that I am not bad at being a girl. Second, they have shown me that I am not alone in my tendency toward worry, or more honestly, frenzy.

I’m still chewing on the worry issue in my life and I’ll let you know what I figure out. In the meantime, I can recommend Marian Jordan’s Wilderness Skills for Women. Her writings on worry made me cry (take that, Mr. Sparks!).

Walking Through an Empty House, Tears in My Eyes

Since buying my house four years ago, I’ve had three roommates (not including my cat, Cosmo). Somehow, I’ve managed to be out of town when all three ladies moved out. Today I returned from a week at the beach to a house with an empty bedroom, empty shelves, and an empty feeling.

Looking around at all the space, I am tempted to spread out. For example, there are now two empty shelves in my pantry. When I was unpacking food from my beach trip, I threw it on the empty shelves instead of trying to organize it. My last roommate kept some things on the kitchen counter and I’ve already found myself dumping things in those empty spots. With no one sharing the space, it will be easy to get lazy about tidying up.

It will be easy to get lazy about other things too. Being on vacation with my family this week showed me how accustomed I am to having my own space and doing my own thing. I don’t want the TV on, but my dad is watching CNN. More people in the house want to watch The Deadliest Catch than The Bachelorette. I have to wait to use the internet. If these simple things were challenging this week, after I’ve had a roommate for a while, how hard will they be when I’ve been completely on my own?

For me, the worrisome thing about living alone isn’t being lonely; it’s forgetting how to play well with others.

L.A.'s Fine, but it Ain't Mine, New York's Home, but it Ain't Mine No More

It occurred to me recently that I am pretty hard on the town where I live. It’s a habit I picked up living in Philadelphia. Philadelphians are filled with hometown pride, but we temper it with a good bit of cynicism about our city. We can put our city down, but if an outsider tries it—it’s on.

Now I live in North Carolina, in a city nowhere near as grand as Philadelphia, and I rarely say anything good about this place. But if I really hate it here, why do I stay? As I was driving around running errands today, I was thinking of the little things I love about this town.

1. The Stamey’s sign that tells what flavor cobbler they’re serving each day.
2. Going to Edward McKay, selling an assortment of “what was I thinking?” CDs, and leaving with $20 and a Paul Simon CD bought with store credit.
3. Hearing local Idol Chris Daughtry singing a cover of “Poker Face” on the radio.
4. Being able to visit three different Targets in the same day.
5. The sense of accomplishment I feel now that I can drive from place to place without getting lost. This is not an easy place to drive (it was not planned on a grid like a certain other city…) and the roads change names without warning. This week was the first time I drove to my friend Heather’s house without directions.
6. My local grocery store is tidy, well-stocked, and staffed with the nicest people in the world. I’m convinced I will die in the lawless parking lot, but the store itself is a treasure.
7. The neighborhood around Walker & Elam reminds me of the neighborhood where I grew up—only posher.
8. Taking walks through Battleground Park, and going for bike rides along the greenway. I love that this town invests in places for us to keep fit.
9. My local branch of the library, set back in the woods with its sun porches and walking trails, is as fun as it is functional.
10. Downtown is going through a renewal. I love that restaurants like Ganache make their meals using locally grown products. I love getting a cider and some sweet potato chips while sitting on the upstairs deck at M’Coul’s.
11. Speaking of locally grown products, the farmers’ market is amazing.
12. The abundance of Mexican restaurants.

Mostly, though, what I love about living here is the same thing I miss about living there—the people.

Every Time We Say Goodbye

Last week I received a phone call from Compassion International informing me that one of the children I sponsor left the program. The message they left on my voice mail was very encouraging. Her family was pursuing opportunities in another area where there wasn’t a Compassion site, but she planned to finish school and hoped to continue on studying medicine. In the meantime, she has gained computer skills through the Compassion center that will help her find work when she does finish school and she has heard (and I believe accepted) the Gospel.

Knowing that she has moved on has caused me to reflect on our relationship. I started sponsoring her when she was 10 years old. The first picture of her I received showed a little girl with big eyes, a smile, and two braids tied with colorful hair bands. Since then, more pictures have come and I have watched her grow from a girl of ten to a young lady of 17.

When I moved to North Carolina, I met a man who is on staff with Compassion. He was taking a trip to the Dominican Republic—where this child lives. He graciously agreed to take some small presents to her from me on his trip. Soon I received a picture of her wearing bows in her hair that I had sent.

There have also been letters. In them, she would tell me about her hopes for the future, her progress at school (I even received some of her report cards), and her desire to see her friends and family come to Christ. She also faithfully inquired about my parents’ cat, Lizzy, who was my cat when I began sponsoring her. Somewhere in the Dominican Republic, there are pictures of Lizzy and her successor, Cosmo.

It is disappointing that I won’t get to see her finish school and exit the Compassion program ready to support herself; but I am thankful for the years we’ve had. I am excited to begin a relationship with another little girl the Compassion folks are mailing me (information about her, not the actual child). I look forward to Heaven, where I will get to meet these kids and where we will be able to talk without translators.

The Rest is Still Unwritten

I’ve been at the beach this week. While I sit in my beach chair, I think big thoughts. I ponder. A lot of things I think about are between God and me, some I share. As a result, my time here has not produced any fruitful blog posts. Before I leave, I will share some posts that I started in my mind, but probably won’t finish.

Public places where it is acceptable to pick a wedgie.
1. The beach.
2. Exercise class.

Why do families on vacation argue so much? Do they always argue, but when on vacation they just do it openly? Or is it the disruption to routines and sleep schedules that makes everyone ornery? Maybe sharing a small space for a week wears thin quickly?

In a related thought, I have overheard parents on the beach talking to their children in very abusive, belittling ways. I’ve also heard parents asking their children to do something five or six times and then giving up without the child responding. It makes me thankful that Shannon and I are able to get compliance from our students without shouting, begging or being unkind. But with that thought comes conviction. Let’s face it, a child being shouted at and called names at home is going to bring that baggage into the classroom. That child is probably going to need discipline and correction at school, probably a lot of it. Am I providing correction in a way that builds up the child, or tears him or her down? Am I correcting with kindness, or with the impatient frustration he or she gets at home?

Over the past few days I have been blessed to spend hours in conversation with some of my very best friends. The three who visited me here have been in my life since we were toddlers. Maybe it’s all the beach-sitting I’ve been doing, but I think of our friendships being like the tide. Sometimes, we’re really close and our lives overlap. Other times, the relationships recede and there’s dryness and distance. The good news is, these friendships are always there and they will always be there.

I'm Just Carryin' on an Old Family Tradition

Earlier this week I was cleaning out my pantry. It had gotten pretty disorganized in there and summer vacation seems like the best time for this sort of job. As I was tidying up I had a breakdown.

My dad’s dad was known for his stockpiles of stuff. When I discovered six unopened boxes of Crystal Light packets, three opened boxes of them, and enough canisters of Crystal Light to make 32 quarts of beverage, I called my mother and cried into the phone, “I’ve become my grandfather!”

I can’t drink a Dr. Pepper without thinking of him. My grandparents lived in Philadelphia, so we usually visited them once a week while we were growing up. One of the first things Dave and I would do when we got to our grandparents’ house was head for the mudroom behind the kitchen and grab a Dr. Pepper. There were always cases of soda back there.

If we ever got a toy or a game that required batteries we waited until we went to Pop & Gig’s house (that’s what we call them, go with it). Pop kept a box full of batteries in the back of the house (beside all the Dr. Pepper), so we would just raid the battery box and begin playing.

This year for my birthday, a couple of dear friends sent me a Taste of Philadelphia box. In it were Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews, a kind of candy my grandfather always kept on his kitchen table. If someone had handed me a Dr. Pepper while I was eating one of those peanut chews, I probably would have forgotten where I was.

Pop, and my father and I after him, could not resist a good deal. If he saw something on sale and it wouldn’t go bad, he bought it. But here is the thing about Pop—when he bought this stuff, I don’t think he bought it just to have it. He bought it because someone else might need it or want it. In the 16 years I knew him, I never saw him drink a soda and it wasn’t his Walkman using all those AA batteries.

Pop was wise about his money so that he could be generous. He bought shore houses for the family to enjoy. He and my grandmother gave Dave and me a weekly allowance. He bought me so many McDonald’s hash browns on Saturday mornings that I started to look like one. He would take us out for steak dinners and, during the meal, would ask, “Did you get enough to eat?” No matter how you answered the question, he would cut off a piece of his steak and put it on your plate.

As I think about Pop, and my dad, on this Father’s Day, I am thankful for the lessons they’ve taught me and for their tradition of stocking up. But if there’s an area where I really want to grow, it’s to learn their generosity. So if you need some Crystal Light, call me!

One more anecdote about Pop, unrelated to those above: A couple weeks ago while I was ranting about being at the shallow end of the family gene pool, my dad pointed out that Pop's genes gave me my singing voice.

Who's That Girl?

I have never been someone who sweats a whole lot. To illustrate my point, I will share the two times in my life when I can remember sweat rolling off my face.

First, the summer before eighth grade at basketball camp. We worked out in an old gym with a few oscillating fans to cool us. After a summer spent lying on the couch watching Dirty Dancing every day, my middle-school body was not used to such exertion.

The second occasion was the summer I worked at Sesame Place. A few times, instead of my regular character bodyguard duties, I was assigned to wear a character costume and walk around the park greeting children. As soon as the final snap on the Honker costume snapped, my pores ranneth over.

Even when I trained to walk a half-marathon a couple summers ago, I didn’t have much of a sweat situation (although one day after consuming a Power Bar Gel, I sweat salt, like “could put it on corn-on-the-cob” salt).

So given this history of sweat, I am increasingly surprised by how much I sweat these days—like good, roll-down-your-face sweat. This morning I soaked the bandana I wore to the gym. At first, I was simply going to add this phenomenon to the “30 Ain’t No Joke” list, but I’m beginning to think there’s something else going on.

I think this gym thing is changing me from the outside in.

The outside results are kind of easy to notice—old clothes are baggier, new clothes are smaller, I am, apparently, sweatier. The inside results are more subtle; I’m just beginning to be aware of them. One thing I’ve noticed is that this girl who never left the house in sweatpants will now go to the gym and then run errands. I have been around town in stretchy pants, bandana, pig tails and a t-shirt that says, “Happy Birthday, Peachy!” I’m using my blow-dryer less (and my clothes dryer, for that matter). I’ve joined Freecycle. I eat granola!

Part of me hopes I’m on my way to becoming one of those gangsta old ladies who does whatever she wants and is like, “What are you going to do about it? I’ve got newspapers in my house older than you are.”

But the super-self-aware part of me worries that this is just another phase I’m passing through. Today my feet prefer flip-flops, but wasn’t there a time they wanted knee-high boots? Today I’m wearing a t-shirt and air-drying my hair, but it wasn’t that long ago that I sought out Ralph Lauren and Clinique. (Who am I kidding? I still love me some Ralph!)

So I’ve decided to enjoy where I am, for as long as I’m here. Maybe the Joy-of-the-future will laugh at me some day, but I’m not going to sweat it.

It's Two Bare Feet on the Dashboard

Summer vacation is almost here. By this time next week, 10:00 at night will not have to be bedtime.

After receiving some good advice around Thanksgiving, I decided this would be my “summer of intention.” As I consider possibilities for ministry in my future, I want to know what it would look like to fill my days with conversations that are meant to encourage, support, and ultimately, point people to Christ. Is there a need for this kind of ministry? And if so, am I built for it?

These are the big questions I hope to chew on this summer. To that end, I am composing a mental list of all the things I want to do this summer. Here’s what I’ve got so far.

Note: Since I still have my teaching job awaiting me in the fall, there needs to be some vacation in the summer of intention; therefore, there are some fun things on here too.

Sit by the pool with my girlfriends.
Regularly meet with two recent high-school graduates before they head off to college.
Go for a jog/walk with Tracey.
Catch up with my long-lost mentor.
Read the ever-growing pile of books on my nightstand.
Visit Campus Outreach students during Summer Beach Project.
Go to a Phillies game (this could be tricky).
Buy an enormous drying rack for my clothes; use the dryer less.
Take a couple former students to the movies with Shannon.
Read, mark and inwardly digest the Bible.
Spend quiet days by myself, allowing the Lord to restore my soul.
Keep working out every day; add morning cardio classes to my regimen.
Miss my workout partner like crazy.
Have coffee and conversation with lots of people.
Try quilting, or at least find a quilting class I can try.
Talk about starting a multi-generational small group for women.
Facilitate the second meeting of the women’s book club.
Tell my story.
Visit old friends.
Be purposeful.
Build houses and friendships with high school students.
Swim in the ocean.

There's a Secret Garden She Hides

It has not been the easiest week at work. The end of the school year is always a hectic time and it seems like a lot of things have to be checked off the list in a relatively short amount of time.

I was pretty fired up this morning. In fact, I was certain the only way I would feel better would be to write a blog post ranting and raving about all the injustices I was enduring at work. Lucky for you, something calmed me down.

My students have been creating a garden outside my classroom this spring. This morning, as my rage was bubbling away inside me, my extraordinary teammate Shannon and I were looking at the garden. We watched as a hummingbird came to the hummingbird feeder we’d installed last week—the first we’d seen visiting. That brief encounter with the hummingbird caused some of the fire in me to subside. I sent my mom an email that said something like, "I'm overwhelmed and unhappy. A hummingbird came to the feeder. It was lovely."

Earlier in the morning, mud-covered and hair wild from the humidity, I dumped 12 bags of gravel into the garden area so that we could move a picnic table into the center. Then, around 11, I went outside to lay some mulch as well. I invited different students to come out and help spread the mulch. (Nevermind what the other students were doing while I was outside with a few—they were safe, orderly, and busy.) As we worked outside in the sun, what was left of my righteous wrath went away. When Shannon and I are in the garden with the kids, we can relax and laugh with them. We solve problems and find slugs. It's been so sweet to watch kids teach each other how to plant something, or how to water things.

Starting the garden has not been easy. We received a grant to subsidize it and I’ve been fretting over the paperwork this week. Shannon and I have been shopping and debating how to spend the grant dollars for weeks. We’ve wrangled with the county grounds keepers for permission to install the garden, and we’ve waited for various workmen to make sure there are no pipes or wires underground. I’ve lifted heavy things and covered my best running shoes in mud. And yet, when I see the garden through my classroom window, it is all worth it. Something about the garden eases my mind.

Earlier in the week I read this quote from a book called Serve God, Save the Planet by J. Matthew Sleeth:
Late in the day we sat together to weed the strawberry patch. A feeling of joy and peace overcame me. I felt close to God. I experienced “the peace that passes all understanding.” I was in communion with the saints and with [my wife]. Do you know why?
God created a man and a woman to work together in a garden. We were doing what our Maker designed us to do, and we were reaping the spiritual blessings.

When I read that quote earlier this week I liked it, but today, I lived it.

Born to Run

My family doctor in Philadelphia had a way of making everything about my weight. I would go see him for strep throat and he would find a way to connect it to being overweight. “Maybe if you didn’t eat so much, Joy, your throat wouldn’t be so taxed and susceptible to strep.” OK, he never really said anything like that, but I knew a visit to him for a tetanus shot or an antibiotic would be accompanied by a hefty dose of guilt.

The only exception occurred in the late 90’s. I lost 65 pounds, went to him for some malady and he didn’t say word. I went in fully anticipating a, “Wow! Great job, Joy!”, but all I got was a prescription. It was because he didn’t recognize me. He later told my mother he had no idea who I was.

I tell you this as background. Doctors are not people I see often. I’m blessed to be very healthy, so I rarely darken the door of a medical practice. This spring, though, I decided to take action against some varicose veins in my legs. Since there is no at-home cure for them, I have found myself out of my comfort zone, sitting in doctors’ offices.

Before my initial consultation with my new family doctor, I was anxious and worried that she would blame me, and my weight, for the varicose veins. I was prepared to defend myself—I am on my feet all day teaching! Cute shoes are not supportive! I’m trying to lose weight! Instead, she was super understanding and quickly referred me to a vein specialist.

When I got the referral message, they told me the doctor’s first name was Todd. It freaked me out. Todd is the captain of the soccer team, the cutest guy in school. I did not want that guy touching my legs while I was wearing paper shorts. Thankfully, if Dr. Todd was that guy, it was a long enough time ago that it was not awkward to have him feeling my calves. (In case you’re wondering, I still shaved my legs for the occasion. No reason to make the experience unpleasant for all of us.)

This morning I met the vein specialist. I prayed that he would be kind, that he would take his time with me, that he would not blame me for my nasty veins. When I walked into the waiting room, the average age dropped by about 50 years. As I talked with the nurses, I got the feeling they don’t see many patients my age. While one nurse took pictures of my legs, I joked about working my angles and making Tyra proud. When they told me I’d have to wear compression hose for three months I told them I hoped the What Not to Wear cameras wouldn’t be following me around. They were all very kind to me and I was greatly relieved.

In three months, after I have tried compression hose, Dr. Todd will do something magical to my veins that will close them off. He will then snip out the busted-up parts of my veins that show below the surface of my skin. My legs will no longer look like they belong in assisted living. Hopefully, they will look like the legs of a 30-something girl who runs a couple miles every day.

To get my compression hose, I had to visit a medical supply store. While I waited for a fitting room to become available, I sat in the store surrounded by the inevitable: guard rails for your bed, walkers, toilet railings, and boxes containing something called a cervical collar that I am really afraid to Google.

I often tell my younger friends that 30 is no joke—your body starts doing things you don’t want it to do. After sitting in that store today, I realize 30 is just the beginning. Right now I can avoid seeing doctors, but how long will that last? The reality of my body breaking down scares me.

What do I do when something scares me? I run. If it means waking up at 4:30 in the morning to get on a treadmill before work, I will run. If it means running on a beach with a good friend while everyone else eats breakfast, I will run. I will run from diabetes. I will run from stroke. I will run from heart disease. I realize this will only postpone the inevitable, but if it gives me a few more years to live a life that glorifies my Father, I will keep running!

I share this with you for a couple reasons. First, I wanted to give an update about my health that would inform and (hopefully) entertain. Mostly, though, I am inviting you to hold me accountable to my commitment to running. And, if you're so inclined, I invite you to run with me.

'Cause Down the Shore Everything's All Right

As I sit here typing with my windows open (not only am I cheap, I am a Northerner) I hear joyful sounds from the pool across the street. In the four summers I’ve lived across from this pool, I’ve been in it a handful of times. There are many reasons I avoid the pool—corn hole tournaments, eight-year-olds wielding pool noodles—but the main reason I steer clear is because I have a greater love.

My grandfather bought a simple shore house back in the 1960’s. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, detached garage. To the casual observer, this little property in Villas, New Jersey (“the little house”) is nothing special, but my grandfather’s wise investment was one of his greatest gifts to my family. We spent many weekends down the shore as I was growing up. Even the house grew up when my grandfather built a larger home on the adjoining lot. To this day, that house (“the blue house”) is my home away from home.

The location of my family’s beach houses has made me a different kind of beach-goer. First of all, the Jersey shore is 90 minutes away from where I grew up in Philadelphia. This allowed me to be a frequent beach-goer. Nothing to do this weekend? Let’s go down the shore. Friends coming to visit? Take them down the shore. President’s Day, New Year’s, any time school was closed on Monday—off to the shore!

Since the Villas is a 15-minute drive from the beach, I developed beach stamina. There was no walking back to the house for lunch, no going inside for a nap in the air conditioning (there was no central AC down the shore, just open windows and a bay breeze). When my family left for the beach in the morning, we took with us our lunches and all the entertainment we could want for the day. We traveled with an umbrella, comfortable chairs, L.L. Bean tote bags packed with amusements, and Twizzlers, there were always Twizzlers.

I’ve come to appreciate the beaches of North and South Carolina. The water is always warmer. I can’t say I miss the cost of New Jersey beaches—remembering to bring a beach tag or carrying quarters to feed the parking meters. Perhaps my favorite thing about Southern beaches is the peaceful coexistence of man and seagull. I have yet to have my sandwich ripped from my hand by a predatory laughing gull and for this I am eternally thankful.

This weekend I spent a delightful time in Sunset Beach, NC with some friends. It was glorious to be there—someone even had Twizzlers. I hope it becomes an annual trip for us. The weekend reminded me that the beach is my great love and for this reason, I’m not picky about which beach I'm on. But until I can establish some coastal Carolina traditions or until Curley’s Fries opens shop in Calabash, I’m afraid I will always feel a little home-away-from-homesick.

Learned the Hard Way

At our youth group’s senior banquet, one of my church’s pastors gave a great exhortation to our graduates. He encouraged them to plug into a campus ministry right away, telling them it is a great way to make friends and to grow in their Christian walk while at college. Then he said something that got me nodding like a bobble head doll. He told the seniors that if, or when, they don’t walk like Christians at college, Jesus would welcome them back. Our pastor assured them that Jesus would love them and their parents would love them, even if they messed up. It made me want to turn to the senior girl sitting beside me and say, “That’s my story!”

I know that my four years of college would have been different if I had joined a campus ministry (the “God-bless People” as my roommate and I called them). What I continue to wrestle with is, would those years have been better?

The grown-up Christian answer is, of course they would have been better! What my heart says is different. To do-over my college days would be to disown dear friends. It would mean trading in the sorority-house politics that developed my leadership skills. Gone would be the disappointments I faced as I pursued my own glory and good reputation—disappointments that left me humbled and wiser. And even though many of my stories may be unfit for youth group banquets—I had fun!

I have to look below the surface to see the consequences of my college choices. I was a spiritual late-bloomer. For some of my friends, college was a time of expansive spiritual growth. They reached young-adulthood grounded in biblical truth, ready to make an impact for the Kingdom. I left college grounded in self-justification, ready to follow Dave Matthews around the East coast.

I broke my parents’ hearts. I don’t think this hit me until a few years ago when I found a letter my dad wrote me while I was a junior in college. It was a simple note, sent along with a piece of music I’d asked him to send me. But in its lines, there was pain as he urged me to go to church.

Even with this knowledge, I can’t bring myself to regret my college experience. God has redeemed my misspent days. Because I wandered away from the flock, I know what it is to be pursued and rescued by my Good Shepherd. My relationship with my parents has been restored. I have experienced repentance, forgiveness, and abundant grace!

Why Be Normal?

This morning was the first meeting of a book club Laura and I formed for women at our church. We read Radical Womanhood by Carolyn McCulley. Simply put, this book presents a history of the feminist movement contrasted with what the Bible says about being a woman.

I went into the meeting with no real expectations. Laura and I had a planning session yesterday during which we brainstormed some discussion questions we could pull out if the conversation lagged. We had questions about what the next wave of feminism might look like, and about the effects of feminism on men. Because Radical Womanhood is not like most of the books you find in Christian bookstores in the women’s section, I was excited to talk about topics Christian women don’t usually talk about—leadership, raunch culture, the 1800’s.

Ten minutes into our discussion this morning and we were talking about the things Christian women always talk about: marriage, children, staying at home vs. going to work. The book definitely invites women to ask questions about their roles as wives and mothers. So even though the “typical” discussion topics of Christian women were warranted by the book, I felt stifled and disappointed when they became the order of the day.

The conversation finally turned when my dear friend Debbie asked what the single women in the room got from the book. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I believe I shared some of the questions Radical Womanhood stirred in me. Do I enjoy my job because God designed me this way, or do I enjoy my job because I am a product of feminist culture? Am I a confident, single woman because it glorifies God, or because of Gloria Steinem?

The gracious women in the room were all very affirming. They assured me that God made me just the way I am. One woman even told me she could see me being a pioneer woman in the 1800’s, raising my seven kids, running my home. (How I would love to pack my wagon and go back in time!) One woman, who joined our group simply because she was in the meeting room when we arrived, asked me why I believe it is hard to be a single, Christian woman. Not knowing me, she sensed that I was content with who I am, and she didn’t understand why I should be having issues within the church. Many ladies chimed their support, talking about different seasons having different advantages and how being single is great, and blah, blah, blah…

But here’s the rub, people I meet in the evangelical church say it’s great to be single and that God has us where we are for a reason, but church culture says something entirely opposite (stop me if you've heard this one!). If Debbie had not turned the tide of our book discussion, we easily would have devoted the entire meeting to issues pertaining to wives and mothers. If there’s nothing “abnormal” about being single in the church, why do church-lady conversations unfailingly wind up centering on marriages and children?

If you look around the church, most women are married and have children. They talk about what they know and what they have in common. What makes it difficult for the single woman desiring fellowship and community is having absolutely nothing from her own experience to bring to the conversations.

The reality is, being single in the church is not normal. But really, who is normal? Everyone in the church has something that causes them to feel separate--education, finances, fertility, etc. What I am learning is that when I isolate myself because I perceive that I am an outsider, I miss out.

Even though it is easy and comfortable to be surrounded by people like us; the real beauty of the Body is getting to experience life with people who are totally different. These relationships challenge us and propel us to growth while showing us various aspects of God’s character and God’s design.

As I sit here waiting for a friend (an empty-nester) to pick me up on the back of her motorcycle, I have to think these different relationships make things more fun too.

To All the Phones I've Loved Before

To celebrate the recent acquisition of a new cell phone, I would like to look back at the phones I have known and loved.

My first cell phone was a Christmas present in 1996. It lived in my glove compartment and was never turned on. To use its car adapter, I had to pop the battery off the back and replace it with another one that had a cord I could plug into the power outlet of my car (although in 1996, I probably would have called it the cigarette lighter). This phone’s primary purpose was for roadside emergencies. There were mornings, however, when I’d have to call and wake up my student teaching partner/carpool buddy from the parking lot of his fraternity house. As quickly as I could I’d say, “Chris, wake up. I’m going to the caf to get a bagel, I’ll be back in five minutes.” I had to be quick because I was roaming and that call would cost $2.50.

When I came back to Philadelphia and got my first big-girl job, I also got a new phone. It was a huge improvement. No longer did I have a cell phone the size of a brick. My new phone also boasted a little display screen that made caller ID possible. Its other great feature, I could change the banner from “Sprint PCS” to “Joy Lindros.” That phone started a lot of conversations, but alas, it could only get service in digital areas. Once I left the greater Philadelphia area, my little phone would search for service and eventually, give up, and slip off into power save.

Since I was traveling to central Pennsylvania a lot in those days, it was necessary for me to get a dual-band phone that could work in digital areas and roam on analog networks: enter phone #3. My third phone was a beauty. First of all, it was blue! It had a multitude of ring tones that I could assign to different callers. My brother, Take Me Out to the Ballgame. My dad, Ride of the Valkyries. I could even record my own ringtones. By holding the phone next to the speaker of my stereo, I was able to produce my own Margaritaville ringtone! I truly loved this phone. Even though it was held together by packaging tape, this is the phone that made the move to North Carolina with me. But the poor phone was old and tired. Sprint wanted me to buy a new phone, but they offered no free replacements for a phone that was at least 4 years old. So when I bought my house and could not get Sprint service in the living room, I moved on from my old provider and my old phone.

My next phone had a color display. I could choose a background picture (an orangutan hanging from a branch) and receive text messages. This phone could download ringtones. At first, there was the MIDI rendition of Brown Eyed Girl, but as technology came along I was able to add several others. This phone had a hands-free headset, very helpful when I was down the shore after New Jersey passed its no-phone-in-the-car law. After two years, Verizon told me I could have a new phone free of charge and I leapt at the chance to keep up with the latest and greatest.

And so I got a pink razr phone, or as it is more commonly known, The Pink Piece of Crap. One summer day I went walking and tucked my phone under one bra strap and my iPod under the other. My phone completely freaked out. When I took it to the Verizon store, the man told me it had water damage. “Why,” I asked, “is it made of sugar?” His solution was that I pay $50 to replace it. A lengthy debate followed during which I challenged the logic of paying $50 to replace something I hadn’t paid for in the first place and during which he summoned his manager for back-up. I questioned Verizon giving out phones that were so easily damaged that they could be rendered useless in less than three months. He kept going back to the $50 thing and finally I gave my infamous speech, “What if I don’t want this phone again? What if I think it’s a pink piece of crap—because it is a pink piece of crap—and I want to go back to my old phone?” He haughtily replied, “Well, you would need your old phone.” I smoothly placed it on the counter. $20 later, the orangutan was back, but there is still a happy ending for the pink piece of crap. This fall, when the orangutan phone was showing signs of age and it wasn’t time for me to get a new phone yet, I charged up the now-dry pink of piece of crap and went back to it for a few months. In fact, we were so happy together, I didn’t even replace it as soon as my two years were up.

As of this week, though, I have a new phone. It is a lot more phone than I can handle. Turns out, just because your phone can get Facebook on it, doesn’t mean it’s free. I enjoy the convenience of a keyboard for texting, but it is a strange new phone. Hopefully our relationship will grow to be a good one, because writing this has shown me that, as I journey through life, my phones are always along for the ride.