Peek-A-Boo

The moon followed me home tonight.

I caught sight of its bright, lopsided smile as soon as I got on the freeway and couldn’t stop staring. It was HUGE! Ginormous, even. But definitely lopsided. I don’t know what you call a two-thirds harvest moon, but that’s what it was.

And it was in a playful mood.

At some point when you’re doing seventy-five on a freeway, you have to stop staring at glowing celestial orbs and pay attention to traffic. Which, apparently, hurt the moon’s little feelings. Because when I glanced up to marvel at its enormousness, it wasn’t there anymore.

How could it just, disappear like that? I mean, the thing was not only the size of a house, it was absolutely neon. I quickly glanced over my shoulder and out the back window. Maybe the freeway curved when I wasn’t paying attention. Nah, that wasn’t it. Or I was driving faster than the speed of light. Yeah, that actually was a possibility. Where the heck did it go?!?

I gave up and went back to the corn maze of thoughts that distracted me from my playmate in the first place. Guess the earth rotates faster than I realized, I thought to myself. Searching the dark night through the windshield, suddenly there it was again. Just a little piece of it this time—an odd glowing wedge peeking out from behind . . . a cloud? No, it was a clear night. What on earth was it hiding behind? How could it possibly play peek-a-boo with me when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky?

It grew a little bit, shrank down, disappeared for a nano-second, reappeared in another mutation of itself. A virtual lava lamp in the sky, it slowly morphed from one bright shape to another, never entirely revealing itself, rising and falling like a roller coaster in slow motion. Finally, I realized who its silent partner was—the Superstition Mountains. So dark was the night as I drove further east into the desert, I couldn’t make out the huge mountain range at all and forgot it was even there. Until the moon began playing hide and seek behind its back and the Superstitions cried out, “ollie ollie oxen free!” in protest.

Chuckling at its own joke and nodding at the stars who twinkled their admiration, the moon stepped out into the open and took a little bow. “See ya later,” I offered silently. “Thanks for the entertainment!” And I turned south away from its celestial stage. But I was never in control of this chum's antics, and circling the roundabout near my neighborhood, I caught sight of the jocular orb in my peripheral vision the way a child on a carousel sees a smiling parent just before another dizzying turn. “There’s no getting rid of you, I see,” I laughed, enjoying the attention on my lonely drive home.

It was a big moon for this late at night. And the question is: how can something that bright conceal itself in the middle of a cloudless ten o’clock sky? It hides in plain sight. It never moved at all. The mountains conspired playfully with my perspective and only gave away the moon’s hiding place when they tired of the game.

Safe at home, I stepped outside in the backyard with my faithful dog who always waits for me and together we waved good night to the celestial nightlight, now leaning casually against the black backdrop. I know it’s keeping an eye on things.

Playing peek-a-boo with the moon. How wonderful.

To The Unknown Soldier In Walgreens

I was in a hurry. He was in my way. This stop at Walgreens was just another item on a to-do list that I didn’t feel like doing and now, well, there he stood, right in front of the shelf I needed to reach. I waited impatiently for a minute or so, glancing at my watch while he considered his purchase. Finally, my pressing schedule forced me to interrupt his concentration with a barely polite, “Excuse me?” He stepped back as I reached quickly for the buckwheat pillow I’d come to buy.

“Do those really work?” he asked as I turned to go.

I should have made this my last stop, I thought with annoyance.

“They’re not too comfortable at first, but they really support your neck and head,” I replied. “My husband can’t sleep without one now.”

He listened intently, considering my rapid endorsement. I hoped my courteous answer was enough to let me off the hook here. I had three more stores and the post office to hit before I took everything home where I still needed to start dinner and . . .

My checklist was sidelined as I realized he was speaking to me again. I smiled stiffly, tuning back in until he finished so I could leave.

“I was a prisoner of war in World War II,” he was saying. “They gave me a roll of old material for a pillow. It was all I had for three years, and it was hard as a rock.” Here he smiled and ended, “I’m afraid this doesn’t look any more comfortable than that was.” Then he shook his head, turned, and stiffly walked away.

He had cleared the aisle and rounded the corner before I could think of anything to say. And now it was too late. His tall form, now slightly bent, still communicated strength and character. His gait, slow and deliberate, modeled confidence born of hardship. It’s odd how you can tell so much about a person without even knowing their name. But I never asked his name. Didn’t ask to shake his hand. Never even said thank you. And I never saw him again. Speechless and ashamed of my self-centered agenda, I made my purchase and left the store.

It was a moment born of serendipity. And I missed it. I had an opportunity like none before and none since--nearly fourteen years later--to thank a hero. But I didn’t recognize it. Late one sleepless night, about a year afterwards, I journaled the experience in a letter to the editor of our newspaper, hoping the stranger might at least read my belated appreciation for his sacrifices. But I don’t know if he ever saw it. Just like I never saw him until it was too late.

How much I miss when I walk through life with my head down. I wonder how many other wounded warriors walk silently beside me in anonymity. There are more and more of them now, much younger than this gentleman, putting it all on the line so we can retain whatever freedoms are still left to us.

So once again, to the Unknown Soldier in Walgreens as well as to the others who walk in your shadow, thank you. Only you and God know what you have given and suffered to protect us. May God bless you and your families. And despite ignorant hearts like mine, may God continue to protect the safe harbor He made of these United States of America.

We don’t deserve it, but so far, we are still the land of the free because of the brave.

Love Song In The Wind

I wept in the wind tonight. Lured outside by a distant flash of lightning, I brought my tea and grieving heart and sat outside alone on the patio.

“When will my wounded soul mend?” I pleaded through escaping tears . “Will I ever give thanks and see beauty in these scars?” I looked up to the dark sky and silently accused my Creator of tardiness. Abruptly, my thoughts—dark like the evening clouds—were interrupted by lyrical notes. A cool breeze tousled the wind chimes, offering a joyful song composed by the passing storm. My wind-kissed tears dried as I listened to the jubilant harmonies.

Chimes don’t ring on their own. They offer gentle melodies directed by light breezes, but they play a symphony in a storm. My life has broken places only recently recognized that I must grieve before I can go on. But healing will come. And even while I mourned this night, God sang a love song to my heart--echoed by the concerto of the chimes--comforting me.

Encouraged, I spoke into the storm. “We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against powers and principalities . . .” then stopped, not remembering the rest of the verse. The sky lit up in affirmation. So I continued. “Stand, therefore, (in the armor of God.) And the peace of God, which passes all understanding, will mount garrison over your heart and mind in Christ Jesus.” The sky illuminated encouragement. I kept speaking truth into the threatening face of the gale. “Peace give I to you. Not as the world gives.” “Don’t let your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. I’m going to prepare a place for you.”

There’s a place for me. Unique, special, created just for me by the Lover of my soul.

The dark cloud moved off, taking the lightning and thunder with it. The chimes swayed slowly, exhausted and spent, while hope consumed my tears.

I am accepted. Included. Beloved. He rejoices over me with singing.

And plays a love song in the storm.

The Class of '71

I went to my first-ever high school reunion last weekend. It was my husband’s.

Forty years ago he and The Class of ‘71 graduated high school, never to hear from one another again. Then came Facebook. Social networking arrived, baby boomers took it over, and all those seniors who were going to change the world showed up on the web with gray hair and grandkids.

I met some of the crowd Saturday morning for breakfast and a tour of the old high school building. They were a nice group of people and I could see why Rob wanted to connect with them again. We walked the hallowed halls —now in a spooky state of decline—while the nostalgic seniors laughed and reminisced in the shadows of their alma mater. Standing near open, empty lockers covered in the dusty graffiti of generations of students, Rob’s classmates peered at my name tag and tried to place my face.

Wish I’d been gutsy enough to make something up and see where it went. Something like, “I’m Rob’s twin sister, Elva, remember me?” After 35 years of marriage, ten of them spent here in his hometown, I know a lot of his childhood stories better than he does. To this day, every time we go down Siesta Drive, I beat Rob to the punch and point out Kenny Hipp’s old house.

I’ve never even met Kenny Hipp.

Saturday night was “the dinner.” We walked into the banquet room of a local hotel and I had the sensation of stepping into a time capsule. Or a cliché. I couldn’t help it—as the DJ spun that timeless 70’s hit, “Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog," I was transported back to the insecurity of my own high school years and immediately began dieting.

Nametags in place, drinks in hand, we quickly absorbed into an American oddity known as The High School Reunion. “Hi, how are you?” became our mantra as we worked our way through the crowded room.

A slender gal with a self-conscious smile and familiar first name entered stage left on the arm of a man who looked like he’d rather be in a dentist chair than this room of strangers.

“Isn’t that your tenth grade crush?” I quipped to my husband, Rob, as I pointed out the attractive woman.

“I don’t know,” he said, squinting. “It could be.”

I knew it was. Sheesh. Maybe I did attend school with him—I spotted her before he did. Then again, that’s a good thing, right?

Settling in at a table away from the blaring music, I began sorting the guests into two categories: alumni and spouses. It was pretty easy to spot the spouses—they all wore the same uncomfortable look on their faces.

Across from me, an abandoned husband sat in gloom, giving short answers to my persistent questions as I looked for some common ground or interesting tidbit to run with. We planned to be here late partying with all the other 50 Somethings (Rob’s parents said to have fun and not to worry about knocking on their door when we got in) so I jumped right in to acting social and making friends.

“You said you have three children?” I asked. “Do you have any grandkids?” It seemed like a safe question.

“No grandchildren,” he replied. “And I don’t want any.”

Guess I won’t be bragging to you about mine then, I thought. Okey, dokee. I grabbed a piece of cake and stuffed my face so I’d quit making small talk. It killed five minutes.

An auburn haired lady on my right sat in silence with a yearbook in front of her. My husband’s yearbooks had long ago been eaten for lunch by termites—sad story—so I asked if I could look through the one she guarded.

“Well,” she answered slowly, “it’s not really mine. It belongs to a dead woman.”

Hmm, I thought to myself, it’ll be pretty hard to ask her permission to look at it.

“But you can read it,” she continued cautiously, “a friend of mine found it at an antique store.” Her eyes widened. “I guess that means we’re all antiques!” she exclaimed, and sobered at her own realization.

This was going to be a long night.

I looked around the room in desperation to locate my husband. Across the crowd we made eye contact. He nodded happily, raised his beer in a cheerful salute, and returned to his conversation. I should have brought my knitting, I thought dryly.

With my dessert gone, I began to look for more uncomfortable spouses to interrogate. It was either that or start head banging to the music. A woman with dark hair and an expression to match had taken a seat next to me. She picked at her food while avoiding eye contact with the rest of the table, especially me. But I’m no quitter.

“Hi,” I said boldly. She looked at me in surprise, nodded, and turned her attention back to her plate.

I leaned towards her and confided, “I’ve never been to one of these before.” I struck a chord there and she brightened.

“Neither have I,” she replied. “In high school I only had two friends.” Nibbling her sandwich absentmindedly, she turned away to gaze wistfully at the door. I began to gaze wistfully at it, too.

“This is not going well,” I muttered. With no other lonely people to annoy with my unappreciated wit, I made a mental note to take up drinking before the next reunion.

Striking out in the friendship department, I left the table of martyrs to search for the restroom. That killed another five minutes. I looped back into the noisy room full of inebriated laughter, wove my way through clusters of cheerleaders and thespians, and wandered out through the door the dark haired woman was memorizing. I figured three more loops like that and I could eat another piece of cake. In the hotel foyer I picked up a tourist guide with things to do in Sarasota. If I left now, I knew I could get in some shopping at the outlet mall and pick up Rob when the party wound down.

Instead I got that second cake slice and sat down next to the grandchild-less man. He stared, knowing I’d already eaten a piece. I didn’t care anymore. I’d already stopped dieting. As the last bit of icing disappeared from my plate, from out of nowhere a familiar voice whispered in my ear, “Can I get you anything?”

I turned around to face my husband, my own high school sweetheart. The love of my life for the last 37 years, I knew I could count on him to get me anything, anything at all. And at that moment, I knew exactly what I wanted—the very thing that would make this day complete. I’d had dinner. I’d had two desserts. I took a nice walk. I’d visited the facilities. There was only one more thing I still needed.

“Yes," I begged. "Can you get me a cab?”

Nature Calls

I should have realized something was amiss by the sneering half glance the woman gave me when I came through the door. Her snicker followed me as I headed back to the ‘corner of doom’. I felt my pulse quicken.

At a tiny gas station in east Texas we stopped for coffee and . . . the bathroom. Strikes fear into your heart just thinking about it, doesn’t it? I should have listened to my inner coward.

The vacant ladies room door swayed ominously in the breeze, creaking a warning to “beware.” Cautiously I entered the darkened hovel and peered into the . . . fragrant . . . abyss.

Oh, Lord, I thought, so this is what a weapon of mass destruction looks like.

With my elbow I flipped on the light switch and a turbo charged engine roared to life in the tiny room. It was the hand dryer on the wall. Defensively, I smacked the wall and flipped the light off. The blower noise stopped. I rubbed my throbbing ears. Weird. Maybe it was just a short in the circuitry. I flipped the switch back on and was rewarded by 100 decibels of deafening machinery. I shut the light off again, stood with legs crossed in the silent darkness and considered my options. I could pee in the blackness or drive a hundred miles to the next dump on Interstate 10. I chose option three: recite ten Hail Mary’s and take my chances with the dying dryer. I closed the door and turned the lock with my knuckles.

“Well,” I thought as I sat down, “at least no one will try to walk in on me with the sound of that racket.” I hurried anyway. I glanced around the room, thinking my mother was right: you can get disfiguring diseases from a public restroom. Who knows when the Health Department stopped in last—they’re probably afraid to come here, too. Flushing the handle with a piece of toilet paper, I vowed not to have any more water or Coke for the rest of the trip. It’s dangerous to drink and drive, anyway.

It leads to bathroom stops.

I turned on the faucet, pumped out some soap and lathered up like a surgeon. Rinsing the suds off, I ignored the running faucet—I wasn’t about to touch that thing now—and put my dripping hands under the dryer which had stopped blowing after I sat down. Hmm, so it comes on with the light switch and shuts off at the toilet. Now it wouldn’t come on at all. I moved my magic hands around it with wizard-like flourishes, hoping for a motion sensor. Nothing. I turned the light switch off and back on. Still nothing. My pants were buttoned and I was decent, so I opened the door, and the jet engine sprang to life. Figures.

Hands finally dry, I grabbed another wad of toilet paper and turned off the faucet, shut the light off with my other elbow, and headed outside to the safety of my sanitary truck.

“Have a nice da-a-ay,” the cashier said with a smirk.

Smart aleck. She knew I’d need antibiotics soon.

I broke my temperance vow as soon as I got back in the truck. What can I say? I’m a sucker for iced coffee. And, true to form, thirty miles later I was begging God again for any little port-a-potty on the side of the road. Talk about a short memory. There’d been a sign four miles outside town advertising Dauna’s Grocery Store, and my eyes lit up until my husband said, “She can’t even spell ‘Donna’—what makes you think she can keep the bathroom clean?”

I knew he was right. I couldn’t risk it. We stopped instead at the town’s token gas station where it wasn’t hard to find the facilities. The door had a huge “Hunters Welcome” sign on it, with another sign reading “Unisex Restroom” above that.

Awesome. I could hardly wait.

I should have waited. It covered all the bases worthy of being named ‘unisex’. A baby changing table on one wall, a urinal next to the unisex commode, and toilet paper dangling down to the dirty floor which was covered with—oh, you don’t want to know—next to the sink with the chipped concrete counter. A fly paraded on the toilet seat—two eyes focused on the dirty spray bottle of disinfectant on the tank’s lid whilethe other three watched me.

I covered every possible surface with the abundant toilet paper and thanked God for small favors. Then, holding the handle with a wad of Charmin, I flushed the toilet, skipped the gummed up soap dispenser and the crusty faucet handles, and unlocked the door with more toilet paper. I pulled open the door handle with a final piece of toilet paper, making a mental note to advise the cashier that they were now out of toilet paper. I figured he wouldn’t care much--he was a man. I headed straight to the truck for a bottle of Purell in the glove box.

God bless whoever invented that stuff.

A quarter of the mile down the road we passed Dauna’s cute, tidy little grocery store, and I glared at my husband who hadn’t needed to use the Hunter’s Haven of Horror.

“Look at that!” I exclaimed to Rob. “It’s a big country store with fresh jams and fruit. And the sign says Clean Restrooms!” Then I gave him . . . the look.

“So did the last one,” he said dryly. “A great big one on the front window.”

“What?!!” I rolled down the window and let out the fly who’d followed me out to the car. “Get out, you hitchhiker!” I yelled at it, and quickly rolled the window back up. It was Rob who snickered this time.

“You know,” I began, ignoring his dubious sense of humor while I bathed in hand sanitizer, “you and I could write a book warning people about all the crummy places where they should never stop when nature calls. I bet it’d be a best seller and we’d make enough money to retire.”

“Yeah!” he exclaimed, excited about the possibility of retiring on dirty money. “And we could call it “The Don’t Make The List Book.”

I think we might do it. It’s my gift to all the weary women travelers on America’s highways. And if it doesn’t work—if they won’t buy my book and save themselves while there’s still time—I’m gonna put up a roadside stand and sell toilet paper and Purell instead.

'Cuz, trust me. They're gonna need it.

Reality Shows

I am heartbroken. Disillusioned. Unenamored. Discombobulated.

My ventures in blogging have led me to a terrible discovery. I read it on someone else’s blog, but I knew it couldn’t be true. It had to be a vicious rumor. Probably came straight out of The National Enquirer, and now she was capitalizing on a sensational accusation. How can you trust an anonymous writer on the Internet, anyway? There’s no accountability leading to no credibility which, of course, always leads to instability.

So I decided to google it.

Ohmigosh. It’s true.

My very favorite go-to show, ‘House Hunters’, is lying to us. Those picky home buyers never choose between the three places they walk through. In order to be chosen for an HGTV episode, an applicant must already have a contract on an existing home. Then they re-create the house hunting process with two additional homes that will never really be considered, and Ta-Da! We’re all sucked in to a fake reality show.

I am destroyed. Undone. Inconsolable. I bet those aren’t even real people they’re filming.

Now I’m suspicious of every other live or filmed-live tv show on my set. For example, I no longer trust anything on 'The Tonight Show'. While the band played on (or did they?) in last night’s intro, dozens of people hiding offstage in the darkened Stage Right and Stage Left suddenly rushed together onto the floor—like the Red Sea after the Israelites crossed—converging at once on Jay Leno, who stood expecting them as though he himself were Moses.

You can fool me once. You can fool me twice. But . . . well, I forget how that one goes. Here’s the deal. My keen intellect focused in immediately on what was really going on there. Those aren’t studio guests. They didn’t stand in line for hours hoping to become part of the studio audience. Jay doesn’t keep Purell wipes in his pants pockets so he can eradicate germs from his hands after he greets strangers. I figured it out—those aren’t visitors at all. Those are his neighbors, cousins, nieces and nephews, his tax consultant and his dentist! Paid fans! Each of them with their own dressing room and wardrobe staff and wigs and fake moustache collections.

Oh. Now I get it. They weren’t trying to shake his hand. They were reaching for their paychecks.

“That one was probably his mother!” I proclaimed to my husband who had closed his eyes during my tirade, pretending to be asleep. I knew he wasn’t really sleeping , though.

Reality doesn’t exist in my house either.

Ostriches

God knows I prefer to stick my head in the sand.

The last thing I want to do is put my name out there for someone to attack. I hate confrontation. I can barely get through “devil’s advocate” debates without dissolving into tears. If I could just be passionate without being dramatic, confident without being emotional. I believe I am being rational, though I worry that others will accuse me of saying the sky is falling.

But I think the sky IS falling. The protective bubble of human rights, individual rights and constitutional rights is about to burst like the vaporous canopy that once covered the earth God created. Every culture on earth has a great flood story. The canopy above collapsed, the ground broke apart and it took a year before the waters receded.

Floods destroy.

I’m not just a hormonal, menopausal woman looking for a purpose in life who has decided to take on the TSA for a hobby. I’m a sensitive adult who couldn’t even watch a YouTube video last month showing a six-year-old being patted down in an airport.

My God. What has happened to parental rights? Who will protect the children? More than that, who will console and counsel them after the trauma?

We need heroes.

Where are the men who will protect their women and children? I heard a phrase used during “The Undefeated”, a documentary about the way Sarah Palin was ripped apart by the media and politicians when she ran with John McCain in his candidacy. Everyone stood back and let her take the hits. The men who could and should have stepped up to defend her but did not were called "eunuchs."
Pathetic.

Long live Ignorance. So long, Chivalry.

Hang in there, Freedom.

A Hero may show up yet.

Tornadoes

I want to see a tornado. Not up close and personal. More like, distant and anonymous. The last thing I want to do is tick off a maniacal funnel of blustery wind and have it chase me down.

I’m already on the run from a few people like that.

No, I want to get in a truck with my darlin’ (cuz he’s not afraid of much of anything) and drive due – whatever – towards some big black cloud in the distance, as long as it’s spewing hail and rain and lightning and thunder. You know, like the one Dorothy enjoyed.

My closest friends can’t believe it when I tell them I want to see a twister. “You?!” they say incredulously. “You’re afraid of being afraid! Why would you want to run after something that could tear you to pieces? On purpose?!” Well, I don’t WANT it to tear me to pieces.

I just want it to pose nicely while I take its picture.

I don’t know WHY. Maybe chasing a tornado is my version of thrill seeking. It’s not like I want to bungee jump or anything. You could die of a stroke doing that. And I don’t want to see a tornado destroy lives or property. I just want to see one drop down out of a distant lightening-lit cloud, spin around threateningly in the middle of nowhere, and then close up shop and go home.

You know, a little floor show with gusto.

It’s inevitable that my passion for rain would come to this. You can’t adore the wet stuff as much as I do while living for thirty years in the desert like I have and not have something snap. Look what happened to poor Moses. He ended up leading three million people into a raging river after spending that much time staring at cactus. Dehydration can do funny things to you.

Maybe if I get to see a tornado in person I’ll get over wanting to see one ever again. It would be a kind of shock therapy for the naive. And, I’d like to point out, it’s not my fault that I have this obsession. If TNT would quit showing “Twister” once a week while I’m channel surfing and play “The Sound of Music” instead, I might decide that singing while running away from blood-thirsty Nazis is a lot more fun than running towards a cyclone.

Probably not, but maybe.

My sister took up scuba diving for fun once. She wanted to stare deadly ocean animals in the face while she invaded their natural habitat. Nobody called HER crazy. They all admired her love of the outdoors. Later she strapped herself to a stranger who hurled her out of an airplane at 13,000 feet so she could feel the wind in her face. She bought the video tape and the whole family applauded when they watched it. “You’re so courageous!” they gushed. My husband spent thirty-eight years bringing home a regular paycheck because he crawled into blazing infernos armed only with a combustible oxygen tank and a water hose. Everyone called him a hero.

So the least people can do is admire my fascination with deviant weather anomalies and tell me to take an umbrella. It worked for Mary Poppins.

And she’s practically perfect in every way.

A Snake In The Chapel

There was a snake in the chapel today—way up high, wrapped around one of the ceiling rafters. Perfectly camouflaged by the dark beam, it was hard to see him at first. I couldn’t tell from where I cowered in the corner if he was a venomous viper, but I didn’t really care.

Snakes don’t belong in chapels.

Most of us staring up at the trespasser were frightened to see him in attendance. Our first thought was that someone should get him down—not us, of course, but someone. Now. Before he slithered out of sight and re-appeared under a pew. Holy gatecrashers, Batman. Can you imagine the chaos if he tried to cozy up around the organist’s feet?

A couple of men stood directly beneath the interloper, scratching their chins and discussing strategic modes of attack. The snake yawned, bored, rearranged his head under his viper pit—and went to sleep.

He was a silent intruder. A mute disrupter. A secret spectator. But his presence did what serpents always do--it distracted us. Nobody could concentrate on worship with a coiled snake balanced overhead. We focused on our fear and how to get rid of it—and the snake, too.

Maybe what we should have done was just sit down –a couple of rows back from the “drop zone”, of course—and enter in to the holy of holies as planned. Why worry about the reptile overhead aiming for your coiffeur like a skydiver at a state fair? It’s not like he could land on his feet, anyway. And quit calculating the trigonometry you’d need to scale the summit of an eighteen-foot ceiling using a six-foot ladder.

The snake would be the least of your problems if the theory of gravity wins out over your Pythagorean theorem.

Okay, so I wasn’t one of the mighty men bent on removing the charlatan from God’s sanctuary. When it comes to spiritual warfare, I’m the one with flat feet and poor eyesight begging to be excused from hand to hand combat. Or in this case, hand to . . . vertebrae. Eewww. My husband, my hero, tried to see if he could knock the reptile down with one or two well-aimed, smooth stones.

I just hoped his catch was as good as his aim.

We stood around in that chapel for a good forty-five minutes and never figured out what to do about the snake. No one had a ladder big enough. There weren’t any smooth stones lying around. The best we could do was take a picture of the crazy thing sleeping in the shadows overhead. It did absolutely nothing but show up and our focus was destroyed. We gave our full attention to the disturbing creation instead of its Creator and left the chapel the same way we came in: frustrated, confused and a little defeated.

We haven’t changed much, have we? I think this is the same conflict that threw the whole human race into a tailspin in the first place.

Picture this: a snake shows up in Eve’s kitchen, acting like he belongs there, promising to improve her menu options, and the next thing you know, we’re all eating leftovers out of a dumpster. Why? Because she hadn’t been through Spiritual Warfare 101 and never learned how to tell a snake where to go? Or maybe it was Adam’s fault. After all, he had the throwing arm but didn’t pick up any rocks. Never mind the biggest question of all - snakes could talk? The bottom line is this: the only threat to their peace was the lie the serpent fed them. And they swallowed it - hook, line and sinker.

Just like we all do.

It’s all about what we believe. Did you know the word ‘lie’ is hidden in the word ‘believe’? I just noticed that. Hidden lies. Interesting. We can believe truth or we can believe lies. We’re faced with both in every situation. And whether or not I pick up five smooth stones to exterminate the enemy when he tries to intimidate me, or choose instead to huddle with the rest of the frightened army, my response to the challenge begins with what I believe about God.

I can recoil from peace, let vain imaginations control me, and slink off in defeat, leaving the visitor overhead wondering if it was something he said. Or I can stand in God’s presence with soldiers at my side and snakes in the rafters, thanking God that He created them all and is bigger than they are.

I want to stand in the shadow of the Almighty and believe He stands between me and every assault on my peace.

He said He’s for me. I choose to believe He means it.

The Doggie Dance

My husband used to drive an old Toyota shortbed landcruiser. It was 'A Man’s Truck’. It had no air conditioning, no power steering or automatic transmission, and hardly any brakes. Rob loved that truck. I didn’t mind riding in it, but I hated to drive it. On this particular day, though, I had no choice. I’d signed up our mis-named dog, Harmony, for some training, so she’d quit knocking our kids down every time they went outside. And we could only restrain her in Rob’s truck.

Now, I need you to understand—we homeschooled our kids through high school. They both went to college. They graduated with honors. Our son has a master’s degree. But our dog couldn’t even make it through obedience school. She flunked out the first hour and I went home with scars on my face!

Rob couldn’t go with me to the first lesson because he was teaching a class in Chandler. He left the landcruiser for me to drive, but neither one of us remembered I’d also need the key. So I took the kids to a friend’s house who loaned me her car, then I raced over to where Rob was teaching, got the key, raced back to my friend’s home where I returned her car along with the broken pieces of her sideview mirror . . .sigh. Don’t ask. I loaded the kids in the truck, got the dog chained up inside, and then we all did the braking/lurching/driving thing all the way to Tempe where I left the kids with another friend, and then Harmony and I made it to the park in Mesa with about ten minutes to spare.

I parked, went around to the back of the landcruiser, and lifted up the rear window so I could unchain and release the hound . . . but she jumped out before I could do that. There she was, hanging out the rear window by her neck! She looked like some kind of horrifying Tim Burton Christmas tree ornament.

I finally got her loose, and then Harmony took the lead . . . literally. She drug me all over that park, running circles around my legs and between my feet, tripping me in front of God and everybody. They all knew. We were doggie trash.

All of a sudden I realized that the lead had gone slack in my hands. Because Harmony’s tiny little head—inspired by her tiny little brain—had pulled completely out of the collar, and now, she, Who Knew Not Her Name, was a free agent. Run amuck. Through the whole park.

So there I went, running after her, yelling, waving the collar wildly in the air and hoping she’d just . . . keep going! But somebody caught her. Now I had to put the collar back on her. Once again she and I did the Canine Two-Step all the way back to the starting gate, where the instructor had witnessed the entire floor show.

She walked over to me and said in a surly, patronizing sort of way, “Ya know, if you put the choke collar on her, you’ll have more control.” Right. I hadn’t had control since I brought this dog home from the pound. I gave it to her and asked her to put it in the dog, but she said I’d bought the wrong size and I’d have to “go over there and buy a new one.”

Well, that was impossible. There was no way I could hang on to this lunatic dog with one hand while I wrote a check for a new collar at the same time. I knew when I was licked. I decided to just go home. I would come back next week . . . with Rob.

One more time, we did the Doggie Dance all the way back to the landcruiser where I lifted up the rear window again and reached down to pick up my forty-five pound wonder dog who knew how to jump OUT of a truck but NOT INTO one!! I got her up almost shoulder-high when she wiggled in my arms and bumped the truck, which caused the window to fall—full force—onto the bridge of my nose.

The pain was blinding. I didn’t even know what happened! But I was pretty sure . . . it was the dog’s fault. And I wished with all my heart that she’d hung herself when we arrived. I still held her, but now, she seemed light as a feather, and THIS time I had NO TROUBLE getting her into the back of the landcruiser!

I went around to the front seat where I found a filthy Kleenex inside the man’s truck. Mopping the blood on my face with it, I went back to the registration table to ask for a refund. It didn’t take a lot of convincing for them to give me my money back. I just told them what happened.

“The dog! . . . and . . .the collar . . was too . . and then the WINDOW! . . . on my nose!” They practically threw the money at me—I think I made ten bucks on the deal.

I took Harmony home, and then I drove back to where Rob was still teaching. You see, my husband is a paramedic. My Knight In Shining Armor. And I knew, he would take one look at his battered bride, drop everything he was doing, and rush me to the emergency room where they would prep me for surgery.I went up the stairs and knocked on his door . . . again. He came outside this time, took one look at me and exclaimed, “What happened?!!”

He thought I got beat up in the parking lot. So I explained. . . clearly. . . Laura Petrie style.

“The dog! . . . and the collar . . was . . . too . . and then the WINDOW! . . . on my nose!”

You know. I really think it was just too much information for him. He threw an arm around my shoulders, gave me a quick brotherly hug, and said,

“Well, honey, I don’t think it’s broken. And uh, look, I’ve gotta finish teaching this class. Tell you what, why don’t you, go home and, uh, put a bandaid on it! You’re gonna be fine.”

And . . . he disappeared inside the building.

You know, the last time my husband showed that level of . . . concern . . . I was in labor with our first child, and just as I reached transition, Rob looked at me the way only a young, inexperienced husband can, and said, “I don’t think you have a very high threshold of pain!”

They always say you’ll forget the physical sensations of childbirth. But I’m sorry to report—that may be the only thing women ever forget.

Well, the next morning I had two beautiful black eyes and an attractive butterfly bandage on my nose—which was NOT broken—courtesy of my nurse friend when I picked up the kids. Rob did finish teaching his class that night, but later . . . he realized he may have missed an opportunity when I showed up the second time. After all, I was a real patient with a real injury.

And he was teaching a first aid class . . . on bandaging.

The Secret of Being Old

I guess it was bound to happen. I’ve been dodging this bullet for a while, walking around with my fingers in my ears while I sing that catchy tune, “la la la la la! I can’t hear you!”

I just found out I’m old. I know, right?! Can you believe that? You should have seen me drop my bifocals when I heard it.

I can’t understand how the secret got out. After all, I spend an awful lot of my husband’s hard earned cash camouflaging whatever terrifying color is hiding under these jazzy red curls just so people will have to ask themselves, “Does she or doesn’t she . . . have an updated will?”

It’s not like I don’t try to take care of myself. I had my second ever facial yesterday and the aesthetician (who looks my daughter’s age . . . hmm) never once called any of my freckles “age spots.” She may have mentioned that “as we grow older” we need more hydrating, but I thought she was recommending the bottled water I got from the cute staff of teenagers at the front counter--the kids who called me “honey” and “sweetie” when I checked out. They sure were nice.

And I know it wasn’t any wrinkles that gave it away. One of my buddies moved up a little higher on my best friend list last week when she told me I have a baby face. How could a baby faced woman my age be old? She didn’t have her glasses on when she said it, and I did immediately pick up the lunch tab, but still—I know it’s true. I figured out a while ago that wrinkles don’t show as much if they’re fluffed up with . . . fluff. So I ordered dessert for both of us that day. That poor little skinny thing – she could do with a little more fluffing herself. (You didn’t hear that from me.)

I decided to do a little investigating. And since I’ve recently gone a’bloggin’, I figured I should look for clues in my bio. People can get the wrong idea from the most innocent sounding words, you know.

Grandmother. Okay. Well, I'll admit that certainly sounds old. Actually, I’m known ‘round these parts as YaYa since “grand” anything sounds elderly to me and I refuse to use it to identify myself. Hence, I am NOT known as GrandYaYa. Therefore, I am not old.

Movies I Like. Yeah, there are some pretty old titles in there. For example, “While You Were Sleeping.” If you’ve never seen it, you might think it’s about that old guy with the long, long beard who fell asleep for a hundred years, and when he woke up everyone else was dead and he was the only person alive, or maybe that’s the original version of Sleeping Beauty?? I don’t mind being called a sleeping beauty, though. I’ve been taking a few more naps lately.

Interests: Starbucks. Hey, lots of young people hang out there with me (see, ‘hang out’ is a cool expression, right? Is ‘cool’ still a cool expression?) Of course, they all call me m’am and hold the door for me and smile patiently when I use phrases like ‘hang out’. Or maybe they’re just snickering because some of my body parts that used to hang in are now . . . hanging out . . . or down . . . hmmm . . .

And there’s a photo on that bio. But it’s kind of a sexy photo in a Well That’s The Best Picture We Can Expect To Get Of You At Your Age kind of way . . . I don’t think it makes me look old. Then again, it is an old picture. I guess if I was being really honest with myself, I’d have to admit it has been a long time since I was a kid. I mean, in dog years, it’s been so long, by now I’d have been dead at least twice. And I’d definitely call a dog who lived twice his expected lifetime “old.”

Ohmigosh, it’s true. I AM old. Poor Rob. He could trade me in for two twenty’s now that I’m past forty, but it’s too late for him, too. He’s not wired for 220. He'd blow a fuse.

The thing is, inside this imposter body there’s a young woman who still feels 29. Which is not actually my chronological age, of course. That would be physically impossible since my son just turned 30 on Sunday. I did have him early, though. Two weeks early. Still, no one is more surprised than me when I walk by a mirror and realize a middle-aged woman is horning in on my reflection. Where did she come from? I love her hair color, though.

I know I’m not alone in this discovery. I hang out with a few old friends who are also being stalked by a mature likeness of themselves. And we’ve come to a surprising conclusion over our Early Bird Specials—growing older ain’t all bad. After all, we’ve earned every hidden gray hair and fat-fluffed wrinkle. We’ve outlived our mothers’ conflicting prophecies. (“Stop sitting so close to that TV or you’ll go blind . . . and eat your carrots so you can see in the dark.”) We’ve survived the birth, the middle, and the empty nest exits of our children. And now we get to enjoy the reward for not following through on our death threats to our kids – grandparenting.

I think the best way to view life’s portrayal of our extensive experience is to take it as a compliment. After all, in the words of an old person who forgot to take credit for them, “Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.”


I know wisdom when I see it.

I wasn’t born yesterday, you know.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 1 'n 2

It was after midnight one night and sleep just wouldn't come. I thought I'd do a little light reading, and jumped into this Old Testament book about a beautiful, courageous young woman. "Hmm," I thought to myself, "what this inspired book of God needs is a little editing from me!" And look! I'm still alive to post it here—God has a sense of humor, too!

The Book of Esther - through my bleary eyes
Esther 1

It was the party of the century. For six solid months King Xerxes, ruler of 127 provinces from Sudan to India, partied hearty with his royal pseudo friends, complete with an open bar. One night, he ordered his eunuchs to call his wife, Vashti, who had already hostessed the men’s wives, to come and stand in front of all his intoxicated friends so they could admire her beauty. Sounds like he wanted his beer buddies to be jealous of his wife as well as his kingdom. But his drunken demand ticked off Vashti. She refused to come, honoring her personal boundaries, which embarrassed and upset her husband. He asked his wise guys for advice as to her refusal. They said she had disrespected him and there would be no end to the discord that would occur in everybody else’s castle once her women friends heard about it. They advised him to kick her out and let that be a warning to every other woman in the land not to get too big for their britches. Women needed to understand that their husbands were rulers over their households. And by the way, they needed to speak their husbands’ language in their homes. No more Pig Latin, apparently.


Esther 2

After the king sobered up, he reconsidered his rash decision. But it was too late. The laws of the Medes and Persians are made of cement. Vashti was vanquished. Bummer. But not to worry. There are always more fish in the sea. His wise guys suggested he advertise on Craig’s List for virgins who’d like to attend his rose ceremonies. One of the eunuchs, Hegai, would herd, I mean guard, all the virgins in one big hotel, pamper them with facials and mani/pedis, and the king could date them all, narrow down the list, and finally choose one of them to replace his ex. “Sure,” the king said. He was a deep thinker.

Now there was a man named Mordecai, a Jew, who was exiled from Jerusalem and living in Xerxesville. He was guardian to his orphaned cousin, Esther, who was so beautiful, she could easily have been named Miss Persia and gone on to win Miss Universe. He had raised her and thought of her as his own daughter. For some reason, she caught the attention of the king’s toadies, and she was brought, along with a lot of other innocent girls, to stay at Hotel Hegai. She caught the attention of Hegai while she was there, and won the grand prize of special beauty treatments and lots of chocolate, all hand delivered by seven women from the palace. Wow. That’s a lot of chocolate. They even put her up in the hotel’s penthouse. See what good looks can do for a girl?

Mordecai wasn’t far away, though. He kept his ears to the ground every day, checking on Esther while she was having spa treatments at the hotel. He’d told her not to tell anyone that she was a Jew. The MP’s (Medes and Persians) were pretty racially prejudiced at the time . . . oh, yeah, they still are there in present day Iran. It took twelve months of mud packs and Brazilian blowouts before the fair young maidens were considered lovely enough to meet the King up close and personal. By then, they were all another year older, you know. Each girl had a chance for a one night stand with the King. They just had to be smart. They had to know what to take from the hotel with them for their Ken and Barbie Date Night, and the next morning they were chauffeured back to the hotel. Then it was just a lot of hanging around in the hot tub, eating donuts with the other girls, trading stories and hoping they’d get the final flower at the impending rose ceremony.

When it was Esther’s turn to meet Xerxes, she decided not to try to figure out what to bring from the hotel on her own. Instead, she asked the eunuch in charge what he thought she should bring. Pretty smart cookie, there. Stroke the little guy’s pride. All the other girls kicked themselves for not thinking of it first. But they couldn’t hold it against Esther. She was a crowd favorite and was even named Miss Congeniality by a unanimous vote. All this happened in October when the King had been in office for seven years. I’m not sure why that matters, but it’s in the Bible.

Well, the whole thing worked and the King was smitten with Esther. Nobody else even tied for second. He gave her a royal tiara, made her his wife, threw another blowout party for all his friends, and proclaimed the fourth Thursday in October as Queen Esther Day. It might have been the third Friday in October. Whatever. He even had some royal china and paper weights made with both their pictures on it for the tourists.

And they should have just lived happily ever after all of that. I mean, the king sobered up and married the prettiest little Jew girl in the . . . . oh, yeah. That’s what went wrong. He never checked her passport to make sure she was legal. Bummer again. Esther wasn’t trying to skirt the law or be dishonest. She was just listening to her Uncle/Cousin Mordecai’s advice, and he was just trying to keep her pretty head attached to her pretty shoulders until he figured out what to do about that unfortunate nationality of hers.

Well, Uncle Cousin Mordeai had become quite a fixture on the castle grounds. But nobody knew he and the Queen were relatives. He was drinking a Starbucks one afternoon in the Castle Coffee Shop when he overheard a couple of the king’s bellboys griping about only being paid minimum wage or something like that. The two guys got each other so worked up, they decided to take out a contract on the king’s life instead of just contacting their local union like normal, sane people. Mordecai heard their whole amateur plot and he told Queen Esther about it. She told Xerxes and gave the credit to her Uncle Cousin. The King had his CIA agents check it out and sure enough, it was true! Suffice it to say that those two guys were never heard from again. CIA agents don’t mess around. The King even put the whole thing down in his journal. He had a touchy feely side that way.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 3 'n 4

Esther 3

Now for some reason, King Xerxes became very fond of a pompous politician named Haman. He created a special position in his legislature just for the guy, and all the other fellas had to bow down anytime he strolled past by order of the King. Which he did a lot. Back and to, back and to, until the rest of Congress got pretty fed up with his arrogance. But Esther’s Uncle Cousin Mordecai refused to bow when Haman walked by. Which annoyed Haman so much he couldn’t sleep at night, what with all that stomach acid and reflux. He was so enraged at this one man who wouldn’t pay any attention to him that he decided to get even. He decided to get MORE than even. He’d discovered that Mordecai was a Jew, which made Haman hate ALL the Jews in Xerxesville. He plotted to have all the resident Jews murdered as revenge for Mordecai’s bad manners. Talk about holding a grudge. Sheesh.

Well, the King and Queen had just celebrated their fifth wedding anniversary with a nice quiet dinner at home with candles and roses and one of those cute violinists strolling around them all night. Meanwhile, Haman was in a habit of making big life decisions based on the roll of some dice, and a few months later, January I think, he played a little game at the craps table. He rolled a seven and a five, added them up, and decided that Fate was telling him December was a good month for the Jews to die.

He was a sneaky little creep, though. He didn’t just come right out and tell the King what he was so ticked off about. He fed the King a story about how there were some religious fanatics living in his city who were leaches on the economy. He told Xerxes it would be politically correct to stop tolerating them and just finish off the whole bunch, once and for all. He even offered a bribe to the King if he’d take him up on the idea. Talk about nerve!

Well, apparently good old Xerxes wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Or else he just wasn’t really listening all that closely to Haman that day. I think he just wanted to get rid of the guy, so he told him to put away his wallet, made Haman a co-signer on executive orders, and went back to watching his ballgame.

You know what happens next. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Haman wasted no time and signed a bazillion executive orders dictating the total demise of every man, woman and child with names ending in Stein or Berg on December 13th, which was probably a Friday. Attackers were given permission to loot the homes of their victims, too, just for a little incentive. It wasn’t going to be a sneak attack – it was made a law under the authority of Haman, the King’s right hand man. In eleven months to the day, Jewish citizens would be extinguished. Then the King and Haman shared a couple of beers, while Mordecai and all the Jews read the order and tried to figure out if it was something they said.


Esther 4

Mordecai’s reaction was as intense as it gets: he ripped his clothes apart in anguish, put on funeral attire, and headed back in tears to the Starbucks where he’d saved the King’s life. That’s gratitude for you, he thought, as he drowned his sorrows in a caramel macchiato. And he wasn’t the only one. Terror and grief seized the heart and mind of every victim destined for the sword. Guns hadn’t been invented yet. It was the worst epidemic of depression the world had ever known.

Esther’s servants told her of Mordecai’s mental condition and his pathetic wardrobe as soon as they saw it. Esther sent him a Sears gift card so he could put on something decent, but he refused the offer. Finally, she sent a trusted friend to ask Mordecai what was bugging him. The news she received was shocking: she learned how much money Haman had tried to bribe her husband with, and saw the actual legal directive signed under Xerxes’ authority to wipe out her very own people. Of course, he didn’t know they were her people – yet. Mordecai sent word through Esther’s agent begging her to use her influence with her husband and save all their lives. Preferably before December 13.

Esther was in quite a pickle. As she dictated to the courier to explain to her Uncle Cousin, absolutely everyone knew that it was a death wish to approach the King while he was watching a ballgame in his Man Cave. You simply couldn’t just saunter in there uninvited. And if you did attempt such a crazy thing, you’d be at his mercy, hoping he’d hold out his golden scepter to you compassionately and not use it to hit you in the head. Besides, the play-offs were going full force. The King hadn’t even seen her to kiss her goodnight in over a month. What Mordecai was asking her to do could end up making her the second ex-Mrs. Xerxes. It was just too dangerous.

Mordecai was a little taken aback by her response, and actually got kind of snippy with her. It was the stress. He sent back word through the poor, tired little messenger that Esther shouldn’t be selfish just because she lived in a big, fancy house. “You can pretend you’re not one of us for a while, ignore our predicament and somehow we will still be rescued. But cowardice is never rewarded, and you and your relatives will eventually suffer for it. Still, on a happier note, who knows, maybe you were promoted to your unlikely position as Queen Of The World for such a time as this.”

She always was a good girl with a sensitive spirit. His words hit her hard. She made up her mind. With privilege comes responsibility. She texted Mordecai back: “You’re right, of course. I need you and the rest of the town to fast on my behalf for the next three days – my friends and I’ll do the same. Then I’ll commit an act of civil disobedience and approach my husband without an invitation. And if I die, I die.” Sensitive girls tend to be a bit dramatic.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 5

Esther 5

The three days passed pretty quickly. Esther lost a couple of pounds, put on a beautiful gown that fit better now, took a deep breath and walked down to the Man Cave. She had pretty good timing. The Bears had just killed the Rams in overtime and the King was in a good mood. He saw her stand in the doorway looking like a magazine cover and suddenly remembered he had a wife. He extended his golden scepter to her which meant, “Hey, Baby, what’s up?” and she accepted his invitation to come in the room and talk.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” he asked.

Esther took another deep breath.

“Well, I’ve been craving minestrone soup, Caesar salad, rib eye steak with baked potatoes, lasagna, jalapeno hummus with pita bread, and Snickerdoodles. So the chef fixed up all that stuff and it’s waiting down in the cafeteria for us. And I thought you could even invite your best bud, Haman, to join us for dinner, too.”

She waited with baited breath to see if he’d take the, uh, bait.

“Yum!” her husband exclaimed.

So the three of them sat around the table and feasted. Over his fourth glass of wine, King Xerxes looked at his beautiful wife and was inspired to give her a little gift.

“Esther,” he said, “I feel inspired to give you a little gift. But I’ve run out of ideas. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like me to get you and it’s as good as yours. I’d even be willing to turn half of my kingdom over to you, even though this isn’t a community property state.”

Esther kept her eye on the prize and took another deep breath.

“Darling, you’re so sweet!” she gushed. “A girl needs time to think, with an offer like that. Why don’t you and our dear friend, Haman here, plan to have dinner with me again tomorrow night and by then I’m sure I will have thought of something.”

It was a win-win situation. Esther was still alive, the King was fat and happy, and Haman couldn’t wait to brag to his wife and friends about how he and the royal couple were thick as thieves. He chuckled to himself all the way out the door, nodding to all the poor nobles who weren’t as popular as him, when suddenly he made eye contact with Mordecai. Who would not bow. It completely threw off his groove. But he kept thinking to himself, “December 13th, December 13th,” and went home to take some Tums.

Of course, he was big man on the campus and all his neighbors dropped by to rub shoulders with him and listen to him brag about his good fortune.

“I’m practically a member of the family, you know,” he boasted. “I’m the only one they invited over for supper!”

“We know,” muttered his wife.

“And, I’m invited back again tomorrow night for Tacos and Margaritas!” he gushed.

“Amazing,” his wife said, and rolled her eyes.

“Yes, but I can hardly even enjoy my good fortune. That guy, Mordecai, still acts like I’m a nobody whenever I see him. He’s ruining all my fun.”

Well, of course, Haman knew his audience. And they didn’t let him down.

“What?! Who does he think he is?!” his wife and friends demanded. “He can’t treat you like that—you’re the King’s best friend! Tomorrow, just see if the big guy will do you a favor and turn Mordecai into a shish kabob. It’s a small thing to ask. Then go on to dinner with your friends and have a good time.”

Haman rubbed his hands together in glee. What a great idea! Then he told the castle carpenters to set up a pole with Mordecai’s name on it. He knew everything was going to turn out fine.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 6

Esther 6

That night, a bad case of insomnia set in on the King. Fresh out of Sominex, he decided to find something boring to read and see if that would help him fall asleep. Now if the King ain’t sleepy, ain’t nobody sleepy. So at three in the morning, he had his aides bring him The Giant Book Of All The Great Stuff I’ve Done While I’ve Been King. The condensed version.

Yawning, he thumbed through it and was just about to fall asleep when he saw his journal entry about Mordecai ratting out some back lot thugs and saving the King’s life from an assassination attempt.

“Hey, Joe!” he yelled to his clerk. “Did we ever do anything nice for this Jewish guy who saved my life that one time?”

“No. Can’t think that we did.”

Well, by then it was going on seven and who should show up in the foyer but his good buddy, Haman, looking to ask King Xerxes for that little shish kabob favor. When the King heard that Haman was waiting to see him, he invited Haman in to ask a favor of his own.

“Hey, you’re just the man I wanted to see,” Xerxes bellowed as Haman entered the room. Haman straightened his tie.

“If I wanted to honor somebody in a really big way, what would you suggest I do?” Xerxes asked.

Haman’s heart began to pound and he flushed with embarrassment. “He must plan to honor me, his BFF!” he thought to himself. “How appropriate!”

“Well,” Haman answered, “If I were in your shoes, oh mighty ruler of all the important parts of the world, and I wanted to show my admiration for someone, my Worshipful Master, I’d throw a ticker tape parade in his honor! Oh, oh! And get this! He’d be the only one in the parade--all eyes would be on him! You could even give him one of your royal robes—just one from the back of your closet, no need to make the poor guy too self-conscious—put him on one of your very own horses with one of those huge, beautiful royal crests on the stallion’s head?—and find some schmuck to lead him up and down Main Street for everyone to cheer and applaud!”

Out of breath with excitement, Haman waited eagerly for the King to give him his just reward.

“What a great idea!” the King exclaimed. “I’m putting you personally in charge. Go get one of my robes and a horse and do just what you have said for Mordecai the Jew who’s always hanging out over at Starbucks. And I don’t need a poor schmuck to lead him around town—you can do it for me!”

Every now and then, there’s a little justice in the world. Haman obeyed the King and led Mordecai around the town that morning, shouting for all to hear,

“This is how the King honors people who have his back.”

It was an Excedrin moment for Haman. Tail between his legs, he headed home where his family and friends tried to stifle their chuckles and work up a little sympathy for Haman and His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

“Wow,” they said, “Sucks to be you.”

None of them thought he had an ice cube’s chance in Hades of getting rid of Mordecai now. And while they commiserated with Haman, the chauffeur arrived to take him to dinner at the palace.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 7

Esther 7

Things were about to get a lot worse for Haman. If you have a queasy stomach, you may just want to skip over the end of this little chapter. Fair warning.

Haman arrived at the castle, met up with King Xerxes, and the two of them joined Esther for tacos in the cafeteria. Haman didn’t have much of an appetite, but did his best to pretend to enjoy himself. After finishing off his flan, the King sat back with his Margarita glass and admired his beautiful Queen. He remembered his desire to give her a special gift, brought out his checkbook and, pen paused in the air, asked her what little trinket she’d decided on. It was the moment of truth.

“Remember,” he said with a smile, “only up to half of my kingdom. Don’t get greedy now!”

Esther drew herself up to her full stature, looking more elegant and royal than the King had ever seen her. Mordecai would have been proud.

“Your Majesty,” she began in earnest, using his full name, “if it’s true that you are over the moon for me and willing to show such amazing generosity, then the thing I’m asking you to give me is my very life. I’m also asking you to spare the lives of my people. All of us, my people and myself, have been betrayed and will certainly be murdered in cold blood—annihilated—unless you step in. If we were only being sold into slavery, we could take it, though, and in that case I would never ask for your intervention.”

King Xerxes was stunned.

“Who did this?” he demanded. “What’s his name?”

Haman tried to blend in to the Persian rug.

“This vile man eating at our table,” she exclaimed, pointing. “Haman—enemy of the state!”

The King stood up in a rage, nearly knocking over a jar of salsa. Fists clenched, he quickly strode out to the garden to collect his thoughts before coming back in to commit homicide. Haman was terrified. He couldn’t run. There was nowhere to hide. Brought down by a woman, and a Jew at that, he began to cry like a little girl, literally throwing himself onto Queen Esther, who had taken a seat on the couch, and begged her to spare his pathetic life.

Just at that moment, Xerxes burst back into the room, surveyed the scene, and lost his cool.

“Who do you think you are? Now you molest my wife while she’s here with me?”

It was as good as a death sentence. Seemingly out of nowhere (cuz the Bible cuts to the chase a lot like that), the royal executioners appeared, threw a flour sack over Haman’s head and waited for orders from the King.

One of the eunuchs knew about the shish kabob pole out in the courtyard and commented, “There’s a 75 foot pole outside that Haman erected to kill Mordecai on—remember him? The man who saved you from the teenage assassins that time?”

Haman tried to glare at him, but it was hard to see through that flour sack.

So, here’s the part where you may want to skip to chapter eight.

Rage filled the King.

“Is that so?” he said with a smirk. “Well, what goes around comes around. He sealed his own doom,” . . .

Okay, I have a weak stomach and can’t tell you how they decorated that huge May pole out in the courtyard. I’m skipping on to chapter eight. Suffice it to say, the King’s anger subsided and Haman’s wife became a widow.

Her mother was right—she should never have married that loser.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 8

Esther 8

The safer chapter.

Things began to look up a little for the Queen. She finally confessed to her husband her relationship to Mordecai, as well as her heritage, but it didn’t phase him in the least.

“You could have told me,” he gently chided, and rumpled her hair. She felt so silly.

The King probated Haman’s entire estate the next day and gave it to his wife, Esther, minus all the relatives. Then he called her Uncle Cousin Mordecai into the castle where he promoted him to the status recently vacated by Haman, the enemy of the Jews. Finally, Esther appointed Mordecai guardian over her newly acquired estate. And if this were an American story, this would be where the happy ending appears.

But this is a Medes and Persians story—remember the King’s careless edict which couldn’t be changed? Uh, huh. That equals three more chapters before we’re finished. Take a break if you need to. I’ll wait.

All the stress had taken its toll on Queen Esther. There was still that troubling little death sentence which awaited her and all her people. She collapsed in an emotional heap at the King’s feet, begging him to rescind the edict Haman issued against the Jews. Unfortunately, Persian politics were a lot like poker: a card laid is a card played. Once written, a law was inflexible. That’s when Esther came up with a suggestion on how to circumvent the Jewish extermination proclamation.

“Tell me if you think this is a good idea,” she said, standing slowly, “and if you really love me, and if you like my ideas, and . . .” Her insecurity began to show a little. “Here’s what I suggest: make a new law that overrules the other one!”

“Why didn’t I think of that?” the King thought to himself, proud of himself for marrying such a smart cookie.

“What a good idea,” he told Esther and Mordecai. “Ok, Mordie,” said Xerxes, “write it up as seems best to you on my stationary in my name in behalf of the Jews and it’s as good as done.” Ready for a cold one, he headed back to the Man Cave.

You see, in the words of Edmund Burke, who would live about two thousand years later, all that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing. Esther surrounded herself with men who were better than that.

Even though it was still nine months before D-Day, they got right to work. Thousands of people scattered over hundreds of miles of Xerxesville needed to be told they had the right to bear arms and defend themselves against enemies both foreign and domestic. Secretaries scribbled and couriers delivered the important documents by horseback to everyone. Come December 13th, Jews in every city knew they had the King’s permission to assemble and protect themselves—to destroy beyond recognition any armed men of any nationality or province who even tried to harm them or their women or their children. And, as a bonus, the Jews were given the right to plunder the property of their enemies. What a deal.

Suddenly, Mordecai was a hero in Xerxesville. And the King was such a humble guy, he let Mordecai take the limelight for a while. When he left the palace, Mordie was dressed in some crazy new threads with lots of royal bling, just a little token of appreciation from King Xerxes and the Missus.

The country was filled with jubilant Jews who knew how to celebrate. They partied so loud and so long, full of thankfulness at their eleventh hour rescue, that some Xerxesvillians got intimidated by their enthusiasm, crashed their party and defected. By the time the festivities wound down, there were more registered Jews than when they began.

That’s some crazy math.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther 9

Esther 9

It was the day of reckoning. Nine months had passed since the Jews throughout Xerxes’ kingdom learned that their King really did have their best interests at heart. Nine months to sharpen their swords. Nine months to formulate strategies. Nine months preparing to defend themselves from a well publicized invasion. You would think, wouldn’t you, if you were planning to attack citizens who had that much time to organize and who had the full support of your own king, that it might be a good idea to sleep in come December 13th so you’d still be alive to enjoy December 14th?

Somehow, Haman’s original cohorts never got that memo. So when the time came to attack, they did a little high five in the city center, kissed their women goodbye, jumped on their horses to go commit some genocide, and planned to be back in time for dinner. They chose poorly, Grasshopper. And there were a lot of empty chairs at the supper table in Xerxesville that night.

The Jews had the upper hand in every way imaginable. Their enemies attacked them with fear in their hearts and doubt in their minds, despite their boasts. That alone was their death knell. The invaders had no support from their government in this fiasco because the King’s advisers had thrown their allegiance in with the King’s new right hand man, Mordecai. Smart move. Those weaklings knew which side their bread was buttered on and, typical politicians that they were, everything always boiled down to bread with them. Mordecai’s reputation as a good and powerful man was legendary throughout the King’s lands. The truth was, the officials were all afraid of Mordecai, so they turned their backs on their troops and hid out in the back rooms of the palace until the skirmish was over.

At the end of that fateful day, the reports of the Jews’ victory over their enemies was incredible. Right there in downtown Xerxesille alone, they massacred five hundred men. They also killed the ten wretched sons of Haman the Horrible, who’d already met his Maker and didn’t make a very good first impression with Him. They took no captives, showed no mercy, and made short work of the threat to their homes and families. But they took no plunder from their enemies. They did only what was necessary to protect themselves and those they loved.

That evening, the King marveled at the success of the day’s Shock and Awe Campaign. Talking with Queen Esther, he said,

“Five hundred and ten men alone were killed right outside our door today! Can you imagine how many were killed throughout my entire kingdom? We may have a shortage of eligible bachelors around here for a while! I gotta give it to ya, though. You sure know how to clean up the riff raff. Is there anything else you want, sweet thing?”

“Well, if it’s all right with you, honey,” she answered sweetly, “tell the Jews they’ll be on a high alert again tomorrow—and since the apples didn’t fall far from the tree, display the bodies of Haman’s ten sons in the courtyard the same way his was.” (Like how I got around that description again?)

Xerxes mouth fell open. “Guess hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” he thought.

So the Jews went at it again. On December 14th they wiped out another three hundred men in downtown Xerxesville. But they took no plunder. And neither did the rest of their countrymen. What they took were the lives of 75,000 invaders, and when it was over the Jews were free of oppression.

The Jews in the countryside were a little more efficient at exterminating pests than those in the city, and got the job done the very first day. That freed up December 14th for celebrating their first Independence Day. They ate hot dogs (kosher, of course) and potato salad and set off fireworks . . . probably. It’s a funny thing, though. They didn’t take any loot from their enemies. Yet, to this day, they exchange gifts when they remember and celebrate their victory. The only thing they wanted from their enemies was freedom. And they honored it with sacrificial giving to others.

Meanwhile, the city folk didn’t get to party until December 15th, but what’s wrong with that? We’d all be a lot happier if every national holiday was stretched out over two days.

Mordecai wrote down every detail for the benefit of posterity. Then he mailed letters, stamped with approval by Queen Esther, to all 127 counties in Xerxes’ kingdom, instructing them to make December 14th and 15th an annual holiday. He left the details up to them, but insisted that they celebrate big time the anniversary of their deliverance from their enemies with potluck socials and donating clothes and toys to homeless shelters. Gratitude begets gratitude. Mordie wanted them to share the wealth.

The Jews liked the idea. Who doesn’t like a good party? Haman the Horrible had plotted against all the Jews to destroy them. He relied on Persian dice, called Pur, to choose their expiration date. But when the King saw how he’d been played for a fool, he turned the tables on Haman, and the little creep and his ten rotten offspring were all caught in their own net and hung out to dry.

The Jews, who had a wicked sense of humor of their own, referred to these two days of celebration as Purim, since it was the roll of dice that set everything else in motion, too. But don’t get me wrong, they took this happy holiday seriously. It became a tradition written in stone. They would never forget the deliverance they had seen, never forget what happened to them personally, and always remember how they united and freed themselves from oppression.

They had seen that there is strength in numbers. They saw that cheaters never prosper. And, good farmers that they were, they knew we always reap exactly what we sow, we reap much later than we sow, and we reap much more than we sow. And they taught all of this to their children, making them promise to pay it forward to the end of time.

Through Bleary Eyes - Esther: The . . . End

Esther 10
Epilogue

It’s amazing, isn’t it, how things can look so hopeless one day, only to change drastically the next? The story—the facts—of Esther’s courage and influence on a powerful king are recorded for all to see in the Book of the Chronicles of the Kings of Media and Persia. And if you read about how powerful and mighty King Xerxes really was, you’ll have even more respect for Esther and Mordecai and the risks they took when they confronted evil at its core.

The King’s rule of his country was strong and typical: he taxed them just like all governments do, but showed more common sense than many.

As for Mordecai, what can I say? He was a Jew, exiled from his homeland, hated, hunted and placed on a hit list by a powerful madman, rescued at the last minute in a twist of “fate”, and elevated to the second highest position in the country of his exile. He never let this honor go to his head but, instead, used it for the good of his people. They loved him for it. He was a crowd favorite to the end because he always put others first. It seems to me that the book of Esther should have been named instead for her Uncle Cousin Mordecai. But I have a hunch he wouldn’t have liked that. Truly great people never seek the limelight—it just finds them.

Mordecai’s legacy was the courage and integrity he showed at the lowest moment of his life. When he had no logical reason to believe he and his fellow Jews would be rescued, he believed it anyway. He never bowed in worship to anyone but the One True God, even when it put his life in jeopardy. He did everything he could, at the right time and in the right way, to prevent the triumph of evil and to protect and save his innocent countrymen. He did not run. He did not hide. He stood his ground.

Maybe the way this story ends is only amazing to us. Mordecai knew Who gave him his strength. Who gave him his wisdom. And Who had his back.

*******

I’ve taken a few liberties in the retelling of this story. The names have not been changed because the innocent have nothing to be ashamed of and the guilty don’t need protection. But the dates were converted according to our current Gregorian calendar in a way that I found convenient. Call it author's prerogative. Still, to clarify, Purim is usually celebrated in March. And Starbucks wasn’t the beverage of choice in ancient Persia. But it should have been. I used a few other terms that aren’t very Biblical sounding, but the essence and facts of the story are true to the Book of Esther. I think she’d agree.

And I think she’d echo the words my sister often says to me when I let her look into the inner sanctum of my sense of humor: “You ain’t right.”

Close Encounters of the Absurd Kind

I don’t know what you call ‘em. But they’re everywhere. They burst across my peripheral vision from both directions about a mile an hour faster than whatever speed I’m driving. I’m pretty sure the survivors are doing high fives from the side of the road just like their maniacal cousins on that GEICO commercial.

No, they’re not teenagers. Worse. They’re desert rats.

We moved east to a suburb of Queen Creek, now known against my will as San Tan Valley—blech, what a dumb name with embarrassing initials—four years ago this month. I never thought I’d live in Queen Creek. Ever. See, I gave up my pseudo-western identity years ago, which mostly means I quit listening to C&W music. I don’t own a horse. I can’t do the Electric Slide. I never wanted to live in the actual desert desert. You know, with the rattlesnakes and the scorpions and the cowboys and the dirt lawn and the scrubby palo verde trees and the unrelenting sunshine.

But life is funny. Never say never. A beautiful, affordable neighborhood materialized here only thirteen minutes from my daughter, her husband, and the grandbabies and . . . poof! All my priorities changed, right along with my address.

Now whenever this city girl needs a dose of civilization—which is, at least, almost every day—there I am, driving the shortcut backroad to the freeway, past the junk strewn mini-ranches bordering the state's neglected desert landscaping, and all the R.F.D. mailboxes that jut out thoughtlessly into my driving space.

And suddenly, my very presence at fifty miles an hour signals some kind of Wii game for prairie dogs.

What is it with these little furry midgets? Do they have a death wish? Terminal attention deficit? Rodent tics? Don’t they get it? I don’t care if they want to play chicken on the asphalt – do it to somebody else’s truck. I don’t want their gooey bodies squished onto my tires. It’s just . . . disgusting . . . and icky . . . and unhygienic. Who’s gonna clean up that mess?

I mean, seriously, do they have the IQ of a ground squirrel or something?

I used to fret about running over rattlesnakes when I drive that road. Hey, I watch TV. I know poisonous reptiles are rubbery. I heard they can fling up underneath your bumper, climb through the air conditioner vents and attack you from the steering wheel in your own car. I’ve had anxiety attacks just worrying about it. But not anymore. I’ve only seen one in all the time we’ve lived here . . . dead . . . in the middle of the road. There wasn’t a single tire track on his body, though. Just a lot of tiny little footprints.

I think he was trampled to death by prairie dogs.

Maybe it was an omen. A warning. I know it’s going to happen one day. There I’ll be—late as usual—driving too fast on that scrawny shortcut through the desert when a dozen tiny terrorists shoot across my path, pointing and laughing at my panicked expression. Just like their Middle Eastern counterparts, they don’t need fancy gadgets to bring me down—they’re low-tech, all the way. Wielding the element of surprise with the expertise of a ninja, they are consummate professionals.

“Oh my gosh,” I’ll think to myself, “ I underestimated these little insurgents.”

Swerve to the right—no! now the left!—brake hard, speed up—good Lord. . . it’s an ambush! And the next thing you know, I’ll be upside down in a ditch, clean tires spinning aimlessly in the air while I search for my dignity.

That does it. I’m not gonna be taken out THAT easily. I have my pride, you know. My rights to the road. My two ton SUV.

Fair warning, my furry little friends. I’m not afraid of you and your band of assassins anymore. Go ahead, bring it! Give it your best shot, you dusty diminutive demons. Play hopscotch in my path like fleas on crack, you beastly bunch of bullies. My days of tire terror are finished.

Tomorrow I’m buying a Hummer.

Game. Over.


(Photo courtesy of latinvera26's photostream at flickr.com)
http://www.flickr.com/photos/25434239@N06/4282427160/

Showdown at The First Church of Starbucks

It wasn’t exactly a banner day. I was two quarts low on caffeine. Fourteen hours low on sleep. A litre low on tears. The answer to this Sunday morning’s problems was the same as always: Starbucks.

End of discussion.

So I took my sad little self to the corporate magnate clone I always escape to because it feels so warm and welcoming there. I headed for the drive-thru. I had less than twenty-five minutes before my eyes would slam shut, rendering driving impossible and catastrophe inevitable. And with a twenty minute drive home, speed was of the essence.

Rats. Cut off at the pass by two selfish drivers who didn’t care that my needs were way more important than theirs. Twenty-four minutes til brain implosion. I decided to take a chance and go inside for refueling.

Big mistake. The First Church of Starbucks was already in session. There were only two empty parking places. One faced the street, thirty extra steps away from the Door of Hope and Indulgence. The other was curbside, saving me precious seconds. This was a no-brainer. Good thing, since mine was MIA.

Now, I admit it. I drive a gas guzzling, land barge of an SUV. On purpose. So don’t even get me started. But I can spin that thing around on a dime and put it exactly where I want it, when I want it, better than you can with your tiny little smart car. What I can’t do very well is control the stupid door. As I drove my ginormous vehicle between the two white lines of my parking spot—spacing it perfectly—my body began to reserve its flagging energy, shutting down superfluous browsers. And that’s the reason I lost control of my door when I opened it: finger failure.

Did I mention the beautiful new Harley Davidson I parked next to? With the gorgeous maroon paint and expensive, sparkling flecks throughout? The one on my left—the driver’s side? How about the cute little white tattoo I thought it needed? Did I mention that? The one shaped like the corner of a heavy truck door?

Suddenly, I no longer needed caffeine. I needed a bodyguard. Or a lawyer. There was no hole to crawl into. No way I could pretend it wasn’t a white paint ding from MY vehicle. No way I could feign ignorance. For Pete’s sake, I parked in front of the plate glass windows—next to the sidewalk social club café! Everyone saw my transgression. There was only one thing I could do: beg for mercy. In a public place. Where there’d be a lot of witnesses to my demise.

Lucky for me, Starbucks is a VERY public place.

You see, I know a little something about bikes. I even know that’s what you call ‘em. Yeah, I’m cool. My dad put me on his classic Indian when I was barely a year old and entertained the neighbors by driving me around in my frilly pink dress and patent leather Mary Janes. Sorry you missed it. At fourteen, I learned that new white Keds tennies go on the foot pegs, not the exhaust pipes. That’s the last time that boy ever took me for a ride on his rubber adorned bike. When I was sixteen, my boyfriend sent me off alone into the desert on his little Honda dirt bike and I was nearly never heard from again. Thank goodness for the ten-year-old who came to my rescue and kick-started that stupid piece of . . . machinery.

And last year I saw the movie, “Wild Hogs.” Which is where I learned that some bikers are not nice people. They eat morons like me for breakfast. Who says TV isn’t educational? So, since it was Sunday and I was at The First Church of Starbucks, I did the only logical thing I could—I began to fast and pray. Breaking out in a cold sweat, I realized that soon I would finish life as I had begun—alone.

I never thought it would end like this—me, a bike dinger, and High Noon at the Coffee Corral.

With a swagger that betrayed the confidence I didn’t feel, I walked through the double doors of the new millennium’s saloon. Conversations screeched to a halt. The canned jazz piano sputtered and stopped. Counters cleared, baristas scattered. I stared at the frightened patrons, searching through the tree hugger crowd for the Stranger who would seal my fate today—The High Plains Drifter.

I saw his woman first. Slender, attractive, she flashed a friendly smile at me until I asked if that Harley outside was hers.

“Why?” she asked, concern and fear playing a duet across her face.

“I may have left my brand on it, m’am,” I replied.

“Oh, dear,” she moaned, mopping her brow with a tan paper napkin. “You’ll need to talk to my husband,” and she backed up towards the wall.

It was then that I saw him. Short, slightly paunchy, his mouth accentuated by a round, white Van Dyke . . . or maybe it was just covered with foam from the espresso he held. He wore a black leather skull cap, a leather jacket that matched the one his lady cowered in behind the condiment table, and rolled up blue jeans. With deck shoes. Deck shoes?

“Looks like you been doin’ some drinkin’,” I said to the man in the quarter gallon hat holding a sixteen ounce cup.

“What makes you say that?” he replied.

“Intuition, I guess,” I answered back, thanking God I’d stayed up late watching “Wyatt Earp” last night. “So, you’re ridin’ around on a purple Harley these days, are ya?”

“It’s eggplant. And who wants to know?” he answered, stone faced, widening his stance.

“Well, you parked it a little close to my white Tahoe, mister. And now you’re sportin’ a white raspberry on her right flank. You oughta be a little more careful how close you get to the lines, ya know.”

“You sayin’ you dinged up my ride?” he sputtered, concern filling his face, calling my bluff. “Show me what you done!” he said and headed for the door, both arms pumping in agitation.

Hmm, I thought to myself. Maybe I should have tried a different tactic.

In no time at all we stood outside next to his injured bike. He spat on his finger and rubbed at the abrasion. Then he stood up straight and looked directly into my chin.

“Well . . . you’re lucky. It’s only a flesh wound. You had me scared! This here’s my baby! I’ve got some stuff at home that’ll clean her right up. Don’t give it another thought,” he said generously, and headed back inside to comfort his wife.

I followed him, grabbing my iced coffee from the counter. It seemed only right that I apologize to the biker and his babe, thanking them for their charitable attitudes. So I did. Then carefully backing my truck out, I headed home, lost in my thoughts. You know, life can really surprise you sometimes. That’s not at all how it went down on “Wild Hogs.” Or “Wyatt Earp.” There really are some forgiving people in this world. I just didn’t expect to run into one after a run-in with his bike.

I learned a few things that morning at The First Church of Starbucks.

1) Use the drive thru when you’re sleep deprived – caffeine’s on the way. You can afford the wait.

2) Always tell the truth and admit your mistakes – just do it in a well lit area.

And finally,

3) That’s the last time I drive my husband to the airport at four o’clock in the morning. From now on, he can call a cab. I'm done with westerns.