Veteran's Day

Veteran’s Day made me think about women’s rights and football. How did I get there? Let me tell you.
People were so kind to me and Rob on Veteran’s Day. My older sister especially goes on about how much she appreciates all we did…so much so that I had to stop and think, did I do anything, really? What did I do while I was in the Air Force that made me worthy of accolades and free meals at Chili’s? Then there’s that moment in church when they ask the veterans to stand up and so I do and everyone applauds. I think sometimes people believe I stand by mistake because I don’t look very veteranly. So I have to look back and remember my time on the flight line as an Avionics technician on the F-111. Rob and I were getting married during Desert Shield. Beepers were going off during our wedding. Nothing ruins a honeymoon quite like a war. Desert Storm brought 12 hour shifts to Upper Heyford Air Force Base where I was stationed in England. Our fighters flew from our base all the way to Iraq and back home again without landing anywhere in between thanks to the re-fuelers that met them along the way. It was an odd feeling, touching a jet that you knew was on its way to war - looking at a missile being loaded knowing that it would be gone when the jet got back. We got to paint a little yellow bomb on it for everyone that dropped and hit its target. I was a radar and navigation specialist which sounds very complex but the Air Force made it very easy. If something broke, it was in a box inside the jet. Take it out and put a new box in. They made it as simple as they could for teenagers like me.


I didn’t like the flight line as much as I liked the Air Force. It was cold and the work was hard, the tool boxes were heavy and the uniforms weren‘t flattering. The flight line gloves impeded my ability to hold a screw in its tiny hole to tighten it so I cut the fingers out of them. I was one of very few girls in this line of work and that was a good thing. That made me think about Mrosko. Mrosko was his last name. I don’t remember his first. In the military everyone kinda goes by their last name. I was Ramsey. He was Mrosko and he was the size of a large refrigerator. The boxes we had to sometimes change inside the jet were 100s of pounds and it took two people…unless Mrosko was there. He could do it alone. Imagine lifting a washer or dryer over your head and sliding it into place. It was effortless to him.
“Are you from a lumberjack family?” I joked.
“Kind of,” he smiled. “My oldest brother is big too. He plays in the NFL.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah, Bob Mrosko. He plays for the Giants. He’s going to win the Super Bowl someday. I just know it.”
“Oh…great.” I had my doubts. Mrosko didn’t.
He was unassuming and gentle and he loved to carry my toolbox for me. And I loved to let him - cause it was heavy.
I digress. You know the part of Jane Austen’s movies that I love most? The part where the women walk in the room and all the men stand up. I love that. When did that stop? When did ladies stop getting treated like ladies? I’ll tell you when….when a bunch of liberal feminazis wanted equal rights. They burned their bras and fought for the right to be treated like a man - to cuss and drink like a man - to hop from bed to bed with whomever, whenever, wherever. Once women were assumed morally superior. Remember when men used to watch their language if a lady was in the room? Yeah…that doesn’t happen anymore. (At least not where I work.) So it seems they were fighting for the right to be less than they were at the moment. Odd. I don’t want to open my own door. I want a man to open it for me and I don’t think that makes me less of a woman - I think that makes him more of a man.
And so Mrosko carried his toolbox and mine…and I’ve lost no sleep over that because he offered and seemed to like it. There used to be something innate in a man to protect and care for women. People assumed that I agreed with putting women in combat because I was in the military. It was a hot topic back then. No. I don’t think women should be in combat. Why? Not because we aren’t as smart as men. I say no to women in combat because of men like Mrosko. Gentlemen who can’t help but look after the weaker sex. If he and I were in a foxhole he would be so busy protecting me that he wouldn’t be thinking of himself. He’d probably try to carry my gun for me and I’d probably let him. That’s no fair, is it?
Bob Mrosko went on to win the Super Bowl in 1991 just like his little brother knew he would. I bet their family celebrated his victory and threw quite a party in his honor. I wonder too if they properly celebrated the little brother. The veteran. The gentleman who valiantly and honorably used his brute strength on a cold and rainy flight line an ocean away to ensure that Kuwait was liberated. I like to think they did.
So there. I confess. I feel guilty being celebrated as a veteran because I had others do my heavy lifting. And quite honestly, being in the Air Force was easy and fun and a great honor. Much like a 4 year long paid vacation. I am not missing any limbs and my body has not been scarred by road side bombs. I had it easy. Others have not. I celebrate them and their bravery and so should you. Pray for our troops...

Good Will = Good Times

I'm a thrift store junky. If you asked my husband if I had an addiction, he would have to site my need to visit a thrift store - any thrift store - every other day or so to get my fix. It doesn't have to be a ton of things that make me happy there. It can just be one or two little things. A china tea cup, missing from its set, it comes home with me - because it's China. Who cares if I never use it? I can now say I have China. A novel that I never would've bought new suddenly becomes do-able because, heck, it's only a buck. An electric wok! -For only $5- and the best part of the electric wok is that it has uncleanable black burn marks in the bottom. That way, no matter how many times I burn things in it I can say to all the witnesses..."that wasn't from me...that was already there." (It looks like new when I put the lid on...wah la - no more burn marks.) I fell in love with my first pair of Dansko shoes at a Salvation Army. I remember seeing them, brown, suede, worn, kind of ugly, but intriguing. When I slipped them on, I knew they were something special. I bought them, wore them home and googled the name. "Danskos". They were Italian clogs and none were available for less than one hundred dollars. Oh the joy that filled my soul. Dansko Italian Clogs...$100 shoes for a buck fifty. And so began my addiction. My son started annoucning proudly to friends that he got his latest Spiderman tshirt at the Salvation Army. I was a little embarrassed...I thought it might invoke some to pity us...not realizing the pure joy it brought me to buy a Spider man tshirt for 50 cents.
"Elijah, guess what!" I asked him. He was around five at the time.
"What?"
"They renamed the Salvation Army. They don't call it that anymore," I lied.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes, now they call it Macy's. Isn't that nice? Do you like your new shirt from Macy's?" I asked.
He fell for it for a while but didn't understand why they never changed their sign. Eventually he told people his shoes, shirt, etc. came from that store that used to be called Salvation Army. The gig was up.
My daughter has been equally scarred by my addiction. Just yesterday we found a pair of L.L. Bean flip flops. $1.99. Not my size, but hers. In the car, I insist she put them on and wear them into Chik Fil A.
"Ma, what's so great about them? They're just flip flops," she inquires.
"No honey, they're expensive. They're nicely made. They're L.L. Bean flip flops," I try to convey to her the joy she should feel. It doesn't work.
"They are cutting into the top of my feet," she complains.
"SHUT UP AND WEAR THEM. THEY'RE LL BEAN DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU WILL WEAR THEM TILL YOU CAN'T FEEL YOUR FEET...AND THEN I'LL CARRY YOU WHILE YOU WEAR THEM!" Of course I was kidding and the eruption of laughter from the back seat was followed by Elijah's best impression of me.
"Wear them till you bleeeeeeed!!!!!!!!!!" he bellowed in his best crazy-mom voice. She was back in her Converse before we got home.
You can find things at a Thrift store that you can't find anywhere else. Where else would you shop for the 80's themed birthday party you were invited to? And old music - ohhh the old music. I have a friend named Rick Elias, a musician. I was once at a thrift store in Alabama when I saw his CD from the early 90's on the shelf. He was sporting a fierce mullet and I smiled when I saw him there. I left him a wall post: "Dude, you were at a thrift store beside Patsy Cline!" He was delighted. I stopped short of telling him that he was only 25 cents. I also didn't disclose that I passed him over in favor of a gum ball, but that's not the point, the point is - he was beside Patsy Cline....nice!
Ultimately I think I love thrift stores because they remind me of my relationship with God. I can't resist junk because I know I have so much in common with it. Who among us has not been reshelved? Used? Worn? Tired? Broken? In need of a good wash? But God saw me and thought to himself, "What a deal!"
He bought me and took joy in His purchase.
A second chance.
Good Will Indeed.

Youth Camp Cometh

I've been busy getting ready for Louisiana Youth Camp. Most of the responsibility falls to my husband but he's kind enough to give me the task of finding cool videos to play during camp "goof-off" time. You know the kind...sports bloopers, funny pet tricks, etc. So I've been thinking a lot about my own youth camp experience. I know that everyone who has grown up in church has a youth camp story. In between the pranks, the mudd volleyball, the smelly hot cabins and the zip line - God tugs, bends and changes young hearts. It's as supernatural for the kids as it is exhausting for the adults. It's a staple in American Christian Culture and for good reason.
I don't know how old I was when I went to Camp Maranatha in North Carolina. Eleven, twelve maybe? Some things stand out more than others. I believe I was the only one that went from my church. Someone else paid for it. They called it a scholarship. I was one of four kids with a single mom who relied on God to meet every need. Some days we would find groceries on our back steps or anonymous money orders in the mail. I remember going to the store with my mom to buy toothpaste for the Camp. My very own tube of toothpaste. It was Bubblegum flavor....it felt like such a luxury. I felt a little guilty watching my mom scribble the cost of it down and subtracting...every penny counted. I knew my toothpaste meant a gallon of milk would have to be 1/2 a gallon or two boxes of mac n cheese would now have to be one.
I remember too the man at church who organized my venture. Herb Eplee. He came to pick me up that summer and we made the drive to Camp. My memories are fuzzy but I do remember distinctly him asking me if I had everything I needed.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you have extra money for the canteen?"
I was mortified. Extra money? What was that? If we did have any extra money it was spent on my tiny tube of Bubblegum flavor toothpaste. I was embarrassed and he read it on my face.
"It's okay," he said. He pulled over at a bank, got out and returned with some money. He tucked it into my hand.
"There now," he said. "Let's not tell your mom because I don't want her to feel like she has to pay me back. This is a gift. Okay?"
"Okay," I said. It felt so good - that crisp bill in my hand. It felt new, brand new as if my hands and Herb's were the only ones to ever touch it - like it was printed just for me - just for that moment. I went to camp and bought slushies with it. With every sip I thought of Herb. Have you ever been so marked by someone's kindness that it changes you forever? I have.
I told myself if I ever won the lottery, I was going to find Herb and pay him back one hundred times over. Unfortunately for Herb, I don't play the lottery - so it's nice to know that his reward is in heaven.
I grew up and moved away. Got married, had kids, went into ministry alongside my husband and became a sucker for every kid in need because when I looked at them, I saw myself. It's sweet, poetic irony that I'm helping to organize a state youth camp like the one that so altered my own life.
What happened to Herb? Is that what you're wondering? I wondered too. Thank goodness in facebook world, there is only one Herb Eplee.
I wrote him.
He answered:
"Rhonda...this is amazing!" he wrote. "Susie and I can't believe you remember us..."
Remember you? How could I forget?
How could I ever, ever forget?

Dental Spas ??

I was taken in right away by her shiny white teeth that glowed out of the TV into the living room like the sun. It was a commerial by a dentist for her "Dental Spa".
Her kids were in the commerical so she had to be good, right?
Dental Spa? Yes, a spa that's a dentist or a dentist that's a spa - I'm not sure which but I wanted to go.
We used to live in England. It's a wondrous place full of history, traditions, castles and friends that we will hold dear forever. It's also the home of socialized medicine. My daughter had the fortune of doing her first bit of growing up in England. She also had the misfortune of drinking their water that was just as wet as ours here in America but had NO flouride. What genius American said, "Hey, let's put flouride in our water so our kids' teeth don't rot out!" I don't know who it was - but we all owe him a great debt.
So when Arianna was 4, she got a cavity in her baby tooth. I took her to the English dentist who was, in fact, Indian. I didn't understand much of what he said but gathered that, because it was a "just" a baby tooth, they were not required to drill out the bacteria and fill it - they just filled it and hoped for the best.
"She's going to lose it anyway," he told me.
"Are there any dentists that speak good English? Where are they," I asked the attendant, frustrated that I couldn't understand why this was happening to my daughter and nothing was done.
"They go to America," whispered one of the kind English Dental Techs.
She got an infection. Then...another. Soon I was holding my four year old's hand as they knocked her out and extracted her baby tooth that could've been saved had it been dealt with properly in the first place. But it was all free: Socialized medicine.
Fast forward to today. Arianna is nine and her spacer that was put on in England has to be removed. The debacle that started in England's socialized medicine mess was about to be corrected once and for all by America's healthcare - the greatest in the world. And why not at the Dental Spa? I call and make an appointment, go to the office and start the paper work...the last page amazes me. Arianna and I read through it and tried not to giggle with excitement. It's all complimentary...you just have to put a check by the one(s) you'd like. The services include:
soft, plush robe while you get the work done
eye mask
headphones
tv, dvd, music
aromatherapy heated neck wrap
massage chair (with or without heat)
lip balm
paraffin wax mitts for your hands
jewelry cleaned
foot massaging slippers
neck and shoulder massage
sinus relief massage
headache relief massage
scalp massage
facial massage
hand massage
feet massage
While we're deciding - the happy receptionist comes out with complimentary lemon water. I make Arianna check all the boxes - for fun - and because I want to live vicariously through her.
They take her back and I soon I meet the doctor. Just as beautiful in person as she was on her commercial - bouncy, happy, smart, and she speaks plain, perfect English.
My daughter asks a question.
"What's that Bo?" she asks, caressing my daughter's arm.
She called my daughter Bo. When your child is given a nickname of endearment by a doctor coupled with an affectionate touch - approval by the beholding parent is a no-brainer. Of course she called her Bo and stroked her...because my daughter deserves to be addressed and comforted. Did that kind of interaction ever happen in England?
No. America is not only home to the best healthcare in the world but it is full of happy doctors who don't have to leave the country to get what's due them.
"They didn't get out all that baby tooth, we're going to have to get the rest out when we remove the spacer," she says. "They" being the English dentist who was Indian who did for my daughter only what the government thought she deserved - the minimum.
I said all that to say this - please don't think that socialized medicine is a good idea. It's not. I lived there. I have more stories than this. Every American should be petrified at the thought of the government being in control of medicine.
I remember being in England and having conversations about healthcare.
"Don't you have to pay some sort of deductible?" asked one informed Brit.
"Yes...yes we do."
Do I care? No. Because the feeling of taking my daughter home and knowing that she doesn't have a raging infection in her jaw that may go to her brain due to my government's lack of concern, knowledge or money is a priceless feeling.
And I'd be happy to debate it with any liberal, anytime, right after I finish my complimentary lemon water.

Vengeance is not mine. But sometimes I want to pick it up and hold it for a minute.

There has always been one thing about my husband that bugs me above all else. It's his inability to hold a grudge or be angry with anyone for longer than 0.25 seconds. For the longest time I have struggled with this defect in him and have tried to help him correct it. Not only can he forgive and forget with the blink of an eye - he also seems to take joy in the process. His inability to be unforgiving bothers me so much that I have had to work out reasons why he is able to move on after a painful event, and I am not. Is it because he is more spiritual than me? Is he holier than me? Better than me? That can't be it. So I decided yesterday that this defect of non-grudge holding can only be due to biology. He's a man. A single tasker. I am a woman. A multi-tasker. So - the reason he can't hold a grudge is because he can only do one thing at a time. For instance, if he's been hurt and wants to fish - he can ONLY think of the fishing - not the hurt. He is biologically incapable of fishing and holding a grudge at the same time - because that would fall under mulitasking.
I, on the other hand, can hold the grudge in one hand, the kids in the other, pay bills in the other part of my mind, wonder if the dogs have water, check to see if the coffee pot is on, plan on what the kids will wear for picture day, remind myself to catch Sarah Palin on Leno, send the World Vision kid a birthday card, wonder how my mom is, relive the moment in Superbowl 44 when Porter read Manning's pass like a Dick and Jane book and ran gloriously into the end zone, etc. - all at once. I don't have to put my grudge down - ever. Add the PMS factor to this and my excuse for grudge holding is unchallengable. I'm either about to PMS, PMS'ing or just getting over my PMS. Which means there are only 3 days of the month that I am normal. And usually...I try to sleep through those. Throw in a full moon and I could end up in jail.
So yesterday we got wounded. Rob recovered. I have not.
We talked about it last night and I marveled at his ability to forgive and move on- and I blamed his simple, single tasking mind for the reason he could skip through the house gleefully while I was busy envisioning stabbing this person who hurt us in eyeballs with very sharp No.2 pencils.
I share my thoughts of eyeball stabbing with my husband.
"You're still thinking about that?" he asks. "Let it go."
"Let it go, let it go??? But he __________________________________________!!" I exclaim.
"Rhonda, you have to start seeing people the way God sees them. We don't know what kind of month he's had. We don't know what he's been told, what he's been through...we don't know what his health is like, or his family. I have to look at him and say to myself, 'there but for the grace of God go I.'"
I hate it when he throws himself into "wise Pastor" mode. It's hard to argue with someone who is quoting scripture.
Rob has always had a knack for loving stupid people. The stupider they are - the more he seems to love them. He wants to help them - he wants to cheer them on their spiritual journey. Stupid people are attracted to him. He gives the stupidest people the benefit of the doubt. One stupid person in particular struggled with a drug addiction that was so profound - he was abandoned by everyone around him. Except Rob.
"Rob....he's not going to change, give up." I told him that. Everyone told him that.
The guy would be at the altar weeping one minute and in jail the next.
"Sometimes," he told me, "people just need one person to believe in them. If he has to ride the altar to heaven....let it be the altar in my church."
Ministry is full, full, full of stupid people. If it weren't for all the stupid people, ministry would be so much more fun.
So I was in bed last night lamenting over the grudge that consumed me.
"Stop talking about it," said my noble, single-tasking husband.
"Let's just pray for him, right now...Dear Lord we just ask...."
I couldn't do it. I crossed my arms beneath the covers.
"I'm not ready to pray for him yet," I told God while Rob went on.
I want to get up and sharpen pencils.
Maybe when my hormones settle down...or when the moon is just a crescent...maybe then I can pray for him.
Like St. Augustine prayed: "Lord, make me good. But not yet."
When I came to from my own prayer, Rob was sound asleep. The grudge he could rightfully carry was not on him. It's then that I had to admit: It is not Rob's biology that makes it impossible for him to carry a grudge. It is his preoccupation with his mighty God. He's so busy with his single task of loving God, he can't do anything else.
So since Rob is not going to carry his grudge, I slip it onto my back beside mine - he's so lucky that I am a multi-tasker - Able to bear his grudge and my own simultaneously.
And I am lucky too...that not only does he love stupid people, he marries them.

I got a Chemical Peel and lived to tell about it.

So, I'm approaching 40. Last time I was at the doctor he mentioned how I could benefit from a chemical peel.
"We could knock off these precancerous age spots with a peel. Medium-depth," he said while he held a magnifying glass to my face with his penlight shining a beacon on all my facial shortcomings.
When, I wonder, did my spattering of freckles go from "cute angel kisses" to "precancerous age spots"??
My doctor, a realist who is more than happy to tell you how it is, also said it would even out my "fine" lines and wrinkles. Hmmmm. You mean, I could get something done for cosmetically vain reasons and then blame the need for it all on the "precancerous spots." Awesome! Count me in.
So...I did it. On Monday. I should've known by the doctor's pre-procedure briefing that this was a tad more serious than I had imagined.
"You probably won't want to leave the house for about a week," he said.
"Ok," I thought, "that's okay. I could unpack that last box."
"I'll have two nurses with me, one to neutralize the acid and the other to wipe your tears so they don't roll into the acid that's still on," he announces.
Now I'm thinking out loud.
"Do what? Tears? I'm going to cry? It hurts that bad?" I ask.
"Well," he explains, "not everyone cries but it does sting a little. Don't worry, I'll have another nurse holding the fan on your face to cool you down."
So now I'm thinking okay...he's a doctor and he has to say this stuff just in case.
Right?
"We rarely have patients who scar from this procedure," he went on.
"Uhhhhh....scarring," I'm using my inside voice again. My inner dialogue is getting more worrisome.
"Okay," I think, "he has to say that just like the people with Plavix have to tell you that you could die if you take it. No worries."
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When I laid down and he started smathering acid on my face while one nurse fanned and the other neutralized - I could only liken the experience to having a blow torch held to my face. It took longer than I thought and hurt worse than I had imagined.
"It'll be worth it," the nurses kept saying everytime I groaned.
"If you need something for pain later in the week, give me call," the doc said.
Great...I'm gonna hurt even more later?
What had I done to myself? The first day it felt like someone had put egg white on my face and let it dry. My face drew up and freckles that were underneath, rose to the top. It was like a bad, bad sunburn. The second day my face felt and looked like a dried creek bed. Then on day 3 the peeling started. Raw, tender freckle-less flesh shone from beneath the ravages of my acid baked dead skin. My kids were horrified. My son wouldn't kiss me good night.
"I don't want your skin to fall on me," he said.
Arianna was more sympathetic.
"Oh mommy," she said, "I love you anyway."
"Crud," said my husband. "Is that going to go away?"
I imagined how the lepers in the Bible felt. I thought of burn victims and how it's nearly psychologically impossible to leave the house when you don't look like everyone else.
I looked in the mirror and saw my biggest, darkest freckle losing it's battle to stay on my face. I peeled it off and threw it in the garbage.
My whole life I wanted that thing gone and now - it was, and suddenly, I wanted it back. Rob called me Freckles when we dated. What would he call me now?
Today I went back to the doctor. I am bright red, hurting - some has peeled, some has not. I can not envision ever looking normal again. I can't open my mouth or smile without some part of my face cracking open.
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I'm sorry - chunks of my face keep falling on the keyboard and I'm tired of backspacing.

"Come back Thursday so I can check on you. You're on schedule," said the doctor.
"I'm a little worried about the forehead not peeling yet. It's behind but it will catch up. And these red spots, let's put some Polysporin on those so they don't get infected. And let's make that appointment for Tuesday instead. I can tell you need some reassurance during this healing process," he said.
Ya think? I wonder what gave that away.
Was it me pointing at my face over and over and over saying "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?? WHERE IS YOUR LICENSE TO PRACTICE??? WHEN WILL I BE ABLE TO GO BACK OUT TO EAT? DO YOU REALIZE I'M HAVING TO COOK INSIDE MY HOUSE? DO YOU KNOW HOW DANGEROUS THIS FACE IS FOR MY FAMILY?"
I took pictures of myself for you but now I don't know if I want anyone to see them.
I look soooo bad - I don't want to scare you.
Here's one from the internet:

I sent the ones of me to my sisters...
"You're nuts," said one.
Stay tuned. I'll let you know the progress. sldk54765fh weona34565slk

Black and Gold (Card)

It was Black and Gold day today.
What is that you ask? So did I. My kids informed me that it was Spirit day today and they could where Black and Gold or any kind of Saints gear to school instead of their uniform.
"Oh, neato." I thought. And off we went to the mall. When we got there we were greeted by 10,000 other parents who were looking for the coveted black and gold shirts, jerseys, anything with a fleur de lis...anything with Bush or Brees on it.
"Hmmm...all the schools must be doing this," I thought. And they were. All schools. And every single parent of every single school in the state of Louisiana had gathered there in JC Penney at the Mall. Apparently, everyone was out of Saints stuff everywhere else. We went through cosmetics and saw the aisle laden with black and gold ahead...Arianna found her favorite shirt right away. Then...I saw it...draped over a hanger - all alone on the youth rack. It was a number 9 Saints Jersey. I grabbed it, looked it over, thought it was too big for Eli, looked at the tag and gagged - decided it was too much money to spend on one kid for silly Spirit Day and just then, as I started to put it back I was suddenly surrounded. Surrounded by at least 10 sets of parents...foam dripping out of their mouths as they asked, "Are you going to get that?"
Well I wasn't - but suddenly I thought..."I'd better."
"Yes...'" I said.
Yes I am going to buy the overpriced, black and gold, 100% nylon, Official NFL Jersey, with breathable mesh, flat-knit ribbed with v-neck collar in honor of the great Drew Brees and America's Team, the New Orleans Saints. Yes I am. And after I do, I'm going home to face my husband and explain to him why, after just selling our house to get out of debt, we were BACK in debt...over a jersey....for Spirit Day."
Against my better judgment and all common sense, I took the Jersey and Ari's shirt to the register. Some followed - hoping, no doubt, that I would drop it on accident so they could descend on it (like a Saint on a Viking fumble). Other fretful parents approached me.
"Where did you get that?" they asked.
"It was the LAST ONE," I said - laughing with glee on the inside.
The last one. And it was mine.
It was a long night. Rob was still depressed over his Vikings loss - how would I convince him that I spent all his boat money on an NFL Jersey for a team he had just barely decided to root for.
"But honey, it was the last one. It was like the Christmas that people fought over the Tickle Me Elmo doll. I had to have it. I wanted it because everyone else wanted it - We can all take turns wearing it on Sunday for the SuperBowl...I'll mow lawns on the side to pay it off..."
He forgave me for my knee jerk, impulse buying and before they headed to school this morning I heard Rob dressing Elijah in his room.
"You're getting peanut butter on your jersey. Don't do that. You can't have brown on your nice Black and Gold."
"Wonderful," I thought...He's been sucked into the Saints Vortex of Fandom..he cares about the JERSEY!
Imagine my surprise, as I picked up the kids today, I counted over a dozen Drew Brees jerseys. And then at Karate class - there were more.
"Where did you get yours?" I asked one parent.
"Family Dollar," she said. "They had replicas."
Go Saints.

Still Awesome

It's 1am and we tucked the kids in for the fourth time. We just got back from Frontier Fest in Arlington, TX. If you don't know what that is, it's a massive concert/sermon fest for Christian Youth. Somewhere in the middle of the praise and worship time at last night's session the legion of participants burst into a rendition of "Awesome God". I always get a little sad when I hear that song. It was written by the late Rich Mullins: someone I had the privilege of knowing and interviewing during my time as a deejay, CCM writer and concert promoter way back in the day. So while the kids sang, my husband took his cell phone and snapped a video in a futile effort to capture the perfect sweetness of the moment. I uploaded it here:

It always bothers me when people talk about Rich's death and connect him with the song, "Awesome God" - because "Awesome God" was the least of his lyrical work. He came up with the song back during the time we all thought stuff was "Totally Awesome." He wrote so many great songs since that one and, if you asked him, he would tell you Liturgy was his favorite album. His music had blossomed so much from that simple anthem but it would be the one he was known for. "Rich Mullins, the song writer who penned Awesome God." So the kids sang it loud and long and waved their arms and I sat there, a little sad - thinking about my friend who was gone. I thought of the first time I met him. I worked for a radio station named SuperPower 103 in Chattanooga, TN. It was my job to meet with him, interview him and get what we called 'a liner.' It's those quick little recordings you hear before a song. An artist will say something like, "Hey this is _______, thanks for listening to ________FM!!" We always pre-wrote the liners so they could read them easily while we recorded them. The one I wrote for Rich went like this: "Hey, this is Rich Mullins and whenever I'm in Chattanooga, I always listen to SuperPower 103!" Cheesy, but fun. I put my script in front of him and held my microphone to his mouth. I'd done it so many times before with so many artists, it was mundane. I didn't expect a fight but he gave me one. He read it to himself and looked at me. "I can't say this," he said. "What?" I was shocked. Artists love deejays because we play their music. Deejays love artists because they give us music to play. Didn't he know the rules? This never happened before. What was his problem? Why was he being difficult? I was bewildered and bemused. "I can't say this because," he continued, "what if - when I'm driving through Tennessee - I'm on a vow of silence? If I'm on a vow of silence, I can't listen to the radio." He looked at me, half smirking, and waited. Was he serious? Was he being sarcastic, provocative? Is he being a jerk, or messing with my head? And is there really such a thing as a 'vow of silence'? "Well," I shot back....you could say "Hi, this is Rich, and if I'm NOT on a vow of silence and I happen to be in Tennessee, I listen to SuperPower 103!" He looked relieved and happy with the suggestion. "Oh...okay. Great," he said. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. He did the liner - in one take and even gave me a 3,2,1 countdown before it. He was different, he was fun. I sat through his concert and began to understand that no interview with Rich would be like the other canned, cookie cutter artists. He was the real deal. He'd kick off his shoes and spout profundities and play every instrument known to man in between. He gave the best interviews EVER and if his dog, Bear, wagged his tail for you, you'd get one more hitch-hiking story, a free concert t shirt, a quick dulcimer lesson..."My dog is the best judge of character," he'd say. And so this complicated, sweet soul wrote the song that you have probably sang a hundred times..."Our God is an Awesome God, He reigns, from heaven above..." You're singing it now, aren't you? I wonder how many times Rich has re-written it since he left this earth. If he were here and I could lift my mic to him one more time I'd bet he'd apologize for the understatement that is "Awesome God". That is...if he weren't on a vow of silence. It makes me happy to think that Rich and his music are a bigger part of my future than they are of my past.

Surviving Michael

I've debated on whether or not to write this blog. It's heavy on me. In the end, I think, I'm doing it to process my thoughts more than just for the sheer joy of writing.
Where to begin? It's about someone I'm going to call "my friend" because that's what he is. I'm going to avoid putting his name here so it will stay tucked away from google searches.
It's a small facebook world, and that's where I first met him. The common ground of "Christian Youth" made us friends and one conversation turned into many. It was C.S. Lewis who said a friendship is born when one person says to another, "You too? I thought I was the only one!" And so it was with us. He was excited to hear about the move my husband and I made to Louisiana and our new goals in ministry. He was eager to hear all about it and ever since he's been quick to offer prayer, help with Youth Camp planning (because he's done a gazillion) and the latest cutting edge website information. My daughter fell in love with his talking dog videos she found online. Who doesn't love a guy who makes his dog talk? I thought about trying to set up my little sister with him so he could be part of our family. He's that nice. That kind. That genuine.
And so fast forward to a moment in front of my computer when I go searching for a video of a youth camp he had previously sent me. I can't find it, so I google his name hoping his YouTube channel will pop up. It doesn't. What does pop up is a slew of headlines with Michael Jackson in the title. It seems my friend is one of the accusers we heard so much about during the trial years back. I pour over them. I pace the house. I read them again. I grew up with Michael Jackson. I had him in his prime - the eighties. He's the first guy I ever danced with - albeit, in my living room in front of the TV...all alone...and badly. He was part of the fabric of my childhood and when he died I grieved his loss as my mom grieved for Elvis. It was sad. I didn't want to think about the bad or the bizarre behavior that overshadowed him in the end. But now, here it was.
"Should I tell him I know," I ask my husband.
"No, what good would come from it?" he said.
But in a moment of weakness, I can't help myself.
"I googled you." I said to him. "Have you ever googled yourself?"
He knows where it's going.
"People don't like me," he says, alluding to the legion of MJ fans who have taken to discussion boards, blogs and fan sites to dismantle and discredit his testimony.
My friend hasn't had it easy since his time on the stand. Once flourishing in the ministry, he's now taking a break from it all after a personal loss.
"Are you allowed to talk about it?" I ask.
"I can talk about it," he says.
I sense in my heart that I am treading on sacred ground. I hadn't been invited - really. I feel like a trespasser. At times he dodges the subject and deflects my concerns with humor. The mother in me (and the nurse and the Pastor's wife) rises up and goes after him.
"Are you okay? Have you forgiven him? How? When?" I ask. I feel the need to verbally coddle him although I hear the echoing words of my husband, "What good would come from it?" I begin regretting my choice one moment but in the next - he answers.
"I'm okay," he says. "I have forgiven him. When I was like, 16 or 17. After some time with a shrink. Years."
I think back about the things I had read about my friend concerning his accusations. It's one thing to read about a Michael Jackson accuser but it's much tougher when suddenly they have a face, a name, a cute dog, a personality- warm, witty and wounded. I don't know what happened at Neverland but I do know a person's perception is their reality and my friend's reality landed him in years of therapy. I retreat from my interrogation. I had more questions but my husband was right, what good?
Today I was watching TV, my laptop at my fingertips. I watch Dr. Conrad Murray walk across the TV screen. The news anchors are talking about his indictment concerning the death of Michael Jackson. Just then, a facebook chat window pops up. It's my friend.
"How's camp planning going? Have you got a theme yet, you need to pray about a theme."
"I know. We're gonna. No theme yet." I answer.
I watch the face of Conrad Murray, his eyes welling up with tears and the dichotomy of these two strikes me. Two souls in the shadow of the greatest entertainer in the world. One defined by his death and the other forever changed by his life. One descending into the pit and the other rising up from it.
"I think I want to Pastor again," says my friend.
"I think that would be wonderful. God's not finished with you." I say.
"I agree."