A Lesson on the Train - Unlearning Fear

"Come with me to the next car on the train," motioned the father to his son.

As the son looked through the glass door, watching as the car up ahead bounced and swayed and failed to make a straight path, he shook his head, "No way!"

"I'd really like you to come with me."

"But why?"

"Because it will be fun."

"No, Dad. Please don't make me."

"Well, you can stay here. But I'm going to the next car."

The son watched as his father slipped through the door. Seconds later, the son stood up and followed his father.

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I've sat in that seat where the son sat.

During our family's first trip on Amtrak, I felt paralyzed when I saw what it would take to cross from one car of the train to another. It was an obstacle course, requiring passengers to open one door, walk across a constantly shifting platform, open a second door, and step into the next car.

The failure to conquer that fear could have resulted in hunger because the dining car was separate from the sleeper car. My mom and my sister kept showing me that the path could be navigated, and eventually I managed to conquer my fear. Since that trip, I have fearlessly passed through many train cars.

Mark Batterson writes in his book In a Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day,

What's interesting is that psychiatrists posit that we're born with only two innate fears: the fear of falling and the fear of loud noises.

That means that every other fear is learned. And more importantly, that means that every other fear can be unlearned.

. . . .

One of my sacred duties as a parent is to help my children unlearn their fears.

. . . .

Think of your fears as mental lions. If we don't learn to chase those fears, they can keep us at bay for the rest of our lives. So, like a good parent, our Heavenly Father helps us unlearn the fears that would cause us to pass up so much fulfillment and fruitfulness--because He loves us and wants the best for us. (pp. 47-48)

The father on the commuter train last week knew this and wanted to help his son. My mother also knew this and wanted to help me. Both gave options and led by example. Just like Jesus.

So consider what fears you have that need to be unlearned and aske whether you are willing to follow your Heavenly Father, even when the path doesn't line up or looks scary. And consider what fears you can help others unlearn so that they won't have to pass up fulfillment and fruitfulness.

Where Everybody Knows Your Name (and Story)

I grew up in a town with anywhere from 6,524 to 7,202 people in it, depending on which census numbers you look at. The best thing was that everyone knew everyone. The worst thing was that everyone knew everyone. And between the town grapevine and the scanners, of the radio frequency variety not the copier variety, everyone heard everyone else's business. But I didn't mind; I enjoyed hearing people's stories.

After I graduated from college and officially moved away from my small hometown to a larger city, I thought I'd never have that same Cheers-like experience where everybody knows your name. Thankfully, I was wrong.

In 2003, I took a temporary job that required me to commute to Dallas every day. And because I don't drive there, I took the commuter train.

During the first week, I quickly realized that there was a Cheers-like community on every train, especially the morning trains. I can't remember all the passengers' names, but I still remember some of their stories.

There was the librarian who had gotten a friend to fix him up with a lady in China. He planned to visit his new girlfriend and decided to learn Chinese. So as his walkman fed Chinese sounds into his ears, he attempted to mimic them, often louder than he meant to.

There was the veteran who volunteered several times a week at the VA Hospital. Despite being married, he claimed that every woman on the train was his girlfriend and regaled us with his stories of competing in the wheelchair Olympics.

There was the psychology professor with the gravelly voice who desperately wanted to serve on a jury. She surveyed fellow passengers about how she should answer questions from lawyers so that she could be picked the next time she received a juror summons.

There was the methadone addict who brought his bike onto the train and often had to detrain prior to his destination because he had forgotten to bring some required medicine with him. He warned that without it, he would be unpleasant to be around. We took his word for it.

There was the janitor who fell asleep within seconds of taking his seat and had to be awakened each day at his stop. While he was sleeping, other passengers would remark that he must have quite the night life or a second job that prevented him from getting enough sleep.

There was the medical researcher who worked at Southwestern Medical School who enjoyed watching me cross-stitch. One day, she asked if she could sew a row on a bib that I was working on, and I obliged. She did some backwards stitching on it that caused that one row to be higher than all the rest, but I couldn't undo it with her sitting beside me. It made for quite a story when I presented the gift to the recipient.

There was the archivist who had to clip portions of the paper each day on her commute. She was always on task.

I could go on listing other passengers and their stories, as well as the stories that evolved between the passengers and the train personnel, but hopefully you get the gist. This wasn't a Boston or NYC train. It was a Texas train filled with relational Southerners.

When I announced my last day of commuting after three short months and celebrated it by bringing pizza and Dublin Dr. Peppers for the crew, many of the passengers wished me luck and said their goodbyes with a disappointed look. It was as if to say they couldn't believe that I would ditch the commuting community, or maybe they were sorry that they had let me in to their little world considering that I ended up being a short-timer. They'd probably be surprised to know that I have often missed them and wanted to hear their new stories.

All of these memories have come flooding back this week as I have been making a few trips by train. I haven't seen any of the characters who played such large roles in the 2003 morning train community, but I'm not sure I really expected to. Instead, I'm content to remember it just the way it was back then. When everybody knew my name and was always glad I came.

Blasts from the Past, 5 (Finale a/k/a Finally!)

Thirty years ago, on July 18, 1979, my status as an only child changed forever. A little seven-pound baby sister named Erin arrived. I quickly decided that I no longer liked my name and changed it to "Karen" in order to rhyme with my sister’s name.


My expectations of an immediate playmate were dashed when I realized that she could not write her name at six weeks of age. But Erin more than made up for that in the years that followed by agreeing to be my permanent student each time I announced, "Let’s play school; I’ll be the teacher." Ultimately, I would be the one learning from her.

Growing up, we didn’t share many traits or tastes or anything for that matter. I was always too concerned that Erin would break something as she always seemed to know how to take things apart, even things that weren’t meant to come apart. What I didn’t recognize then was that she was developing a skill, one that would allow her to later teach Mom and me how to use different electronics and to set up anything that is mechanical or technical.

When Erin learned to write, she started inventing recipes and memorializing them on my mother's spare recipe cards. For example, "2 fish, 1 Jiff, bake 10, get out." I don't know that she ever tried to make that protein-packed dish, but I do know that her recipes have come a long way since then. She now makes up recipes that are worth tasting and has a knack for knowing what ingredients to substitute in old, tried-and-true recipes to give them a new taste.

We didn't exactly get along well when we were growing up. We seemed to be complete opposites and couldn't find any common ground. But once I went to college, things changed. It was as if we both raised a white flag and decided to become friends. And since we've been friends, I've learned so much about what a big heart she has and how she goes above and beyond to help people. Even if it's just trying to get toll booth attendants to smile.

I couldn't ask for a better sister or friend. She puts her fear of flying aside to come for visits, she drives me all over this state and other states, she keeps me informed on current events, she prays for me, and she loves me with unconditional love. I'm glad I get to brag on here in honor of her 30th birthday.

So happy birthday, sweet Sister!

Blasts from the Past, 4

During the two years that I've been blogging, I've often wanted to go back and repost some of the earlier posts or put together a sampling of posts that I think represent what "Bluebonnet in the Snow" is all about. And since I haven't done that before, I thought I'd do that today as part of this week's "Blasts from the Past" series.

Let's Start with Semantics (originally posted June 3, 2007)

For those of you who aren’t from Texas, a bluebonnet is a wildflower that appears alongside Texas highways every spring.

For those of you who are from Texas, snow consists of frozen water vapor that falls to the ground in soft, white crystalline flakes.

Normally, these two natural “objects” would not be found together for obvious reasons. But with Texas weather, anything can happen, including having a wintery snowfall in the midst of spring. And that’s exactly what occurred on Easter weekend this year.

But that wasn’t the only odd occurrence this spring. It was around that time that I felt God awakening in me the desire/need/urge to write.

But I didn’t immediately put pen to paper (my preferred way of writing). Instead, I did what comes naturally to me: I questioned God.

“Lord, is this really something that you want me to do? You know I had that idea a few years back to write a book, but I had to scrap that because my motives were wrong. Would you help me do this without making this about me?”

“Lord, you know I write all day long for work and often struggle with getting things to flow and sound right. Have you equipped me to do this? You know that I'm not humorous (or at least not on purpose). And my creativity, while it stuck around a little longer than my flexibility, has long since faded. And I think that most of my best writing was used up during college. So do I really have what it takes to write?”

“Okay, Lord, I’ve been reading all these books and blogs about publishing in the Christian genre, and it isn’t easy. It’s actually a LOT harder than I could have imagined. There’s a marketing aspect involved, and I’m not sure that’s part of my skill set.”

“Lord, it took me 6 tries to be able to get my little blurb accepted to join The Christian Writers’ View. Were you trying to block me or test my perseverance? This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”

As I was struggling through this process, I decided to pray beforehand for once. (I’m really guilty of going into things and asking God to bless my decisions instead of consulting Him ahead of time.) And through those prayers, I realized that it was right to pray beforehand, and at the same time, I realized that no matter how much prayer I put into this, I still might never be published. And I have to be okay with that. I need to accept God’s leading might not be calling me to a life of fame.

So even after all the prayers and questioning, I still felt God tugging on my heart to be obedient and to write. I didn’t get a lot of clear answers to my questions, mostly just reminders. I was reminded that sometimes when things seem so much bigger than me, it is something that God wants me to do in order to require me to lean on Him. (All I have to do is think back to getting my job and how I said after my not-so-great interview that the only way I was going to get the job would be for God to secure it for me.) And sometimes, God strips me of things I depend on (MY creativity, MY abilities, etc.) to allow His creativity and His ability to shine through. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “All writing comes by the grace of God.”

And so, I feel a little like a bluebonnet in the snow. I’m out of my comfort zone. But hopefully I will acclimate quickly and just enjoy the newness, the contrasts, and the opportunity to just hang out for as long as He allows in this world of writing and writers.

14 Inches (originally posted June 3, 2007)

Fourteen inches. That’s all. Sounds like a short enough distance that I could hop on one leg while blindfolded and still make it. But that’s not the leap at issue.

These fourteen inches are from my mind to my heart. And somehow, because of where those inches are located, the distance seems much greater. Just ask the nerves that run between the two organs. Mine are probably a bit weary from the constant battle.

My heart: I feel unseen, unwanted, unchosen.
My mind: Just believe the Truth.
(John 8:32)

My battle isn’t the only one like this. I talked to a friend today whose heart-mind battle looked a lot like mine but with different words. This friend said that family members affirmed that the outcome of a situation was good, but the heart couldn’t grasp that. It was holding onto a history of feelings. And the mind, which wanted to believe that all was well, was not sold on that outcome just yet. It was still allowing the heart to take the reins. And so the fourteen-inch battle was still in full swing.

To get my mind on top of my battle, I need to be willing to reject any feelings that are not consistent with the Truth. And I want to do that. It’s just, I get stuck sometimes with my heart on a different page than my mind. It’s as if my heart has taken my brain hostage, intercepted all the signals from my brain, and is directing the communication. My brain, which is powerful enough to solve calculus problems without any direction from my heart, is having trouble taking back over command central.

They say, “Pick your battles.” But, I’m not sure that I personally ever got a vote on this particular battle that my heart and mind started waging years ago. I’m signing off from the battlegrounds today, but I can’t say it will be the last time that my pesky heart stirs up trouble.

Slaying the Beast (originally posted July 8, 2007)

Have you ever found yourself saying, “If only I had . . .” or “If only so & so would . . . ”? I know I’m guilty of this. There always seems to be that one “thing” that I can’t have or at least that I can’t have YET. And I know I’m not the only one. Some of the “if only’s” that I know my friends are facing right now are as follows:

If only I was debt free.
If only depression/alcoholism didn’t run in our family.
If only we could afford a house.
If only a family member wasn’t battling cancer.
If only we could get pregnant.
If only I didn’t have to work and could stay home with my children.
If only my in-laws treated me better.
If only I had a loving spouse.
If only our marriage would be reconciled.
If only a friend or family member would accept Christ as his/her personal Savior.
If only I could get published.
If only I had time to workout.
If only I could afford to take a vacation.
If only I was pain free.

The “if only” that I’ve had at the top of my personal list lately is “If only I could slay ‘the beast,’” which is the nickname that I’ve given to a project that I’ve been working on for several months now. I had hoped to finish it before I went on vacation, but I just couldn’t wrap it up. Then, my first week back from vacation, I decided to work on some smaller projects in order to prove to myself that I could still do my job, which I had started to question. With those smaller projects behind me, I returned to the beast and told myself that it had to be conquered by tonight.

“The beast” started out to be very straight-forward. There was a lot to read, but I didn’t think it would be nearly as bad as it has been. It had gotten to the point that it was unwieldy and seemed so much bigger than my skill set. I just couldn’t seem to tame it. Until now. A draft is done. It isn’t the page-turner that I’d like for it to be, but it is ready for another set of eyes to pierce through it.

Throughout this time, I’ve been postponing my joy in anticipation of finishing this project. And yet, there’s been so much that I could have been joyful about throughout the process. For instance, I feel like I’ve identified some tasks that were taking me longer than necessary and have found some ways to make those tasks more efficient when I take on the next project. I’ve learned more succinct ways of phrasing things. And, I’ve been reminded daily of how I must depend on God for His help and wisdom.

I see this pattern often in my life. I wait for something big--an "if only"--to happen. I’m content for a while, and then a new “if only” makes its way to the forefront of my mind, and I postpone my joy in anticipation of fulfillment of the new “if only” criterion. It’s like a little child who asks for “just one thing” only to return and ask for another “just one thing” a few moments later because the previous toy or whatever is no longer satisfying.

By doing this, I’m not accepting that right where I am is God’s “Plan A” (as my friend calls it) for my life. I am doubting that this is God’s best for me. That He wants me to be right where I am right now to fulfill His purpose. And that I don’t need to rush things.

I wish that by writing this, I’d somehow be immune to going through another “if only” rollercoaster ride. But I know it’s not that simple. Instead, I’ll need to be on the alert for it and remind myself that the One Thing that my soul is really searching for is available right now; I don’t have to wait for it.

“Enough” by Chris Tomlin

All of You is more than enough for all of me
For every thirst and every need
You satisfy me with Your love
And all I have in You is more than enough

You are my supply
My breath of life
And still more awesome than I know
You are my reward worth living for
And still more awesome than I know

All of You is more than enough for all of me
For every thirst and every need
You satisfy me with Your love
And all I have in You is more than enough

You’re my sacrifice
Of greatest price
And still more awesome than I know
You’re the coming King You are everything
And still more awesome than I know

More than all I want
More than all I need
You are more than enough for me
More than all I know
More than all I can say
You are more than enough for me
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If none of those were new to you, let me say thanks for being a loyal reader!

Tomorrow's post will have fresh material, so be sure to stop by and check out the finale for this series.

Blasts from the Past, 3

I wish I was as smart as I was in college. Seriously. When I look back over some of the papers I wrote, I have no idea how I came up with such lofty ideas or how I came up with so many of them for all my different classes.

So today's post is a short paper I wrote during my first year of college. This particular paper jumped out at me because I remembered the meditative part of the assignment (i.e., sitting outside my dorm and listening to the night), but I have no recollection of Annie Dillard's essay or who in the world Soetsu Yanagi is/was. So without further ado, here's "Artificial Eyes" (copyright October 12, 1993 by me).

When the editors of Webster's Third New International Dictionary defined "seeing" as "the act of using one' sense of sight," they obviously had not undergone a meditative experience nor had they read essays about seeing by Annie Dillard or Soetsu Yanagi. After I had completed these activities, "seeing" conjured up a more complex definition: the process of perceiving the artificial obvious through personal and sensual involvement. But how do people do this? Do they need artificial eyes?

In her essay "Sight into Insight," Annie Dillard says that in order to perceive, one must have a love for the object being perceived. To illustrate this idea, she explains that a horse lover can readily draw a detailed picture of any type of horse, even if he or she is not an artist, and those who do not love horses will struggle to come up with more than a stick figure. Another prerequisite for perception is the knowledge that comes from prior experience with the object which one wants to see. One must use this knowledge to create a situation which will allow the artificial obvious (that which is present, but usually overlooked) to be seen. For instance, deer hunters cannot look for the full body of a deer when hunting. Instead, hunters must go to a wooded place, look for hoof prints, listen for the sounds of leaves or branches crackling, and search for patches of white in order to see a deer. Therefore, personal experience and sensual involvement unite to enable one to see an object.

Soetsu Yanagi offers different insight on the subject of seeing in his essay "Seeing and Knowing." Yanagi's essay, which dwells on how to see beauty, presents several views which directly conflict with Dillard's views. Yanagi says, "Seeing is a born faculty . . . ." Yet one who has no experience cannot place what he or she looks at into context. For instance, people seldom remember the events that occurred before their second birthdays because they had little prior experience with which to associate the events and thus no way of forming a memory. As more experience is gained, the ability to see becomes possible. Therefore, Dillard is correct in saying that the ability to see comes from learning and experience. In addition, Yanagi states, "seeing and knowing form an exterior and an interior . . . " and are separate. However, Dillard's example of people who have cataract surgery disproves Yanagi's view. Those who have had no experience with seeing must revert back to their own way of "seeing" things, such as by touching, tasting, etc., even after they regain their sight because the sight of an object does not enable them to recognize the object. Thus, as Dillard proposed, knowing and seeing must work together to provide more knowledge. Yanagi also contends that if a work of art is picked apart by scrutinization, it will crumble because the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Dillard, on the other hand, says that only when one searches for the details can the artificial obvious, such as the deer, be discovered. Thus, Dillard's essay, rather than Yanagi's essay, helped me to grasp the concept of seeing, but it was not until I meditated in nature that I fully understood what it meant to really see.

My time of meditation allowed me to view a familiar place in a new light. I felt in touch with nature because I actually heard the crickets, and I felt the wind as it made my hair tickle my ears and my neck. I forced myself to pay close attention to the sights, sounds, and smells of the area, and I became an immediate nature lover. I was able to understand why environmentalists get so excited about saving the earth. Also, this closeness with nature permitted me to release my tensions and to develop an inner peace. Most importantly, though, I realized that unless one consciously perceives the details of life, details do not exist in one's mind. Therefore, I developed a process for seeing the details or artificial obvious all the time.

First, we should strain to see beyond the obvious because the obvious does not give us insight. In order to get beyond the obvious to the artificial obvious, we should create an artificial situation in which we interact with the object to find out what is artificial about the object. Interaction can include past experiences with the article or how the article affects one's self. Once interaction has taken place, we must generalize about the object in relation to its place in the world. Finally, we should look at the object as a new object included in our life. Thus, in order to gain sight of the "artificial obvious," we must go through the steps of private exploration, public or world exploration, and private reflection. The "artificial obvious," then, is a combination of all three elements, which is why it is so difficult to see at first.

The previously described process becomes useful when meeting new people because people are often predisposed to stereotype others based on appearance. For instance, people who do not know me well would never guess that I describe myself as a quilt with many varied pieces which form a uniquely, organized and interesting pattern. Some pieces are instantly noticeable, but others are very subtle and take longer to find and to discover how they fit into the total pattern. Several events in my life have caused temporary stains, but other have become permanent stains. At times the fabric has become torn, but it is usually mended easily and does not affect the overall form. Occasionally, the quilt is compactly folded up and tucked away, but most of the time it is spread out for all to see. Sometimes the quilt is used to comfort those who are cold. However, once those people are warm, it often gets pushed away. It would like to please everyone--those who want to enjoy it from a distance as a wall-hanging and those who want to experience it more personally as a coverlet. Yet, the quilt cannot perform such a feat, so it does its best to please as many people as possible. Some people dislike the first piece of the pattern and decide to move on to other quilts without looking any closer at my quilt. But if everyone would view the quilt's intricacies as unique details, rather than as deterring flaws, his or her views would change because he or she would see the artificial obvious in me.

Seeing the artificial obvious takes love, experience, and knowledge, rather than artificial eyes. Once one is able to truly "see" according to my definition, he or she can find the inner peace that comes from not taking the small details of objects for granted. After all, one will not be able to discover the quilts of life without learning to see the artificial obvious.
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If you read all that, you are quite the devoted reader, and I thank you. I hope that there are no questions because I have no answers as I no longer know what all that meant! Class is officially adjourned.

Blasts from the Past, 2

When you look back over your past, what do you regret most? The actions you took or the actions you didn't take? Mark Batterson on pp. 115-16 in his book In a Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day says this:

All of us have action regrets, but I think our deepest regrets are missed opportunities. Action regrets taste bad, but inaction regrets leave a bitter aftertaste that lasts a lifetime. Inaction regrets haunt us because they leave us asking, "What if?" We wonder how our lives would have been different had we taken the risk or seized the opportunity. What if we had chased the lion instead of running away? Somehow our lives seem incomplete. Failing to take a risk is almost like losing a piece of the jigsaw puzzle of your life. It leaves a gaping hole. When we get to the end of our lives, our greatest regrets will be the missing pieces.

That conviction is backed up by the research of two Cornell social psychologists named Tom Gilovich and Vicki Medvec. Their research found that time is a key factor in what we regret. We usually regret our actions over the short-term. But over the long haul, we tend to regret inactions. Their study found that in an average week, action regrets were slightly greater than inaction regrets---53 percent to 47 percent. But when people look at their lives as a whole, inaction regrets outnumber action regrets 84 percent to 16 percent.

One of my dreams growing up was to get to sing with my cousin Jamie. She is blessed with an amazing voice, one I know could have landed her on Broadway had she pursued that route.

When she made the trek from Indiana to Texas in May 1997, I decided it was now or never. So we planned to sing a duet in my home church.


On the Saturday before our performance, we went to the church and practiced the piece several times. But the next day as we stood before the congregation, my nerves took over and caused my counting to be a little off. In Jamie's words, "I thought you weren't going to come in." I ended up coming in late on my verse and was grateful when Jamie joined me for the chorus.

But when we went and sat down in the congregation, I couldn't focus on the sermon because I was so embarrassed about my performance. I kept replaying it over and over again. After the service, people thanked us for singing, but I didn't take their kind words to heart.

It's now been over twelve years since we sang, and I'm glad that I had the courage to get up in front of the church and sing with Jamie. Had I not done it then, I'm quite sure that my self-consciousness about my unskilled singing voice would keep me from doing it today.

So, in the words of Mark Batterson, "Chase the lion!" Even though it may be a bit embarrassing, it will leave you with fewer regrets than an unchased lion.

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P.S. - I highly recommend Mark Batterson's book In a Pit with a Lion on a Snowy Day. I could fill an entire week's worth of posts with things I underlined from it. It's worth purchasing so that you can do the same.

Blasts from the Past, 1

One of the best parts about having a personal blog is getting to choose the pictures. And by that, I mean choosing the best pictures of myself, so I can put my best "face" forward. So throughout this blog's history, I've purposely chosen not to post pictures in which my eyes are closed or I'm wearing glasses or where my hair is doing strange things.

But in honor of my "Blasts from the Past" week, I have decided to release some previously private photos. Luckily for me (and for your eyes), the repertoire here at my house goes back only through 1996.

So here's a little glimpse back to November 1996. This shot was taken in Bryan-College Station right before my friend Angela and I headed out to Central Baptist Church.


The hair, oh the hair! In many ways, it speaks for itself. It dwarfs my face and shouts, "I'm from the South where big hair rules!" And the interesting thing in hindsight is that I'm pretty sure I would have considered that to be one of my "good hair" days.

I guess it's all a matter of perspective. Some things may seem good at the time but can be embarrassing later. Other things, while not so great to start with, get better with time. So it's a good idea to stop and reflect from time to time and see where you are at on the spectrum.

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(The rest of the story behind the picture: I never made it into the church that day. It was raining, and I fell in the parking lot. Angela left me holding an umbrella and sitting in a puddle while she and my sister went in the church and told an usher that I had fallen. In response, the pastor made an announcement about me being down for the count in the parking lot, and a couple of gentlemen came to my rescue. The one man, who I thinks was a doctor, told me that it didn't look like I would need any stitches for my bloody knee and helped me to my feet because I couldn't bend my leg. Once I was up, Angela, my sister, and I headed back to Angela's apartment where I changed out of my busted pantyhose, cleaned up my knee, and watched the church service on television. Thankfully, I had other subsequent trips to BCS that were much less dangerous and less embarrassing.)

Incognito

Let me preface this post by stating that I am not a Metallica fan, but this article about a stunt that they pulled intrigues me as a music lover and a writer. In a nutshell, Metallica showed up at the South By Southwest Music Festival in Austin last week to play at Stubb's BBQ under the guise that they were "a young band from Norway" that was trying to get a record deal, just like all the other bands at the festival. The only "problem"? Word leaked out about their secret performance, and fans stood in line for hours to get into the intimate venue to see a band that normally fills stadiums when it goes on tour.

The music fan in me loved this because I've often wished that I could still see some of my favorite artists who have made it big play at a smaller venue. Gone are the days of seeing Pat Green at Gruene Hall and the Nat Ballroom, so are the days of seeing Sarah McLachlan at Austin Music Hall. I wish that SXSW would lure famous musicians back to play at such intimate venues, allowing fans a chance to the experience the music up close sans the JumboTron.

The writer in me connected with the incognito part. I'm nowhere near famous, but I've noticed a change in my writing since I started posting on here with my name. When I posted as Bluebonnet In The Snow (BITS), it felt like the moniker alone provided some type of protection that allowed me to be vulnerable. The reader had to make the additional connection that BITS = Alyssa before attributing the words to me. An extra layer of insulation existed between me and the outside world. But once I started posting as myself, I seemed to shut down somewhat. Yet, I still strive for authenticity, even when it might be embarrassing. So writing incognito is a thing of the past. At least on this blog.

Where the Road Leads

My sister and I awoke at dark-thirty this morning to take her to the airport in Austin. As we backed out of the driveway and headed down the road that today would lead us both away from home, I found myself amazed at the fact that we had shared ten days together as a family. A rare treat any time of the year, but especially during the holidays.

As I pulled away from the airport, I contemplated which route to choose to return to my house. Due to the rain and the hectic pace of I-35, I thought I'd take the longer, slower country route. But then I noticed a new road up ahead. A toll road that I'd heard good things about. One that beckoned me with its large letters advertising that it would take me to Waco. In spite of knowing little about the road's route and having no coins for the toll, I opted for the toll road.

It took a little while for me to figure out that I could drive to my heart's content, allowing the cameras to take pictures of my vehicle so that the authorities could bill me for the tolls later. Once I figured out this process, I enjoyed the drive over this unpopulated area outside the city that appeared to have been previously uncharted. The three other cars on my side of the road alternated places with me as we navigated the misting rain, watching the miles to Dallas decrease sign by sign.

After about forty minutes, my relaxing drive on the new road morphed into clenched jaws and white-knuckled hands on the steering wheel as I saw an unexpected sign: Toll road ends. Exit now onto I-35. With the rain starting to pound heavier, the toll road forced me to enter I-35 just north of Georgetown; its advertisement--that it would take me to Waco--a lie.

Although the toll road saved me from driving on I-35 for that brief period, I felt taken advantage of. I will receive a bill in the days ahead for driving on a road that I would not have taken had I known where it led. Yet, I know now not to use that road in the future.

I see similar parallels with some of the roads I have chosen to take in my life. I probably wouldn't have chosen some of them if I had known ahead of time the exact route that they would take or the place where they would end. Yet, some of them have taught me valuable lessons that I would not have learned any other way than by walking down them.

So as the New Year rapidly approaches, which road will you take? The one that is known, the one that is unknown, or maybe a combination of each? Whichever you choose, may you enjoy the scenery as you move down it.

2008 Christmas Letter

My friend Madison was kind enough to highlight some points from my Christmas letter on her blog, so I've decided to post it here for those of you who know me only via the blogosphere.

As I sit down to write this letter and reflect on 2008, most of the year seems like a repeat of 2007. Same church, same friends, same job, same house, same dog. Had the year come to a close in June, I could have sent a duplicate of last year’s letter. But then July came, and my story changed.

While I was working at my same job, I was offered and accepted a part-time position to teach a class called Legal Analysis Research & Writing III. My duties included teaching a two-hour class for thirteen weeks on how to draft an appellate brief and prepare and deliver an appellate argument. It looked a lot easier on paper than it turned out to be.

As I struggled with the textbook, the length of the teaching time, and the disinterest of the students, I found myself making assumptions as to why the students would not participate in class and why they lacked focus. When one student chatted online and laughed throughout my class, I assumed that she was bored and preferred chatting online over taking notes. When another student repeatedly failed to come to class and turn in assignments on time, I assumed that he was blowing off my class in lieu of some of his four-hour classes. And when one student sent me questions via email two and three times a week but did not ask questions in class, I assumed that he was not prepared for class. Somehow my assumptions convinced me to believe that they were these students’ real stories, but they were far from it.

The online chatter later came up to me and explained that the one-year anniversary of the death of a sibling was approaching and that she and her family were struggling to deal with the weight of the loss. The absent student explained that he was trying to keep a third-generation business going in a tough economy, as well as lead a family, and that, much to his chagrin, his classes were at the bottom of his priority list. The emailing student later revealed that he had a speech impediment and that it was much easier to email than to stutter through a question in front of his peers.

Hearing my students’ real stories reminded me that everyone has a story. And just as no two snowflakes are alike, neither are the stories of those around us.

Just as Mary put her focus on relationships, by spending time with Elizabeth prior to giving birth to the Savior, my prayer is that we will also invest in those around us by taking the time to listen to their stories instead of assuming that we know a story just because a person acts a certain way.

So when you see a snowflake, I hope it will spur you to find out someone’s story. And I hope that you will share your story with me because I’d love to know how your story has changed this year.

Merry Christmas!

Granny's Pearls

I wore my Granny's pearls today in honor of what would have been her 96th birthday. It wasn't the first time that I've worn them. But today, they grabbed my attention when I felt their slight weight around my neck.

Actually, I'm not sure it's technically correct to call them "Granny's pearls." I don't recall ever having seen them around her neck. My cousins found them buried in a drawer when we cleaned out her house and asked if I wanted them.

I'm not sure why I said I'd take them. Maybe it was because the few pieces that held memories for me had already been snatched up by other relatives. And the remainder of her belongings consisted of garage sale purchases or things that had severely deteriorated such that I no longer wanted them. But all of her "things," even the strand of pearls shown above, pale in comparison to the real pearls that Granny gave me. Pearls of time.

It's hard to say how far back the real memories go. Many of the times that I spent as a child with she and my Pa-Pa before starting daycare have been recounted to me. Everyone, including myself, likes to blame Granny for the fact that I don't like vegetables. The story goes that Granny used to start talking up dessert before we'd taken the first bite of a meal and that she had a soft spot for allowing me to eat dessert without having eaten my helping of vegetables.

String on the first pearl.

Once I started school, I asked to spend Friday nights at Granny's house. She gladly obliged. If it was football season, we'd turn on the radio to the local radio station and listen to the live broadcast of the high school football games. While we listened to the game, Granny would file my nails and push back my cuticles, making sure that the pink "moons" showed. Many times, we'd turn off the radio before the game was over so that we could watch Dallas and Fantasy Island--two shows that I did not get to watch at home. The next morning, Granny would make the best cinnamon toast in her toaster oven and before I had finished would start questioning me about what I wanted for lunch. She wanted to be prepared before we left to go to garage sales, which was her favorite Saturday outing. She went religiously week after week, taking "off" only on her ninetieth birthday.

Add a couple more pearls.

Granny and Pa-Pa had retired by the time I was born, and so they lived on a fixed income. They made do with what they had but they often tried to earn some extra "spending money." Pa-Pa liked to trap 'coons and pick up aluminum cans, and they both liked to pick pecans. So about once a year, they would invite me to go pick pecans with them and let me sell my bag of pecans. Granny would pack a lunch for us, and we'd stay out in the pecan bottom all day. It was hard work, but I looked forward to it every year.

Add another pearl.

The best times I spent with Granny were during the summers. I somehow managed to talk my way into getting to stay at Granny and Pa-Pa's house instead of at a babysitter's. Every day, we'd go to the Senior Citizens' Center where Pa-Pa would play dominoes, and Granny would work in the craft room, usually making magnetic decorations for people to buy to put on their refrigerators. I joined Granny in the craft room and did my cross-stitch. Once a week, she would leave me alone for a while so that she could "take exercises" in the main room at the center.

After lunch, we'd head back to their house to take naps. Pa-Pa usually took his sitting in a chair outside, but Granny and I would lie in her bed and make up stories about the painting that hung on the wall. Sometimes, she'd read the paper out loud. (I'm not sure if she didn't know how to read to herself or if she read out loud because Pa-Pa couldn't read, but she read every article, card, and piece of mail out loud.) We might nap for only a little bit, depending on how long she read, because we had to be up by 2:00 in time for General Hospital, which she never missed an episode of.

Add another couple of pearls.

Granny and Pa-Pa had two gardens and would grow peas every year, which she allowed me to shell. I loved that almost as much as picking pecans because I would race to see if I could beat Granny and Pa-Pa at shelling a tub at a time. The only downside came when Granny went to can the peas; I hated the way her house smelled then.

Add another pearl.

But the worst memories I have of spending time at Granny's are getting bitten by mosquitoes or ants. The insect bites weren't nearly as painful as the treatment that Granny rendered. You had one of two choices: campophenique or methylaid (a/k/a monkey blood). Both stung like all get out. I later learned that she kept green rubbing alcohol in the bathroom and that it didn't sting nearly as badly, so I'd self-medicate my bites with that.

Add another pearl.

The funniest memory of Granny occurred in her living room. We were sitting there one day when a lizard appeared. Granny jumped three feet straight up in the air and landed on a hassock. I'm pretty sure that is the only thing that ever scared her.

Add another pearl.

Anyone who tried to prank call Granny received a rude awakening. Granny kept a wooden whistle by her telephone for the sole purpose of punishing anyone who called and just sat on the line without talking. She had zero tolerance for such antics.

Add another pearl.

Though I've briefly mentioned Granny's delicious cooking, I'd be remiss if I left off her chocolate meringue pies. I think she enjoyed making those more than cakes or brownies because her unlevel oven had less of a chance to make an unlevel pie than it did a 9 X 12 cake. Every time she made brownies, one end of the pan had 2" brownies while the other end held 1/2" brownies. They all tasted delicious despite their height.

Add another pearl.

One of the neat things about all of those memories is that they were made in an unairconditioned house that didn't contain expensive toys. As a matter of fact, the only toys at Granny's house were plastic cowboys and Indians that my older boy cousins had left there. There was such a simplicity and unfussiness about her life.

Add a beautiful pearl.

Even before Granny suffered some mini-strokes, her childlikeness reappeared. She revealed to my sister one day during the Christmas holidays that she had opened all the presents under her Christmas tree and rewrapped them. And because she had learned how to gift wrap at a local department store, her gift-wrapping talent could have hidden her secret forever.

Add another pearl.

Once I moved away from home, Granny began writing letters to me. She painstakingly handwrote each one and often sent cookies with them. One such letter prior to my gallbladder surgery in 2003 was as follows:

Dear Alyssa,
Sure was glard to hear
from you. Sorry about
your gal blatter problim
hope you are better. and
get well. and don't hafto
have sergery, we have
been praying for
you at church. Read
Acts 19 chapter verse 11-12.
where the Lord healed
the sick. And He still heales
to-day and time. God bless
you. I hope you find a
nice good house. to buy
Well I am keeping out
of the weather. I dont go
out in the afternoon I
cant take heat. I do my
out side work in the
morning mowing grass and
trimming tree limbs. Hope
you are doeing ok.
Love you
Granny

Add a pearl for each letter.

In light of her fixed income, the last thing that I wanted was for her to have to spend her precious money on stamps or stationery. So I purchased both for her for Christmas one year. The stamps had pictures of Impressionist paintings on them. When she opened them, she kept staring at them. I asked her if she liked them, and she said yes. Then, she continued to look at them some more. I finally told her, "Granny, those are stamps so that you can continue to write me." To which she responded, "Well, they don't say 32 cents on them anywhere." She never wrote me again. I laughed at the implication of having my own grandma accuse me of giving her "counterfeit" postage stamps.

Add another pearl.

It was around that Christmas that we noticed that Granny wasn't really herself. She would show up at odd times and forget what we had told her. My dad had passed away in August of that year and we gradually made the connection that his death had taken away more from her than just her son. It took away her reason for living because she no longer had anyone to care for. For so many years, she had mailed my dad a box of goodies each month. But without that monthly task to give her life meaning, her ninety-plus year-old mind began to fade quickly.

The recent things were the first to go. No longer did she spit out an entire recipe after being complimented on a dish she made nor did she recite what was on 2-for-1 sale at the grocery store. She didn't know where she lived, what year it was, or how much things cost. Only the things from long ago could she remember and talk about easily. But thankfully, she always recognized my sister and me. Even if she couldn't come up with our names, she could always place us.

Granny passed away two years ago at the age of 94. Yet there's so many things that remind me of her. Every time I see a calendar that shows the phases of the moon, I remember how she didn't want to get her hair cut when the moon was waxing or else she said that it would grow too fast. When I see an old Chevy Impala, I think of her old one and that she drove it until she was 91 (at which point she did not give up driving but instead bought another car). When I'm tempted to be lazy, I think about her mowing her yard at age 91. And when I am tempted to doubt God, I think about her faith.

Though the strand of pearls was completed years ago, it's as if I find a new one each time I journey down memory lane. God and Grannys are good like that.

Father God, thank You for choosing such a sweet lady to be my Granny and for giving her so much time to pour into my life. She loved me well and loved You above all else.





"That red blouse sure takes good pictures." (Granny wearing said red blouse on Christmas Eve 2005)

After her passing, four of my co-workers purchased a gift card to Ann Taylor for me and penned the following poem:

In memory of Granny and her fiery red blouse,
we figured you didn't need another plant about the house.
So here's to Granny, her spunk and her fire.
We know she'll be pleased with your new attire.

To precious memories of a life well-lived!

Childhood Dream Come True

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be a teacher. Growing up, I subjected my sister, along with every neighborhood child I could round up, to endless hours in the "classroom."

The initial classroom was the metal storage shed towards the back of our property. It was blazing hot in summer, had the potential to house bees and other critters, and thus only allowed for brief teaching sessions.

Next up was a huge spool that must have held utility cable at one point. I have no idea where it came from, but a doorway was cut out, it was painted inside and out, and it became the place where I taught school, along with occasional classes taught by my friend Misti.

After we outgrew the spool and it found a home elsewhere (a/k/a the dump), smaller, more formal classes were taught on our enclosed back porch. It was complete with a real chalkboard, an official pen-like chalk holder, and two real student desks. Unfortunately, we weren't often allowed to run the air conditioner out on the back porch, and so school days couldn't last long there either.

I guess never having had an ideal classroom kept the dream alive. At least long enough to mark down on my freshman high school English teacher's form that I wanted to be a math professor when I graduated.

And then real world numbers started speaking. At first softly whispering how one can't live on the salary that a teacher, or even a professor, makes. And then shouting louder. Loud enough to pursue other career fields.

But God has a funny way of often straightening out my path when I haven't allowed Him to use me for the purpose He wired me for. And this is the week He chose to surprise me with a path correction.

On Monday, out of nowhere, a contract employee who works full-time for an "institution of higher learning" asked me if I would be interested in teaching as an adjunct faculty member one afternoon a week in the fall. Surprisingly, I heard myself reply that I would be interested. He gave me some of the details and then asked me to set up a time to meet with the academic dean. I did that today and will begin teaching August 19. I will not be teaching math, but more along the lines of writing and speaking, which is even better since I haven't officially "done" any higher level math in years.

Though I'm really excited, I don't feel the least bit confident in this new endeavor. I haven't taught grown-ups before, and my days of teaching Sunday school to four year olds showed me that I'm not exactly one to hold people's attention very long. I'm trusting that God will equip me for this task if I continue to lean on Him and seek insight and wisdom on how to creatively teach this class. My goal is to be more interesting than Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. By God's grace, hopefully I will realize that goal and come out on the other side of this twelve-week adventure with some good experience and some new insights about myself as I learn through the teaching process.

Southbound 35

Tomorrow I get to do one of my favorite things: go on a road trip with my sister. She will fly in from California and then drive me and my dog down to our hometown. We’ll get to have four days together in the middle of year, which is a treat.

Our sister road trips started over ten years ago when we both attended the same university. We got that trip down to a science: we loaded up everything and hit the road by 7 a.m.; I drove and she slept until Llano, where we’d stop for a quick break; then we’d often exchange driving roles/riding roles until Sweetwater, where we’d grab lunch; and then we’d hit the Hub City by 2 p.m.

Those seven uninterrupted hours together through often uninhabited red dirt land were precious times. When we were both awake, we had great talks and even better sing-alongs, assuming we could pick up a radio station. And the drive wasn’t hectic, so we could enjoy the scenery.

Tomorrow’s drive has a bit of I-35 in it, which is my sister’s specialty. After having lived in Boston and now LA, she’s no stranger to intense interstate traffic. If I’m called upon to drive, I’ll take over on the country road route down Highway 77.

If you have a chance, please pray for traveling mercies and good health for all of us as we go celebrate a belated Mother’s Day over the holiday weekend.

Unchosen . . . Joy

The days of elementary school imprinted on my heart a desire to be chosen. As the captains of the week made their selections for whatever sport we happened to be playing at the time, I hoped with each passing moment that I would be the next person selected. Not being a great athlete, I relied solely on my relationship ties to get selected. And that didn't always go so well.

In the classroom, I wanted my teachers to select me to be the narrator (the character with the most lengthy passages) in everything we read. I hoped that my reading abilities would make me stand out as the clear choice for the role.

Fast forward twenty years. A jury summons arrived in my mailbox. And with all my being, I had ZERO desire to be chosen.

I realize that's not very "American." I recognize that it's my civic duty to vote and to serve on a jury. But I have this control issue and want to be able to go about my day without having to be "released" by someone for bathroom breaks and lunch breaks. I want to be able to plan my week, not wait each day to see if both sides are done presenting their evidence.

So this morning (a/k/a the date of doom), I woke up dreading the task at hand. I prayed that I would be as lucky as I was two years ago. On that day, when all the court assignments were made, I remained in the unassigned general jury pool and was allowed to read a book for half of the day without ever stepping foot into a courtroom or having to answer voir dire questions.

Imagine my chagrin this morning when not only was my name called, but I was assigned to a criminal district court and asked to complete a questionnaire that indicated the case might involve the aggravated sexual assault of a child. Upon completing the questionnaire, we were told to return about three hours later.

Most of the jurors were delighted upon hearing this news. They took the opportunity to stroll around downtown and grab a bite to eat. Meanwhile, I headed back to my office to work. And pray. I prayed for the defendant to plea bargain. Selfish, I know, but that's what I did.

We reported back at 1:00 for the official roll call. The bailiff made jokes and then announced that he had news. He thanked us for our "service" and told us that all the cases set for today had been pleaded during the interim. Woohoo! I shouted a praise, which a passerby might have confused with someone being acquitted of a horrendous crime. I was that relieved to not have to go through the process.

So, for today, I'm okay with not having been chosen--to serve on a jury, that is. And I am reveling in the God who hears me and taking comfort in His promises--that He has chosen me as one of His own.

Behind the Music

So what about these particular concerts made me skip class or take off work (depending on the year), in some cases fly on an airplane (which I'm afraid to do), and shell out big money (which I'm not accustomed to doing)?

Simply put, I love live music.

I discovered this in 1997 when a friend introduced me to Pat Green's music. I had listened to a few of his songs on a CD and then went to see him in concert. While I was at that concert, I turned to my friend and said, "Pat needs to make a live album because he's ten times better live than he is on his CD." Thankfully, Pat took my advice (oh how I wish I could take the credit!) and put out his first live album almost exactly one year later. Shortly thereafter, my friend introduced me to Pat in person, and I had the privilege of having dinner with Pat and his band in Amarillo before they played at The Nat Ballroom. I was sold. Hook. Line. Sinker. Long live live music!

Around that same time, the same friend gave me a casette tape with some Sarah McLachlan songs on it. I fell in love with her music as well. Soon, Sarah was at the top of my "Must See Before I Die" list.* And so began the quest to find her in concert. Luckily, she was putting on her Lilith Fair concerts at that time, which meant that I got to see her as well as eight or so other performers at each Lilith Fair--in Austin (1998), Dallas (1998), and Colorado (1999).

Knowing that Sarah wanted to start a family and after hearing rumors that there might not be a 1999 Lilith Fair, I decided to go all out and travel to California to The Bridge School Benefit in October 1998. (A little background: In 1986, Neil Young and his wife started The Bridge School to assist children with severe physical impairments and complex communication needs. For the past twenty years or so, Neil Young has put on a concert to raise money for this school.) Those two nights of concerts were, by far, the most amazing live events that I have ever attended. The show is all acoustic, and the line up is always incredible. Sarah McLachlan drew me there, but in the process, I got to see all the musicians that I designated as "California" in yesterday's post.

For me, these memories remind me of how fun it is to see that musicians are real people, with facial expressions, who connect with their audiences. And they illustrate the power in seeing musicians perform live.

I have yet to attend a concert where I was the only one in the audience. So what say ye fellow concert-goers: what makes you attend a concert? Are you a live music junkie for whom a recording simply won't cut it? I'd love to know I'm not alone.

(*I am updating my "Must See Before I Die" list, which I plan to post tomorrow.)

Musical Mindset (updated)

What has transformed your mind or caused you to think differently over the years?

That's what I've tried to write about each time I post--things that have opened my eyes or my senses in new ways, friends who have encouraged me, and fun events that have somehow left me different than before I attended them. Of course, it goes without saying that God's Word has the power to transform me, and that's why Romans 12:2 is posted at the top of the page, right underneath this blog's name. A little reminder to keep me on track.

But it's not just God's Word that has touched me. Often, God has grabbed my attention with a song playing on the radio. Even songs that aren't religious or spiritual in nature have caused me to see my life from a different viewpoint or have challenged me to think differently about an aspect of my life.

It all started with a little Billy Joel in elementary school, Belinda Carlisle and Tiffany in seventh grade, and quickly progressed to a little bit of everything. I decided it might be fun to compile a list of all the musicians I've seen in concert (not including Broadway musicals). So after culling through scrapbooks and racking my brain, here's my list:

Rush - Austin
The Eagles - San Antonio
The Mavericks - Gruene Hall
Chicago - San Antonio
Collin Raye - Littlefield
Pat Green - Amarillo, several places in Lubbock, Gruene Hall, FW
Jack Ingram - Lubbock
Sarah McLachlan - Austin, Dallas (2X), Colorado, California (2X)
Liz Phair -Austin, Dallas
Erykah Badu - Austin, Dallas
Bonnie Raitt - Austin, Dallas
Natalie Merchant - Austin (2X), Dallas
Lucinda Williams - Austin, Dallas
Dave Matthews Band - Austin, Dallas
Ani DiFranco - Austin
Neil Young & Crazy Horse - California (2X)
R.E.M. - California (2X)
Phish - California (2X)
The Wallflowers - California (2X)
Barenaked Ladies - California (2X)
Dixie Chicks - Colorado
Inidgo Girls - Colorado
Sheryl Crow - Colorado
Tara MacLean - Colorado
Kelly Willis - Colorado
Caedmon's Call - Lubbock
Def Leppard - Lubbock
Elton John - Lubbock & Dallas
Lyle Lovett - Lubbock
Point of Grace - Fort Worth
Joy Williams - Fort Worth
Mark Shultz - Fort Worth
Avalon - Fort Worth
Jim Brickman - Fort Worth
Kathie Lee Gifford - Fort Worth
Phillips Craig & Dean - Denton
Billy Joel - Dallas
Norah Jones - Grand Prairie
Amy Grant - Fort Worth
Natalie Grant - Dallas
Nichole Nordeman - Dallas
Michael Buble - Grand Prairie
Zac Brown Band - Lubbock 2010
Carrie Underwood - Dallas 2010
Billy Currington - Dallas 2010
Sons of Sylvia - Dallas 2010
Chris Tomlin - Southlake & Fort Worth 2011 & 2011
Christy Nockels - Southlake & Forth Worth 2010 & 2011
Hillsong United - Dallas 2011
Green River Ordinance - Fort Worth 2011
Left Arm Tan - Fort Worth 2011
Charlie Hall - Fort Worth 2011
Kristian Stanfill - Fort Worth 2011
LeCrae - Fort Worth 2011
David Crowder Band - Fort Worth 2011
ELEW - Dallas 2011
Josh Groban - Dallas 2011
Shane & Shane - Fort Worth 2011
Phil Wickham - Fort Worth 2011

So that's my list. Any shockers? Any I've left off? Don't be shy. I want this to be an interactive week and to hear about your concert-going experiences. I've got some other musical posting ideas in line, so come back for more later this week.

Opportunity Lost . . . and Found

I can't remember when I met Momma Bean and neither can she. That might sound odd, but we both have pretty good memories. We attended the same small college for undergrad, and we know that we met during our first year there, but pinpointing an exact time has eluded us. In essence, our friendship began without us even realizing it.

During our first two years of college, our paths didn't cross that often; she was taking science classes, and I was taking business classes. But once we became roommates during our third year, the official memory book started. We made evening runs to eat Chinese food or her favorite--Mexican food from The Adobe. We stayed up late trying to hit the word count as we wrote papers for our Directed Readings class. We made death-defying road trips on ice and snow to the south plains. Then, I graduated and went to work, and seven months later, she graduated.

She used her "lag time" to enjoy the arts, and I had the privilege of visiting her family in New Mexico and watching her perform, along with her brother, in a musical. Yes, Momma Bean can dance AND sing!

During the time after our graduations from college, we both applied to two graduate schools, and we both got accepted to the same university. We knew what that meant: we were meant to be roommates again.

However, our roommate days didn't last for long. Momma Bean married Daddy Bean, the object of one of our daring road trips, during the Christmas break that first year of grad school. But that didn't stop our friendship; after all, we still lived in the same city and attended the same church.

Our "calcium runs" to Marble Slab saw us through grad school, and I ended up moving to Fort Worth. I watched from afar as Momma and Daddy Bean began to grow their family through foster-adoption, a lengthy, emotional process that was hard to watch but for which the end-product is amazing.

Three years ago, Momma Bean called to let me know that they were moving here, to my city! I got to see her more frequently and attend some of the Beans' birthday parties and holiday cookouts. Momma Bean and I even got to celebrate our October birthdays together this past year with a night out for dinner.

I found out today that the Bean family is moving back to the south plains. When she told me that she was moving, I realized that I had failed to take advantage of her time in my town. I had assumed that she would be here forever. That we could grab lunch whenever. Yet, we haven't done that often enough over the past several years while she has lived here. She holds a full-time job, plays mother to three little girls and step-mother to Brother Bean, and is an amazing wife to Daddy Bean. So finding time with her wasn't easy, but it wasn't impossible either. Instead, we let time get away.

I know that her moving will not cause our friendship to disintegrate. After all, we've done this before. Our friendship has withstood the test of distance. We just have to be more intentional about picking up the phone, emailing, and scheduling a road trip every now and then. In the meantime before she leaves in July, we have both agreed to make time to go to lunch and get together while they are still in town.

I share this to honor Momma Bean for her enduring friendship and to encourage you to spend time with your friends. Don't assume, like I did, that they'll always be just across town. Because sometimes, as I'm finding out, God likes to shake things up a bit and move people.

"A friend loves at all times . . . ." (Proverbs 17:17)

Times Are A Changin'

This past week's to-do list was a little different than normal:

1. Deal with inclement weather . . . twice in the same week. {check}



2. Turn the clocks forward. {check}

3. Prepare for co-worker’s departure at the end of the month. {in progress}

The weather vacillates daily here in Texas, and the time springs forward and falls backward twice a year. So you’d think that those frequent changes would have prepared me to be more flexible when other changes come along. Like the unexpected resignation of a co-worker.

But this is more personal. She has occupied the office next to mine for over four years. We share similar backgrounds and morals. And we both love Michael Bublé.

She’s leaving us to be a full-time Mommy to her daughter, who will turn three in July. Leaving her daughter in daycare was the hardest thing she’s had to do, and soon she will no longer have to endure the kiss-and-cry area in the mornings. She’ll be at home making scented play dough, reading books, having tea parties, and being present to watch her daughter’s reactions.

On one hand, I’m so excited for her because I know that she is being obedient and following her calling. One that no one else can fulfill.

On the other hand, I am sad that I won’t be able to walk into her office and hear about her weekend (complete with fun stories about what her daughter did or said) or to blow off steam, knowing that she’ll see my point and empathize with me.

Needless to say, whoever gets hired to “replace” her has big shoes to fill. He or she will need to be intelligent, a grammar guru, a wonderful writer, a diligent worker who is not afraid to tackle the tough stuff, a team player, a good listener, and a great cook (yes, this is a prerequisite for the job because we exchange baked goods at Christmas).

I’m going to enjoy having her as my office neighbor for the rest of the month, and then I’m going to look forward to the picnic lunches in the park that she has already promised to bring for the gals from work to enjoy.

"Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of one's friend springs from his earnest counsel." (Proverbs 27:9)

Seventh Grade Memorabilia

Most people blocked seventh grade from their permanent memories. There are parts I wish I could have too. The cliques. The mounds of homework and projects in Texas History class. Acting as one of the managers of the girls basketball teams. Did I mention the cliques?

But as much as I might want to block out seventh grade, I'm surrounded by things from seventh grade that even the minimalist in me hasn't found a reason to part with.

Who could forget the ever-popular Guess jean jacket?




I asked for this jacket for Christmas in 1987. Despite the fact that I had gotten a yellow Liz Claiborne purse and a Swatch watch the previous Christmas, I felt I needed THIS jacket to make me cool. Nevermind that it is actually too big for me twenty-one years after the fact. At the time, I rolled up the sleeves, multiple times, and wore it every day that the weather would permit. It's the oldest piece of clothing that I own that I could still conceivably wear. So I've kept it.

The other item from junior high is my alarm clock.



It's nothing special, especially looks-wise. But it's functional. And as the saying goes, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." So, I translate that to mean, "If it still works, don't replace it."

Other than dolls and clothes from when I was an infant and some Christmas ornaments, I don't think I own anything older than the two items pictured above. I don't think that's the result of my desire to par down but more a reflection of the fact that things don't last that long. They break. They wear out. They get too small. They look funny.

Being surrounded by short-lived items and thinking about how many people come and go in our lives, is it any wonder that people have trouble understanding the depths of God's love? That His love endures forever. That it is irreplaceable. That it doesn't have an expiration or best-used-by date. That it is unconditional.

I need to keep that at the forefront of my mind and step up and "be Jesus with skin on" to those around me. That doesn't mean that I have to be perfect. Because I won't be. I just have to be real. And present. Kinda like the jean jacket and the alarm clock, only with an everlasting message.

Christmas Traditions

(The Nativity in Ice! at the Gaylord Texan -- 2007)

I arrived "home" Thursday and have spent the past five days relaxing and enjoying time with my family. Normally, it seems like we have so much to do and that we need to rush through each event or task. But this year, we've been able to continue some of our favorite traditions and add a few new ones without feeling rushed.

My family always enjoys playing games, and this year we've played multiple games of Yahtzee, Greedy, Apples to Apples, and Imaginiff. We've eaten all our favorite Christmas treats, including homemade gingerbread cookies, chocolate covered pretzels, spritz cookies, and four-layered dessert. We also participated in the Christmas Eve candlelight service. These family traditions are as familiar as spending time with good friends.

Our new tradition involves gathering each night to read the Advent devotional together. For me, it has been a time to re-center and get my focus off the many secular aspects of the season.

Wherever you are this Christmas Day, I hope that you are having a wonderful time celebrating Christ's birth.