. . . and a Happy New Year!

It seemed like such a simple thing ~ get a referral, get blood tests, get some hormones. Get a clue.

I had to wait two more weeks before the pharmacist had an opening in her schedule. Sadly, I focused on Christmas. The advent calendar on the wall no longer reminded me of the coming birth of the Christ Child. Instead, it represented T minus seventeen days until the Cavalry arrived with my hormones.

I know this sounds overly dramatic to some of you.

If you’re a man reading this, you’ve probably had it up to here with hormone excuses.  But I’ve done some research on all this stuff and it’s serious business. Think about this—there are more than fifty hormones in the human body, all delicately balanced upon each other like a row of dominos. Take out one of them—something small and insignificant, like estrogen for example—and the whole house of cards comes toppling down. 

Probably on top of you.

Think about that, Jack, the next time you want to drag your menopausal Jill up the hill to fetch a stupid pail of water. Go get it yourself.

Finally, it was the Thursday before Christmas. My doctor’s office faxed the paperwork over to the pharmacist, including every single test ever performed on me—in duplicate.  The only thing missing was the results from the fasting blood draw. Remember? The test that delayed everything three more days?

I have no words.

“I can help you,” the pharmacist said in the voice of an angel sent from God. “We can make you feel better.” I knew I sat in the presence of royalty—or maybe Wonder Woman.

“You need estrogen and progesterone and testosterone and thyroid support and iodine,” she concluded.  “And we can have it all for you tomorrow. All we need is your doctor’s approval.”

It was like somebody sucked all the air out of my happiness balloon. Instantly I began to fast and pray.

“But it’s my body!” I panicked, knowing she had no idea what she was up against.  “Why does my doctor need to approve anything?” I whined.

She was sure there would be no delays. “We just need a little fax.”

She lost a couple of admiration points right then. Maybe I was mistaken about her being Wonder Woman. Maybe she was more like Superman’s Lois Lane—sincere, but terribly naïve. Because saying that all I needed was ‘a little fax’ from my doctor was like saying the federal deficit just needs a little loan. She seemed confident, though, and since it finally felt like someone had listened to me, I hung on to her assurance like a tandem skydiver—terrified of falling, but letting her control the ripcord.

That afternoon I called to see if the pharmacist was in possession of my miracle.

“No,” she replied.

I hate it when I’m right.

“Maybe you should contact your doctor to hurry things along,” she suggested.  Sure. “Hurry” wasn’t exactly in their vocabulary, but I called anyway. In a hurry.

“We’re still waiting for the doctor to approve it,” I was told.  “It’ll probably be ready tomorrow,” she fibbed.

The next afternoon I called my pharmacist.

“We have everything waiting here for you except the faxed approval,” she said.  “I called your doctor’s office this morning, but I still haven’t heard anything.  Why don’t you see if you can light a fire under them?”

I was pretty sure they were fireproof.

You know what comes next.  I called, the doctor had left for the day, didn’t sign anything, and wouldn’t be back until the day after Christmas. A week from now. 

Merry Christmas to me.

I no longer believe in Santa Claus. Or medical science. Or even superheroes. And, I decided, that’s the last time I go skydiving.

Thursday morning, December 26^th, six weeks since I began asking for the impossible, I told my husband I was tired of being nice. I was tired of making phone calls. I was tired of being patient.  It was time to pull out some battle fatigues, storm the office, and liberate my captive prescription.

I put on lip gloss and climbed into our SUV.

Not a nurse was in sight when I entered the waiting room. I didn’t even take a chair but stood in the corner, waiting to pounce on the first walking stethoscope who came through the door. A pregnant woman in her eighth month of bladder pressure sat across the room. Sizing up my body language, she made it clear she’d been there first and gave me the stink eye. I was courageous, but I wasn’t stupid.

I waited my turn.

“Just a minute,” said the next nurse when I described my mission, and she disappeared around the corner. Soon a cheerful woman in a business suit came through the door and introduced herself to me as the office manager.

“You’re just the person I need to talk to,” I said.

She escorted me to the reception desk and I began to explain why I was there. We were interrupted by the nurse, scanning her computer.

“I was just checking your records,” she began.  “I see you were here last April and we ordered some blood work for you. Did you follow up on that?”

And that’s the moment I lost my salvation. And my patience. And my composure. But mostly my salvation.

“Okay,” I began, knowing my face and throat had suddenly flushed ten shades of mad. “I’ve been at this for over a month with this office.” I started at the beginning, and had just reached the part where they ruined my Christmas when the office manager held up her hand and said,

“I faxed the prescription to your pharmacist this morning.”

“You did? The doctor signed it?” I asked incredulously.  “Well, I could kiss your feet!” And then I skipped out of the building, light as a feather, virtually floating on air! And landed with a thud at the edge of the parking lot.

Call it premonition. Disbelief. Woman’s intuition. Or just plain old experience.  But I dialed the pharmacist right on the spot to make sure she really had the signed prescription on her hot little fax. She didn’t. It was nowhere in sight. She called her other office to see if it had been misdirected, but they’d never even heard of me.

I straightened my shoulders, put on more lip gloss, and went back in the building. Walking into the obscure nurses station—with no invitation and making no eye contact with any more pregnant women—I found the office manager. Who located the elusive, autographed documents and made photocopies so I could hand carry them thirty miles across town to my best friend, the compounding pharmacist.

The door did not hit my behind on the way out.

An hour later, I texted my longsuffering husband that, after six long weeks of negotiations, I was in possession of the liberated bag of hormones and on my way home.

“That was fast,” he joked.  “Were there any survivors at your doctor’s office?” 

It's been a month since I re-introduced my body to the hormones it used to manufacture on its own. I love them so much that if it was them or chocolate, Starbucks would have to close its doors forever. I owe my doctor a debt of gratitude for introducing me to my new best friend, the Compounding Pharmacist even though I think it's time she hired adults to run her office and sent everyone else back to high school.

And I'm voting Wonder Woman for president.

So Christmas came late at our house, but it snuck in a happy new year when it did.  I guess, the lesson here is anything worth having is worth waiting for, right?

Right. I bet you work in a doctor’s office.




Photo courtesy of Sarahnaut's photostream at  http://www.flickr.com/photos/82514542@N00/3158323911/in/photolist-5P6eEx-7rGHXg-7rJMCB-7rZDCt-7uPQQ8-96wHpm-9e34Wk-96h5m7-96Fsvu-7JcSmt-7ScLXL-9e9Rsh-apKYx5-8fwvFX-8SWyuC

All I Want For Christmas . . .

“All I want for Christmas is my hormones,” I whined to my husband last month.

“Yeah,” I’m sure he said. "That’s all I want for Christmas, too.”  I may be estrogen deprived, but I have superior hearing.

And fairly good aim.

You might recall that I misplaced some important body parts last summer while snoozing in an operating room. My doctor was reassuring, though, and promised me I was better off without those defective organs. She said the hormones I was missing could be bought at the corner pharmacy for a fairly small amount of money.

She’s such a comedian.

After a couple of trial runs with one-size-fits-all estrogen, I realized that I am not, nor ever will be, an All. I am a Unique. But you can’t buy hormones for Uniques from Walgreens. No sirree. Instead, you have to make an appointment with a different kind of professional. Somebody most people, including medical folks, have never heard of. Someone called . . . a Compounding Pharmacist.

I have never felt more like a hippy.

It doesn’t matter, I was desperate. We were desperate. Look, you can’t just wipe out the complex program God built into a woman’s body—casually referred to as a reproductive system—and then throw a little estrogen at her and tell her to get on with her life.

She’ll take you out with a bazooka.

And here’s a little known fact, even by comedian doctors: woman cannot live by estrogen alone.  Telling her she can is like expecting a car to go from zero to eighty in ten seconds flat, just because you put in a new battery. If it’s out of oil and gas, too, you’re not getting that Chevy out of the garage any time soon.

I didn’t know this before my surgery. Now I know enough to write a book. Or at least a tiny little pamphlet.

Fortunately for me, my doctor told me she’d be happy to send me to a compounding pharmacist, and to let her know when I was ready. A couple of weeks later, my husband told me I was ready. He’s so intuitive.

I called my doctor’s office in mid November, hoping to have a brand new bag of hormones in my possession by the next week. Seven days. Remember that. Not since Titanic’s passengers were to told to "sit back and enjoy their trip" have expectations been so submarined.

“What pharmacy would you like to use?” the young nurse asked. I didn’t know I had a choice. The staff my doctor employs is sweet as can be, but I’m convinced every single one of them graduated from high school last week. I have makeup older than they are. And not one of them knew any more about compounding pharmacies than I did. So I got a name, called the doctor’s office back with the information, and spoke to a completely different nurse.

“Just a minute,” she interrupted. “Why do you need blood work for a pharmacist? Are they drawing your blood?”

I didn’t know who was drawing my blood. I just wanted somebody to do it and then give me a can of hormones. Was that too much to ask?

“Let me talk to the doctor,” she said, and put me on hold.  When she returned she said I couldn’t go to the pharmacist I’d found. The one they asked me to locate. The one I’d already spoken with. Instead, my doctor preferred I use someone of her choice. Seems like they could have told me that in the first place.

I could read the illegible handwriting on the wall.

So I contacted the new pharmacist, got a long list of necessary blood work, and was referred back to my doctor. Here’s where I get confused—why was I the liaison between these two professionals?  It took forty-eight hours just to get through all those phone calls. At that rate, all hopes of my husband ever having a balanced wife again were—well, actually he’s never had one.

I called my doctor’s office again.

“Please, please,” I begged the new confused nurse, who—big surprise—had never heard of a compounding pharmacist. "Just let me come in and give you some of my blood so I can go buy hormones!” 

It was kind of creepy. I didn’t know if saying that made me feel more like a vampire or a drug addict.

“Well, the doctor has to write your blood work order,” she stalled.  “Give us forty-eight hours and, when we have it, we’ll call you.”  

Now, don’t get me wrong. I adore my doctor. I respect her judgment. I even like the way she painted the walls in the waiting room. But how is it possible that nine out of her ten nurses—who know how to take blood pressure and give injections—can’t remember a simple promise to call a desperate woman the minute her blood tests are ordered?

Four days later I played another round of Nurse Roulette and called to see if the order had materialized.

“Oh, yeah,” I was told. “It’s here waiting for you.”

Waiting for me. Like I was holding them up. I drove over to the doctor’s office right away since they said the phlebotomist was still there. But when I arrived ten minutes later, I was told she finished early and had just left.

“But you told me to come right over!” I exclaimed, tears filling my eyes and spilling onto the paperwork the nurse held hostage in her hands. “And here I am!  Call her back! Stop her car! Give me the needle—I can probably find a vein!”

I think I scared them a little.

The next thing I knew, I was being ushered to a back room—far away from the terrified patients in the lobby—and suddenly a woman wearing a paisley coat and sunglasses set her purse down on the examining table and tied a giant rubber band around my arm.

She didn’t look very happy.

She sucked out almost all the blood the pharmacist wanted. Then she said I’d have to come back the next week for one more blood draw—something about fasting first. Yet another little detail they could have mentioned before they yanked her out of the car she left running in the parking lot.

It was now Friday, a week before Thanksgiving, and ten days since Inexperience waved a white flag and surrendered to Red Tape.  The phlebotomist and I struck a bargain—I’d come back in three days, and she could go home to drink a glass of wine and forget all about her crummy job.

“We’ll give you a call when the results are in,” the young nurse said cheerfully before shoving me out the door. I’ll bet, I thought sarcastically, and headed home to punch a frozen turkey. At least it couldn’t press charges.

I had a peaceful Thanksgiving, as well as a peaceful Black Friday, uninterrupted by a single pesky telephone call. It’s exactly what I should have wanted for the holidays.  Finally, on Monday, two and a half weeks into the search for my very own personal hormone supply, I called Nurse Number Seven. Who found my blood work from last April, as well as last June, but was clueless about my recent blood draw.

And that is why normal, everyday Americans come up with conspiracy theories. Because there’s absolutely no reason on God’s green earth for all that confusion except this—the FDA has dispatched counterintelligence determined to sabotage my freedom of pharmaceutical choice.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

I sighed. Heavily. I think I even sobbed a little. Seemingly out of nowhere, my file suddenly appeared and the nurse spoke these five beautiful words –

“Your blood work is in.”  Then she hesitated. “And you want me to send it to . . . a pharmacist?”

Honest to Pete.  You can’t make this stuff up.

Tomorrow ~ And A Happy New Year



Photo courtesy of paparutzi's photostream @ http://www.flickr.com/photos/28396605@N00/2128165158

Life Sentence

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”   ~Elizabeth Stone

“Mo is better!” the words shouted out on Facebook tonight.  What a relief. Our little granddaughter, Moira, eighteen hundred miles too far away for Chief and YaYa hugs, came through that nasty virus with a smile on her face and exhausted parents on the sofa.

She has no idea what she put everyone through.

“Great doctoring, mom and dad,” I congratulated in the comment box. They’re the unsung heroes, aren’t they? Yesterday my son texted me, “We’re trying to give her food and keep her hydrated.” She was sick for a week. I’m pretty sure that means her parents haven’t slept for a week. And last week Mo’s daddy was sick, and big sister, Tully, was sick, and Mo’s mommy was the doctor on call.

They never tell you about months like this when they all show up with presents at your baby shower. They’re not allowed. No one would ever have babies if they told you the truth.  Hallmark would go out of business if, instead of pretty pastel Welcome Sweet Baby cards, they sold, Your Party Is Over cards.

I feel for all you parents out there, in over your heads in the trenches.  I really do. With what’s left of my mid-life, hormonal brain, I remember teething and shots and breastfeeding and temper tantrums and growing pains and sibling rivalry and. . no, that’s it. I can’t remember anything else. I probably dealt with teenage rebellion, but teenagers are the reason parents become vegetables like me, and the statute of limitations is up on those years.

It’s not polite to sue your children for emotional abuse anyway. It’s best to stay in denial and pretend they were never teenagers.

Besides, somebody said grandchildren are the sweetest revenge. If you play your cards right, your grandbabies will always think you’re as awesome as Santa Claus. It almost makes up for your kids thinking you were mean and clueless for twenty years straight. What really makes up for that is knowing that now they understand.

And they understand even better when they’re up all night and you’re sound asleep at home with Grandpa.

Still, that doesn’t make it any easier when your grandbaby is sick and all you can do is send text messages asking how she’s doing. And pray. At bedtime. When you’re trying to fall asleep. And stop worrying. Because you live too far away to help. When you’re trying to fall asleep. At night. With Grandpa snoring next to you. Sound asleep. Like you want to be.

So . . . watching your kids raise kids doesn't mean you're done worrying about your kids. Now you worry about them worrying about their kids. And you never do get to retire. There’s no revenge in this. My heart is still on the hook.

Rats.

I’m still a parent after all.

  

Without One Plea ~

 

Just As I Am, Without One Plea ~ part two

So they didn't know why we came that morning, and the pastor boogied out at the end of the service. Not only was this becoming laughable, it was getting predictable.

It wasn’t the first time a pastor left just as we showed up. It was at least the third. Our son saw it happen once and laughed as he sat through the formal announcement. Then in private, he pointed a finger at us and said, “It’s you guys, man, it’s you guys.”

Apparently, we are anathema to the local church.

Right after the visit with the little underground group, all their sandwich boards disappeared from Queen Creek. We didn’t even tell our son. We knew what he’d say. That’s when we got tired and dropped out of the game for a while. Truthfully, we dropped out for a few years, except for visits to our daughter’s church for special events.

Last week, her five-year-old asked me, “Where do you and Chief go to church, YaYa?”

“We don’t have a church, honey,” I answered, “but we watch a pastor we really like on TV on Sundays and almost every day during the week.”  That's an answer I never thought I'd give. I felt pretty sad.

But there was no condemnation.  Kids are wonderful.

“You and Chief have church at home!” she said enthusiastically. Suddenly I wasn’t ashamed that we’d rather be fed encouragement from a guy on TV than be sitting targets for pew dumpers.

pew dump-er, noun

1.      a religious leader who relies on the use of guilt to coerce parishioners to walk to the front of the sanctuary at the end of an unsuccessful altar call, admit their imperfections, and enable the religious leader to feel effective

2.      manipulator

Don’t get me wrong. More than I can express, I miss being in a community of believers who love one another and gather weekly to worship their Savior. I just can’t find one where no gets beat up during the sermon. But I keep hoping.

Back to this morning. 

We thought we’d give a church a second try. We’d visited this one a few years ago while it was a church plant holding services in a nearby theater.  It was a fairly positive experience. At least I was used to being anonymous in a setting like that. Still, they  all seemed happy to see one another. That was a plus. And you could eat popcorn in church. Another plus. Everyone had their own rocking recliner to sit in with a built-in cup holder.  So far, it was almost like holding church in our living room. But only the pastor said hello to us that day. And since friendliness is at the top of our list right after ‘Send People Home Happy About Jesus”, we called it a day . . . again.

Until this day. The Sunday after Christmas, when we assumed everyone who loves Jesus and now have their own building will still meet together in all three of their advertised morning services to rejoice that He was born.

Wait til my son hears that they canceled church today. On the first Sunday in over a year that we’ve tried to find that elusive group of friendly believers who want people like us in their church family. We, in all our notorious splendor, showed up on time. And church was canceled.

Maybe it is us.

Well, fine. We can take a hint. Lock up the church without explanation. Send the pastor on sabbatical. Hide all the sandwich boards! 

I guess we’ll just keep having church at home with that pastor guy on TV. So far, he hasn't heard about us or our reputation, so let's just keep this among ourselves. I don't know what I'll do if they send him on a sabbatical.

I'm starting to think that, compared to us, Walter Mitty was a realist.

Photo courtesy of documentarist's photostream at Flickr.com  http://www.flickr.com/photos/65112651@N00/473084939/in/photolist-HNFET-HNFJv-HNGb2-HNH7M-QoaVM-2W44Tz-4ukbcQ-4vnYhK-4xfm4w-4Us9kK-51sCnC-54hohm-54hJCu-57ywJJ-5iyMxF-5mB8ED-5mB8Hv-5mB8LX-5z2PTV-5FNChj-5UnrxT-5YWqEq-63CAj1-6bR3BD-6hzo71-6vWoVK-6y4xT6-6W1cms-77gaqX-7tqfid-ic3h7N-dvSm1z-dvXVTq-dvSpJe-dvXUBW-dvSnNp-dvXV5d-dvXUns-dvSjGz-dvSo7c-dvSpW8-dvXXkb-dvXXPs-dvXTQh-dvXWfS-dvSomT-dvSqaH-dvSpkP-ekpX9Q-bNwYV2-bNwZ6M

Just As I Am

It’s Sunday morning. So, naturally, we went to the movies to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.

Not exactly the way we expected to start the day. On the upside, there aren’t a lot of people clogging up the middle row—or any rows—at movie theaters on Sunday mornings.

On the downside, sitting there in the dark wasn’t our first choice. But the church we tried to visit was closed, surprisingly, and the theater was open, so we went where we were welcome and where they were happy to take our money.

Church shopping is as frustrating as Walter Mitty’s unrealized dreams.

Here’s the inside scoop. We’ve been shopping for six years. Rob, my husband, said I should call this blog, “We’re Too Picky.”  Back in the day, when he and I had top billing among the vertebrae in the backbone of the local church, I looked at people in our current position with a critical eye and prayed for their backslidden souls.

Now I understand.  But praying for myself just gives me a headache.

Don’t worry. I still love Jesus. I love Him now more than yesterday, and each week I love Him more than the one before. Better than that, He still loves me. This isn’t about acceptance from Jesus. This is about how hard it is to find acceptance in a community of believers. And how hard it is to find shepherds who lift up the sheep in attendance instead of beating them down with their staffs every week.

Too harsh? Well, I have bruises, and I bet you do, too.

Maybe Rob is right. We are picky. We’ve left a few churches after spending years of our lives there because we couldn’t take being abused from the pulpit anymore. Finally, we found a fellowship which, after quite a bit of convincing, accepted us as the friends we knew we would be to them. But seven years later they closed their doors with the intention of starting a new church in the freshly cultivated fields of Queen Creek.

It was the first time a church ever left me.

Unfortunately, the church plant never got off the ground. That reality hit us a year after we  ourselves moved to Queen Creek. It seems not everyone was willing to sail twenty miles east Sunday after Sunday on the Good Ship One More Church Plant. Our ship ran aground with only two survivors—Rob and me.

Okay, and our little dog, too.

That’s when we first got on the church shopping carousel, spinning round and round to the same melody with the same dizzying view. If we didn't get off this ride, I was pretty sure I was gonna throw up.

We decided to find some other church plant and throw our lives onto their altars of service. There’s a popular way of doing church now, based on two successful megachurch models. It’s called the Seeker Friendly formula, and the assumption is that if you make church a non-threatening environment which appeals to our culture of high energy and short attention spans, more people will stick around after they visit.

Here’s the problem we ran into—only the greeters make eye contact and seem happy to see you. For the most part, the members of many churches aren't friendly to seekers. Or maybe they just didn’t like the way I did my hair. People gave the obligatory handshake during the Meet and Greet portions of church services, but they always looked past us while doing it.

At the very least, I don’t think it’s asking too much for Christians to look a person in the face when they say hello.

Adult Sunday School used to be a good way to get to know people in a smaller setting on campus where your voice could be heard and your name repeated. That’s not the Seeker Friendly way. The way to meet and connect with church members now is in a small group which meets on another night in someone’s home.  

Here’s the thing—it’s hard to visit small groups when you’re not even a church member. But you can’t meet people to see if you want to become a church member unless you visit small groups. Now I understand the phrase Catch 22, even though I’ve never seen the movie. But I might if they decide to re-release it at my local Sunday morning theater.

So I decided the way to find friends would be to join a women’s morning Bible study. I went for a few months and then one day, when I arrived late, I was chewed out in front of the group for my tardiness and I never went back.

I’m pretty sure Embarrassment isn’t one of the fruits of the Spirit.

We began reviewing the shrinking list of churches to visit. About every three or four months, a new church plant—or maybe just a new church name—shows up on a plywood sandwich board on the corner across from our grocery store and there I am, googling hope again.

One weekend, I spotted a name I really liked a lot and, after a confusing search on the internet, we finally located the fellowship, read up on their beliefs, drove to their address (close to our house—yeah!) and set our alarms to visit the church of our daydreams, Walter Mitty style.

We pulled up in the driveway Sunday morning and, boy, were they surprised to see us! They had no idea why we were there.

“How did you hear about us?” we must have been asked a dozen times by the tiny congregation.

“We saw your signs,” we told them, feeling pretty confused.

“We have signs?” they asked incredulously.

“And we went to your website,” we added.

“We have a website?” they echoed. We began to feel like we were trespassing on private property.

That morning the pastor announced he was taking a four month sabbatical.

We decided to follow his example and get off the carousel for a while. . . .


Part Two Tomorrow ~ Without One Plea



Photo courtesy of Lotus Carroll's photostream at Flickr.com
http://www.flickr.com/photos/11248435@N04/6818007261/in/photolist-bou52k-9F5MsX-fPJ6Lc-aC9Mh2-bRngRK-d9YPMn-7T9TwG-7T9Tuf-7T9Tw9-7Ta3L7-7Ta3Kf-7T6CQ2-f33PUQ-7T6MTr-7Ta3Ju-ea8DhF-aJLa8e-9igM2V-9ijNiw-92pSsG-9FKZBW-datJoP-cTrAL1-8FNChL-8FKq5z-8FNBd1-cRnoXJ-cRnpPd-cRn7mq-cRnaS9-cRngrJ-cRnhmG-cRnngS-cRnqDh-cRnbPY-cRnfzU-cRnuGE-cRnsXq-cRns4Q-cRn93A-cRndMJ-cRnjYC-cRnrpw-cRno8A-cRntKN-cRnmyU-cRn8b7-cRna3m-cRnidC-cRneE3-dtzhzD

On The Edge

I passed it in the hallway just now, hanging on the wall above the Merry Chrismoose Family.

It’s written on a star that hangs on the Christmas tree in our family room. And there’s a scroll saw version of it, painted country white, which rests on an end table year round. It’s charming.

Why is it so hard to do more than admire it?

Right now it’s a pretty popular saying. I didn’t buy any of its clones at the Family Christian Bookstore. I think I bought them all at Kohl’s or Walmart or something. They’re easy to find. Everyone thinks it’s good advice to follow, but nobody tells you what it means.

All they tell you is to do it. Nobody tells you how.

Believe.

I have a favorite line from the original Miracle On 24^th Street movie. Have you watched it yet this Christmas? The disenchanted child of a disillusioned mom comes face to face with the person she most wants to trust. But the conflict is that, if she believes, she will step away from all she’s been told is truth. In the end, she steps away. Hesitantly. Half heartedly. Tentatively. Then she whispers to herself—and the camera,

“I believe, I believe, it’s silly but I believe.”

Only after believing does she see, because seeing is not believing. Instead, believing is seeing.

The easy thing for any of us to do is trust in ourselves. Trusting someone else can be a whole different story, particularly if you’ve ever been let down.  Let’s say someone promised to love and care for you but didn’t. After that kind of rejection, the only one left to depend on is yourself, right?

You’re always going to watch out for you, especially if you’ve seen the ugly side of a pretty promise. It’s up to you to protect yourself when no one else will do it. “I’ll take care of me,” becomes our motto and, suddenly, we become the source of our own truth.

But that’s not the definition of truth. That’s just the definition of opinion.

How can we ever risk believing again? Who is worthy of our trust, our confidence, and our reliance?Only One. Only the One Who knew before you were taken hostage that you would need a Hero. Only the One Who took off His crown, put on a disguise of flesh, and walked among us. Only the One Who gave up His Life for the love of His life. For you. And me.

That’s Who we can believe in. In the One Who always keeps His promises. “God Himself has said, I will not in any way fail you, nor give you up, nor leave you without support. I will not, I will not, I will not in any degree leave you helpless, nor forsake, nor let you down, nor relax My hold on you!”

Remember, believing is seeing. If He lied about this, then He’s not God.

Merry Christmas. It’s safe to believe again.

(Hebrews 13:5 Amplified Version)

Sweets to the Sweet

Strawberry Shortcake. Yummertime in the summertime.

Picture polka-dotted fruit with big happy smiles holding hands with pink-haired girls,and you’ve got yourself nothing like the dessert your mama used to make.

I’m not sure my granddaughters even think of fruit and whipped cream when I ask if they want strawberry shortcake. But I’m positive I’m not dreaming about Berry Bitty Adventures whenever the name comes up. Have you ever seen the line-up of characters in one of these cartoons? Lemon Meringue, Blueberry Muffin, Raspberry Torte, and Plum Pudding.

What we have here is a generation gap and a serious sugar craving.

My husband and I got to babysit last night. There we were, anchored down on the sofa by cuddly granddaughters, cozy blankets and a wiggly twenty-six month-old grandson who doesn’t care if a doll comes with blue hair or a camo shirt.

As long as it can be thrown across the room, it’s a ball.

The girls had permission to watch some TV with us, and they chose Strawberry and her team of short cakes. I have to admit, this is a gang of characters who have staying power. They’ve been around for about thirty-five years and, even though my baby sister played with them and so did my daughter, I’m still confused about why little girls love them so much.

With one hand on my grandson’s foot and arms around both of his sisters, I did my best to follow the plot of last night’s cinematic masterpiece while I played a seated version of Twister. Apparently the Berrykins, who tend the strawberry patch, were too little for some clothes Blueberry Muffin wanted them to wear so she magically sprayed then with glittery perfume and they transformed into Super Fruits.

Somehow this threw off the delicate balance of life in Berry Bitty City and then my grandson fell off the couch and I missed the climactic ending and now I'll never know if the GMO strawberries are still sweet or if they left the Berry Bitty City to go eat Tokyo.

What ever happened to the Flintstones and Mickey Mouse?  Those were my people.

Never mind. Since the most provocative thing Strawberry Shortcake ever wears is a big smile, I’m grateful for her innocent influence and lack of boyfriend characters. What would those be called, anyway—Captain Crunch? Lucky Charm? Pop Tart?

Gives me the shivers.

So I cuddled the girls and let Chief corral his grandson and then my mind began to wander. I know, hard to believe, considering the Academy Award worthy film in front of me. If I wanted to be known by a dessert name instead of YaYa, I wondered, what would I like to be called? Well, obviously, chocolate-something. Peppermint Mocha or Chocolate Fudge or Lindt Truffle. 

Yum.Oh.

Practically in a sugar coma now, I decided to ask the girls for their opinions.

“If I were a character on Strawberry Shortcake,” I said suddenly, interrupting their viewing pleasure, “I think I’d want to be called Chocolate Cake. Allie," I asked the five-year-old, "what dessert name would you like to be called?"

She sat transfixed by the fascinating plot unfolding on the TV screen, but she’s pretty smart—she knows if she gives me any answer, I’ll stop asking questions and let her watch her movie. I think she’s been taking lessons from Chief.

Without even looking away from the video, she said, “Chocolate Chip Cookie.”

Right. Well, that’s what everyone would like to be called. She wasn’t even trying. I gave up and turned my attention to the three-year-old.

“Juliet,” I said, “what dessert name would you choose for yourself?” I questioned.

Juliet’s face was barely visible in the crook of my arm, and the blue fuzzy blanket she was curled up under muffled her voice a little, but she’s a quick learner. Following her big sister’s lead, she gave me the answer she knew would let her finish watching TV in peace.

“Chicken Nuggets,” she said, and then popped her fingers back in her mouth.

Nothing shuts up a nosy grandmother like a rhetorical answer to a ridiculous question. Bet she learned that from Strawberry Shortcake.

For two little cutie pies, they're both a couple of smart cookies.







Photo courtesy of Sunfrog1's photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/12616828@N00/2195317777/in/photolist-4kZzuv-4vNrry-4BgbMo-4DA3QZ-4FKp4q-4GnxN2-4HWTnV-4Mxeia-4MPgrR-4MPgHg-4MPgZv-4SvBc6-4SvBhM-4VDDZ5-4WedE3-4XazZc-52gZ82-52Wtzk-531JEm-531JF9-53ESks-54zkyw-559xhj-56nP9y-56tkPR-56xw7Y-5aZX7r-5b4sAM-5iRAF5-5kBgsS-5sG918-5sLvvW-5sLvw3-5sLvw7-5sLvwh-5sLvwq-5Hv6wR-5Np1kA-5Spfog-5WrnaX-5WUCaP-5WUXuR-5ZPVCo-615VvF-65GAhA-677SoF-67c8eq-6bAaWd-6gWnAk-6qXNKz-6qYh7A

The I's Have It

It’s a blank page I’m staring at this morning.

My fingers roll lightly on the keyboard waiting impatiently for the typing command to begin. Which way to take it today? The domino story part deux? Maybe the Christmas collision between romantic tradition and strict fundamentalism? How about the late breaking confusion over whether or not to celebrate my healing scars with an outrageous self-inflicted scar called a tattoo?

Speak to me, blank pages.

I sit here alone with my techno-typewriter and let my heart breathe on cyber paper. Writing is lonely, but writers are usually loners, so it’s a good fit. I’m not famous for being a party animal. I know that’s a shock. Try to calm yourself.

I need people, but I also need time alone—a lot of it. Turns out I need large doses of solitude in safe surroundings. And, strangely enough, fifty-five years into life, I’ve only learned that about myself this year. It clears up a lot of confusion for me, though, let me tell you.

Did you know it’s not acceptable to be an introvert?

The word doesn’t even look nice on paper. Let’s break it down.  Intro—is that short for introduction or latin for belly button browser? And how about vert? What’s a vert? I can’t imagine anyone calling me a vert and wearing anything but a sneer on their face while they do it. Put ‘em both together and you’ve got yourself a problematic label.

“Aspire to be an extrovert!”  should be our American motto. Because some people think introverts have “I” problems.

Let’s be honest here.  Everyone wants to be known as an extrovert, not that other vert. That’s because everyone likes extroverts, and most of us want to be liked. Recently, author Susan Cain wrote a book entitled, “Quiet: The Power Of Introverts In A World That Can’t Stop Talking.” She describes The Extrovert Ideal as a “widespread belief in Western society that we should all aspire to be the charismatic, outgoing, take-charge type—in other words, an extrovert.” (1)

I gotta read this book. For the first time ever, introverts, who make up nearly half the world’s population, have a cheerleader. Finally, it’s not only okay, it’s normal for people like me to prefer the company of one person at a time instead of sitting at a table with ten other people all talking at once.

When I’m the token introvert in a crowd like that, I shut up. It’s not that I’m either shy or stuck-up like some people think. It’s just that no one listens when I try to talk, and I already know what I think. What’s the point of saying anything if I’m the only one listening? That’s why groups of people are draining to me and, in the end, social events can be boring.

It’s not that they weren’t energetic. They just weren’t personal.

Maybe I should clarify right off the bat here that I have no titles attached to my name except for “Mrs.” I’m proud of that one and I earned every single letter of it with commitment and hard work and the partnership of an exceptional man. I don’t have a degree in anything. Okay, well, I did earn a blue belt in karate once, but that’s as far as I went because I really like the color blue. And it’s not a degree, anyway, it’s just blue.

So, most of what I’ve learned in life has come from self-imposed reading, the School of Hard Knocks, and a fascination for research. I thank God for the internet, which is faster and lighter than the Encyclopedia Britannica. Take my word for it—information at your fingertips is a ton better than driving to the library and carrying heavy books back and forth for hours.

Where was I?  Introverts.

So I googled introvert. Actually, I binged it. And Wikipedia, which is the source of all light, truth and opinion, blamed the tension between extro’s and intro’s on a nineteenth century Swiss psychiatrist named Carl Jung. I repeat—nineteenth century.

Now come on. How much could he possibly know without the wisdom of the internet? Jung defined introversion as a subjective attitude which focuses on one’s self. An extrovert, on the other hand, concentrates on the outside world.

This does not sound complimentary. Unless you’re an extrovert.

I know none of us are truly one type of personality with only one kind of character trait. We’re a combination of many factors. For example, are you a firstborn, a middle child, or the baby? Were you raised in the South or the North? What kinds of trauma have you lived through?  And once you’ve narrowed all that down and educated yourself on what they might mean, then somebody will hand you at least fifteen more personality tests which will analyze everything from your study habits to where you should serve in the local church.

It’s amazing we ever figure out anything concise about ourselves.

Still, at the end of all the psycho-babble, it seems to this under-educated Mrs., that every one of us will eventually wind up on either Team Extrovert or Team Introvert with all the fans in the exuberant stadium cheering for the home team while the other half of the crowd scatters in the parking lot.

Maybe we loners need our own slogan. Something like, “Introverts Unite!”

Right. I forgot who I was dealing with.

So, that brings me back to this not-so-blank piece of cyber paper. When I write, I have the floor. I have the talking stick. I have the microphone. And I am seldom interrupted, except by the phone or my menopausal bladder.

In a world that won’t stop talking, I have a chance to be heard when I write. There are no competing voices when I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. At last I can finish a sentence and even edit out the things I didn’t mean to say. It’s cathartic, my daughter commented today. It’s an emotional outlet, my cousin told me yesterday. It’s healing, my counselor friend said.

Hey! Look at that!

Somebody is listening. 

(1) http://elliotritzema.com/2012/04/23/its-a-good-time-to-be-an-introvert/

Photo courtesy of Premasagar Rose. http://www.flickr.com/photos/54304913@N00/127627500/in/photolist-ch8d9-du342-hPgbx-rhBBd-tkuoA-zL1d6-BRHmz-LJpbM-PDZ58-Ruy9M-2VTXqC-3BmmUn-3BqEUC-3CTT3J-3Kd7HG-4ep4cr-4CGP67-4HVFeD-4NPcPp-4PzrrM-4VaXxd-4Ze2oE-5jt2Dc-5Dz5Pq-5U3eXV-6enrqz-6gKihu-6KFiJT-6V5z2i-74GJ7k-7kV4jb-7tdMqG-9rW1ZD-9araa8-84kmXT-cLNyDG-96XCZm-7XaYCT-aZhKVx-9SW2uq-bKMhjV-9dcjZ3-gwQ53C-byCUpA-7HSRjm-8xt9Zn-879AMu-9cCUS5-9cCVJ1-eL9GEi-8xaj2R

Conspiracy of Love

It was an elaborate plan, cloaked in surprising simplicity.

He enlisted the help of two young accomplices, but could have pulled it off without them, of course. He can do anything. Still, there was no doubt they would cooperate. It was the perfect front.

After all, who could imagine the Creator would link arms with His own creation to buy them all back?

No one realized what an unthinkable ransom it would take to recover what had been lost. All they knew was a Hero would come. Briefed for years by God’s agents—Isaiah, David, Micah—the communiqués He gave them were passed on faithfully.

·         “A virgin will conceive and bear a son.” 

·         “. . . Oh Bethlehem . . . A Ruler of Israel will come from you . . .”  

·         “He was despised and rejected--a man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way. He was despised, and we did not care.” 

·         “He was wounded for our rebellious acts. He was crushed for our sins. He was punished so that we could have peace, and we received healing from his wounds.” 

But even with all the encrypted messages, we didn't recognize Him. The Plan didn’t materialize the way we expected. Few of us could decipher the coded missives. They sounded so poetic, so analytical, so . . . confusing. Sometimes they read like events had already occurred—seven hundred years before zero hour.

Who does something like that?

Don’t feel too bad—even the Evil General couldn’t figure it out. So much for enemy intelligence. Once set in motion, he could not stop The Plan. He gave it his best shot, though, and used every demonic device up his sleeve. Infanticide in Bethlehem. Plots by religious leaders to kill the Intruder. Demonic attack. Traitor friends. Fatigue, hunger, and rejection.

But the Hero seemed untouchable.

In desperation, the enemy pulled out all the stops until, finally, at the pinnacle of the Infiltration, he executed a full-on assault, all his forces in a pincer attack. He played his ace. God’s Son was framed and murdered. Stopped in His tracks. Silenced. To every eye witness, it seemed the operation had failed.

But it hadn’t.

The enemy went too far. It was a  divine ambush, a strategic move that set up evil's forces for failure. And pride made the enemy the pawn in the Trinity’s liberation conspiracy. Like the most shocking case of mistaken identity ever, humanity’s Hero pushed us all out of the way and took every bullet the firing squad could unload. He stood in our place and devoured death. Then God raised Him from the dead and, in so doing, He raised us up, too.

Guess who never saw that coming.

The enemy played right into the Hero’s hands. If he had known how to decipher those dispatches, he would never have crucified the King of Kings. Operation Redemption was in the heart of God before sin ever stole His creation.

“Who believes what we’ve heard and seen?
    Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?

He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
    he took up the cause of all the black sheep.”

His love for us would not allow Him to let us go, so God put on a disguise of flesh and lived among us. Then He dispatched His most trusted emissaries with one final message:

“This will be a sign for you by which you will recognize Him: you will find a Baby wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.”

The greatest undercover operation of all time . . . began with the cry of a baby.