The getaway

I called Erin the other day to find out how long a hickey takes to fade. She said she wouldn't know, which I find hard to believe since -- hello! -- she has four kids.

The sad thing is said blemish wasn't a result of marital congress. I was grooming and unintentionally pinched the skin on my neck. Sounds implausible, I know. But I have the kind of skin that will redden up for half-an-hour when I scratch it too hard. It makes mosquito season a cornucopia of joy. (Mosquito season in East Texas runs from February to December.)

Anyway, the next morning when I finally got around to looking at myself in the mirror -- well after I'd dropped Madeline off at school -- I saw the telltale mark of any saucy tart worth her salt. (Angry comments from offended saucy tarts will be forwarded to the John McCain for President website. I don't know why. It will just amuse me.)

Erin didn't even believe my story at first, which indicates my inner saucy tart might be showing. This is probably the result of a recent getaway weekend with my husband. About two years ago we pledged to make it a priority to get away by ourselves for a couple of nights about every four months. Oh, my. I still vividly recall about 12 hours into our first getaway thinking, Yes! I remember us being this way. ... why did we have kids? Oh, yeah. We love and want them. They're wonderful. That, uh, what's her name ... Madeline! Yes, Madeline. She's the smartest most precocious child and her brother ... uhm ... her brother ... two years younger, blond. Connor! Yep, Connor. He's so funny. Great kids. Great, great kids. Honey, could you get me another mojito?

Seriously, I cannot say enough about the importance of getting away with your spouse for some alone time on a regular basis -- even if it's just a standing date night. It's marvelous for boosting intimacy, energy and generosity in the most crucial relationship in your family.

But even as I preach this, we don't always find it easy to make arrangements to get away for a long weekend. In fact, this last occasion was the first time we'd done so in nine months. Nine. long. months. As is our custom, we stayed at the Hyatt Regency (think the giant, lit ball above the Dallas skyline). While Roy parked, I went ahead to check in, full of the joy that accompanies the beginning of a much-anticipated trip. I strode up to the counter before a young woman with a friendly face.

"Hello," I said. "I have reservations for two."

She pulled up my name. "Yes, Mrs. Clay. I see you've already paid. I'll just need your credit card for any additional charges."

I gave it to her and she clicked away on her keyboard, finally pulling out two card keys. "I have you in a non-smoking room on the fifth floor with two double beds." She extended the cards toward me.

I stood there a moment, not moving, letting the words "two double beds" echo through my mind. This is what happens when you book through Priceline. They put you in a room low enough to hear the noise from the usually-loud open-to-the-top lobby with TWO DOUBLE BEDS. I don't want TWO DOUBLE BEDS. I want a giganta bed. I want a bed that screams This Way to Marital Congress! Or something like that.

I glanced at her nametag. "Jaymee," I said, my deep voice taking on perhaps a hint of controlled hysteria, "I don't think that room will do. I don't think two double beds will do."

I leaned in a bit. "Jaymee, I have two young children. My husband and I are spending our first weekend together, away from them" -- I spoke slowly -- "in nine months." Another beat. "They are six and four."

She stared at me. I lifted an eyebrow.

"OK, Mrs. Clay," she clicked on her keyboard again, "I have you in a non-smoking room with a king-size bed on the 25th floor with a city view. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I smiled. "Jaymee, you rock."

About an hour-and-a-half later someone knocked on our door. Roy and I looked at each other. The kind of looks that said, "Why is there someone knocking on our hotel door and can this be good?" After a bit of scrambling, Roy opened it. I could hear a woman's voice but not make out the words.

When the door closed, he walked around the corner, grinning, with a bottle of champagne, a cork and two wine glasses. There was also a note signed by every member of the desk crew. The message said, "We hope you enjoy your stay here."

And we did. Yes, we did.

-30-

Upon having returned from Sam Hill

I would say I'm back, but that would be pretty presumptuous considering not more than a handful of people care one way or the other whether I blog. And of that handful, fully half primarily visit this site for its links to bloggers who have a habit of actually posting.

I can't say precisely why I checked out of Blog World. By checked out, I mean not writing or reading any posts. My sister-friend JT would tell me when a particularly funny post somewhere cracked her up, like BigMama's encounter with a rude pedicurist. (Ironically, JT started blog reading because I kept sending her links insisting You Must Read This.)

And My Friend Erin With Four Kids keeps me up-to-date on major events in the lives of bloggy people she knows I care about. For good measure, she also lets me know when other bloggers -- those I hadn't gotten to know -- are going through tragedy. Erin is one of the most tender-hearted people I know, so she really goes there and digs in when others are hurting. She tells me I should read something because it's heartbreaking-but-inspiring writing. I usually don't read it, though, not if I wasn't already emotionally invested in that person's life on some level.

I ask myself why that is, and what comes to mind is ... an oyster. Sometimes I'm a mother hen (are they really that nurturing?) and other times I'm an oyster. A five-foot-eleven-inch oyster with freakishly long toes and a knuckle-popping habit. During, shall we say, the season of the oyster, when I get an intrusion of bad news that doesn't involve my immediate world, I protect myself by not examining it too closely. Instead, I begin to segregate it from the rest of my life, turning it over and over inside without letting it get imbedded too deeply. Present but separate.

The analogy breaks down, of course, when one considers this process in an actual oyster produces a pearl, while in me it produces ... uhm. I'll get back to you on that one. It also makes me less than exemplar in the arena of current events. Which is -- if I may use the word again -- ironic. I'm not suggesting we shouldn't ever get involved in the lives of strangers. I'm really not. But there are times, for better or worse, I'm compelled to tighten my focus considerably.

Look, I was a newspaper editor for seven years. Nearly every day I perused the Associated Press Wire, often reading the worst news I could imagine: children left in scorching cars to die, genocide, rape, abuse of power here and abroad. I went to the occasional murder scene where, once, people gathered in the street told me, "when you get angry enough, it just happens" as if I should understand why someone ends an argument with a gun.

When I left that job, which I loved, I traded in the 24-hour news cycle for the When-It-Really-Matters cycle. I felt like I had filled up on so much bad news in inverted-pyramid form, it would take at least seven more years to unload it. So I let my Newsweek subscription lapse. I don't watch Dateline or CNN. I read Slate online to keep abreast of the most major events. And, of course, my circle of friends keeps me grounded in the 21st century.

All that said, it wasn't because I was reading too much (or any) sad news that I took leave of Blog World. I think it's more because I developed a habit somewhere in the past two years of just stepping away from things from time to time.

Roy and I lived without television for most of the years of our marriage. We've had the cable hooked up for about a year or so now, and as much as I enjoy access to certain shows, I'm beginning to think we ought to disconnect again. I vegged out last night. Oh, sure it would take super-human strength not to watch the very first episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" (her hair was brown! staked vampires didn't disintegrate immediately! Xander was thin!), but I should have just gone to bed. Then of course it was continued to the next episode, so I had to watch. Had. to. Then I felt guilty because I had put off reading my Bible. News flash: Zechariah at 1:30 in the morning isn't easy reading. My priorities aren't reflecting well in my time allotment.

I do the same thing with books. I love getting lost in fiction. But no doubt at lot of that time would be more wisely spent elsewhere. God is clearly telling me I need to step away from certain things, and in the process move closer to him.

Last night, when I groggily opened up to Zechariah, this opened my eyes wide: "Therefore tell the people: This is what the Lord Almighty says: 'Return to me,' declares the Lord Almighty, 'and I will return to you.'

It strikes me that it's all good and well to check out of reading or watching or blogging for a while, but if I'm not also in the process returning to him, it really doesn't matter.

-30-

This old house

Colmesneil -- In the spring of 1955, a man named Woodrow Davis married a woman named Mildred Landrum, though no one called her Mildred. They called her Red.

The name hasn’t been self-explanatory in many years. Red's hair is nearly the color of milk glass. The freckles that once marched across her smooth, white skin have faded. But in my mind’s eye I easily see a head full of wavy, rebelliously red hair.

The day Red married Woodrow, she became the mother of three children: 14-year-old Jerrie, 12-year-old Jimmy and seven-year-old Brenda. Woodrow’s first wife had died five years earlier, when Brenda, my mother, was 13 months old.

Before the wedding, people asked Red if she was worried about inheriting three children. She told them she wasn’t.

When Red was around 19 years old, she had surgery. When she woke up from the anesthesia, the doctor sat at the end of her bed and said, “Now, you know, you’ll never have children.”

She loved children. The news was devastating. So when people asked Red if she was worried about becoming a mother to three children, the answer was easy: No. She was glad. Though the transition wasn't always easy.

Red had grown up in a sawmill town, Woodrow a few miles down the road in Mt. Carmel. They dated some in high school. He took her dancing. Then they drifted apart the way teenagers do.

When he was about 18, Woodrow met a girl in Ebenezer community, about nine miles down the road. Her name was Sadie Ruth Ellis. They fell in love, married and had children.

“You never met a better woman,” Red will say of Sadie Ruth. Everyone knew each other in the Deep Pineywoods of East Texas, when Sunday night dances were a dime and even that wasn't easy to come by.

Five years following Sadie Ruth’s sudden death, Red’s sister set her up on a date with Woodrow. He took her dancing. They both loved to dance.

“She was good,” laughs Woodrow. “I could hardly get a dance with her because everyone else wanted to.”

“Your Pappaw was a good dancer too,” she says with a serious nod.

After they were married about two years, Woodrow bought some land in Colmesneil and paid $7,000 to have a little wood-framed house built on it. But before the house could be built, the land had to be cleared.

There is a reason this part of Texas is called The Big Thicket. Red and Woodrow and Jimmy used a cross-cut saw, an ax, a shovel and a hoe to cut back a matted tangle of briars, chop down trees and dig out stumps. They tamed Mother Nature and eventually moved into the little white house on Highway 69.

Oftentimes after school, Jimmy and Brenda would sit at the table with Red and talk about their day. While they talked, Jimmy might drink a half-gallon of milk, courtesy of their dairy cow. The day they switched to store-bought milk, said Red, Jimmy quit drinking milk.

Over the years, Red and Woodrow expanded the house by taking in part of the front porch, adding on rooms, expanding the kitchen. Red’s azaleas climbed a pipe-framed tower in the side yard, and in the spring they still burst into a glory of color. Until recently, every summer Woodrow’s butterbean vines crawled so high up bamboo poles, an eight-foot ladder was required for harvesting. Once, a passing photographer spotted him in the garden, and a few months later Woodrow appeared in Texas Highways, perched atop the ladder, smiling from under the brim of his baseball cap with an outstrechted hand snapping off a butterbean. That picture hung in the kitchen, in a homemade frame, for years.

The picture isn’t there tonight. It’s in a box. The dining room table on which many an amazing meal was served isn’t here either. Nor are the chairs. Or the curio cabinet. The sofa is gone from the living room. The twin beds where my parents sleep during visits have been moved. There are a few chairs left, along with the TV, and a dropleaf table for meals from a depleted refrigerator. The master bed remains so Mammaw and Pappaw can spend a few more nights here while things are set up just a few miles away, in the comfortable little trailerhome behind Uncle Jimmy’s house and, nextdoor, Aunt Jerrie’s house. The double bed where I always sleep remains as well, perhaps because they knew I was coming.

I would have slept on the floor.

It’s not that there aren’t other homes here in Colmesneil where I’m welcome. Being a Davis in these parts means kinship in an enormous clan. But I would happily throw a pillow down in the living room and lay under an orange-yellow-and-brown crocheted afghan to be in this house one more night.

H

When I was very young, we came here on a visit. My memory of this particular visit begins with the house being full of people. Most of the people were relatives, but I didn’t know all their names. Several of them were crying, including my mother. So I backed into the utility room (“the freezer room,” Mammaw calls it) and started to cry myself.

That’s when Aunt Jerrie spotted me, my beautiful Aunt Jerrie. She was loud like my mom, like all the Davises. She laughed loud and talked loud and smiled a lot. But not this time. This time she was soft, and I felt better as soon as she spotted me.

“What’s wrong, baby?” she said, putting her hands under my arms and lifting me onto the freezer.

“Why is everybody crying?” I asked.

“Well, baby …” Her voice cracked. She gathered herself. “They’re just sad because Grandma died, and they loved her very much. But they’ll be OK. They just need to be sad for a little while.”

That moment on the freezer, in this house, I started to learn about life’s transiency. The lesson continues tonight.

Growing up, I spent at least a week every summer in Colmesneil, staying primarily at Mammaw and Pappaw’s house. My cousin Alex and I were inseperable as kids, and when we weren’t at Lake Tejas or at his parents’ house down the road, we were running in and out of Mammaw and Pappaw’s.

Mammaw would let us fill two bowls with Doritos, and we would lay in the living room floor, pulling out a chip at a time and comparing to see whose was covered with the most cheese. Then we’d argue about it. We stood out at the end of the driveway, and when the big rigs roared by, we’d pump our fists up and down so the drivers would blow their horns. When they did, we’d shout and jump for joy. We tromped through the woods in back of the barn where we’d imagine lurking hobos who’d hopped from passing trains. We created elaborate booby traps for the hobos, who somehow always evaded capture.

Most my memories in and around the house are loud ones. The Davises are a vocal bunch. I love how often our extended family gathered in the sitting area off the kitchen and laughed and argued about who had done what with whom, and just how long have they been crazy anyway?

I love that my own children have run through this house and played on the same swinging see-saw Alex and I enjoyed (even though it can pinch the bejeebers outta your leg). This is a wonderful place. And today, I swear, was the first day I consciously noticed the paint peeling on the garage in back. Today is the first day I realized just how many of the surrounding oak trees were felled by Hurricane Rita.

Red and Woodrow – my mammaw and pappaw – have lived here for 50 years, welcoming children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. He is 89. She will be in August. The fact that they’re still able to do for themselves is a blessing, even if an inordinate amount of grunting is required.

I do not equate losing this house with losing them. Wherever they are, I’ll go there and be glad to be with them.

A house is a house. But it isn’t just a house. This house has a familiar, comfortable smell comprised of old things, years of great cooking and abundant grandparent love.

I thank God I still have the grandparent love. But I know when I leave here tomorrow, I’ll never experience the smell again.

-30-

Fat Tuesday tales

Last weekend we made our annual pilgrimage to Shreveport to spend Mardi Gras with good friends. I've never been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, but from the stories I've heard, the Shreveport version is decidedly more family friendly.

Oh, sure, there are the girls dressed like a Cosmo cover in 40-degree weather, warmed only by Budweiser and a burning desire to attract members of the male species more intent on goose-pimply cleavage than evidence of a brain. Not that I notice these girls from under my wool socks, tights, jeans, undershirt, sweater, parka, hat and gloves.

The parade route runs along the river, and the city divides the river bank up into narrow lots, which are divvied out by lottery. By mid-afternoon the street is closed, and the undulating route transforms into miles' worth of gumbo, grilling, music and laughter. Kids run about making new friends when not begging for cotton candy, gaudy hats and 50-cent light wands being hawked for $10.

Last year, a God-sent lady from one of the nearby lots walked over to our group to say she thought a little boy from our collection had wandered down the street and was in the hands of a police officer. Just as I was opening my mouth to say all of ours were accounted for, thank-you-very-much, I realized Connor -- who I knew was RIGHT THERE eating the hotdog I had just handed him -- was, well, not there.

I walked at least a block through a mass of humanity before I spotted my 3-year-old in the hands of the officer. He was perfectly calm, having happily followed a cart full of flashing lights.

This year -- thank you, Jesus -- all children remained accounted for. Aside from eating his cotton candy with black mittens and walking down the street insistent on balancing a stuffed chicken on his head, Connor was pretty mild-mannered.

Madeline on the other hand was feeling particularly flamboyantant. She fell in love with Kelly's Mardi Gras mask and after asking 5 to the infinite power number of times for her own, which wasn't possible at the time, Kelly allowed Madeline to wear it to the parade. (The whole reason for gathering is to get there several hours before the parade arrives.) I thought she'd get tired of wearing it, but that didn't happen for the first several hours.

Then, as evening arrived, Madeline took it into her head that she and Carl (Gene and Kelly's son) needed to tango. About a month ago, while flipping stations, I had watched 10 minutes of a dance competition on PBS -- I'm pretty sure I'll dance like that in heaven; the rest of you can amble politely in choir robes -- and apparently Madeline had paid close attention.

So she and and a more-than-game Carl clenched hands and began to march up and down the street, swiveling their upturned chins so dramatically a Bobble-head doll would fear whiplash. It was classic, and when I wasn't laughing I was thinking how lovely it is she's still so free just to be.

She wants to tango. So she tangos. Never mind that she's not sure how. Never mind several hundred people are walking by.

A girl must dance.

A boy must balance a chicken on his head.

And all is well.

-30-

This rains got my Éire up

It's been raining quite a bit the past several months, and that's put me in mind of Ireland. They call it the Emerald Isle because it's so green. It's so green because it rains. A lot. Actually, it mists a lot. Flat-out rain isn't a constant.

That's what it's been doing around East Texas for several days: drizzling enough to curl my hair so that every day it looks as though I just got a haircut. A very bad haircut ... with the piece de resistance being a double spritz of overpriced Mega Frizz.

It's not just the rain that has me thinking of our time abroad, though. I've been reading Madeline a chapter a night of "The Secret Garden." (We adore it.) The book is set in York, and a number of the characters have a broad Yorkshire accent. For the sake of performance integrity -- and the need to distinguish between characters -- I must, of course, employ different dialects. The problem is that I don't have a wide repertoire. In fact, the only accent I can feign with better-than-nauseating results is a sort of Gaelic mish-mash.

I can also hold my own as a Munchkin from the Wizard of Oz, which was always fun in college. When JT and I got bored, we'd go through Wal-Mart and speak only in high-frequency Munchkin speak. That was after we'd gone to Chevron and charged off-brand Doritos, 2 cans of tunafish and a 2-liter of Coke to her dad's gas card. But I digress.

When Roy and I lived in Dublin, two of our flatmates were college students from County Galway. They were lovely (LOOHV-ley) girls, a fascinating mix of modern and traditional, unthinkingly sprinkling their everyday speech with thee's and ye's. ("Do ye mean to say ye didna know black puddin' was blood sausage? I bet that surprised thee.") It was like having a conversation with a King James Bible, only hip and funny.

I learned a lot from our talks in the teeny-tiny "kitchen/eating area" we shared on the first floor. Among which was the certainty that having a bathroom off a teen-tiny kitchen you share with three other people, with a door that's two inches shy of meeting the floor is not desirable.

For love of mercy, just finish your freakin' tea and bickies and go!

I have a couple of stories worth sharing, like the time Roy unintentionally insulted the Lord Mayor and the time I assaulted a man. But they'll have to wait until we get back from Mardi Gras. We're off to spend a family-friendly weekend in Loueeesiana.

Ye be good.

-30-

Can't I just carry the big stick?

My dad used to say to me, "Do as I say, not as I do." Fortunately, he's the kind of man where often doing as he did was the right thing. But he'll admit he has a temper. And -- sigh -- I have to admit the same. I find myself having to apologize to my kids every now and again, almost always because I've lost my temper.

The thing is, I didn't KNOW I had such a temper until I had kids. People warn that you can't truly prepare for parenting, but you can at least anticipate certain things such as sleepless nights and coming into contact with more poop than a dairy farmer.

I did not, however, anticipate the times when just one more thing crawls. all. over. me. leading to bellowing and snorting and frantic hand-waving. It's ridiculous. I usually realize it's ridiculous in the midst of the snorting and deflate like a Whoopee cushion. Cue the apology.

This is something I've really been working on the last several months. God used Madeline to grab my attention on this when, in the course of a bedtime discussion, she commented quite calmly, "No, Mom, you don't yell at us all the time. ... Just most the time."

Hello, Conviction. Yes, just take that batt you've got there in your hand and beat me with it. Thanks.

OK. I wasn't yelling at my kids MOST of the time. In fact -- as she protests like Lady Macbeth -- I don't yell as much as I "raise my voice." (There is a distinction. Yes, there is.) As it happens, I have a strong, somewhat deep voice that always got me called out in school no matter who else was talking (Janet and Lori). In any case, Madeline's perception is what mattered. And, clearly, I was hollering/raising my voice too much.

These days I try, when I feel the pressure rising, to just get quiet. To speak very low. (Have you seen Meryl Streep in "The Devil Wears Prada"? I mean the tone; not the evil.) This tactic doesn't necessarily diffuse the situation, but it does seem to keep it from ratcheting things up.

A number of times recently, as I've tucked Madeline into bed, I've thanked God for the time she and I spent together that day: time with a minimum of head-butting or wailing. That's not because Madeline has changed. That's because I'm changing. And just this week I had one of the best days I've had with Connor in a long time. He was less mercurial. Part of that is the fact that he's maturing. Part of that is the fact that I'm maturing.

Remarkably, striving to be a better parent is making me a better person.

-30-

... with a young bull for a sin offering and a ram for a burnt offering ...

I've been reading the Bible lately. And by "reading the Bible," I don't mean just on Sunday morning when the preacher directs everyone to Jeremiah, chapter 40, verses 2 through 4, and I try my best to look like I know whether Jeremiah is before or after Psalms, and for that matter is Psalms before or after Ecclesiastes, because that's where my Bible opened.

By this time everyone's already read about Jeremiah, and moved on to Isaiah -- who is not to be confused with Hosea. And excuse me. I just found Jeremiah! Why are we in such an all-fired hurry here?

No. That's not what I'm talking about. (And, by the way, that never happens to me.)

What I'm talking about is reading the whole glory-hallelujiah-let-there-be-light-but-the-serpent-gave-it-four-stars-they-worshiped-a-calf?-a-child-is-born-They-know-not-what-they-do-he'll-be-back Bible from Genesis to Revelations.

I'd made a short-lived attempt at "The Bible in 90 Days" regimen some months ago. So when PEZmama announced she'd be leading an on-line group through the same program, I jumped on board. I figured being a Christian and all, it behooves me to read my history; it'll teach me to love God more deeply; and I can regale friends with banter such as, "Did you know Abraham was married to his half-sister and pimped her out twice?" (Hey, he did.)

How hard could it be to read 12 pages (of small-script on razor-thin paper) a day? Turns out it's something of a challenge. It takes me about an hour and a half. Apparently, it takes most people about 45 minutes. I'd like to think I require more time because I'm absorbing God's word. Because I'm analyzing it for subtleties lesser minds might miss. In actuality, it's because I frequently have no idea what I just read and have to move back three paragraphs. Think Candyland meets Canaan.

Actually, I really enjoyed Genesis. I'd read pretty much all of it before, but not straight through. And it's quite a tale. There's poetry; there's drama; there's very old people. We see Abraham having dinner with God the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. There's a pretty humorous scene with Abraham bargaining with God over Sodom's pending destruction:

But what if there are fifty righteous people there?
If I find fifty righteous people, I'll spare the whole place for their sake.
Uh, now that I've been so bold as to speak to the Lord, though I'm nothing but dust and ashes, what if there are, oh, five less than fifty?
If I find forty-five there, I won't destroy it.
Okaaay. How about 40?
Sure.
Mmm-hmm. Now, don't get mad, but, if you don't mind me asking, what if you can only find thirty?
Fine.
Great. Uh, how 'bout twenty?
OK.
Sorry, uh -- just once more here -- how about ten?
Yes. Ten. We're done here.

God clearly understand the frustrations of parenting.

So even though the reading is a significant commitment (although not really considering how much time I spend on pointless frivolities), I really enjoyed Genesis. And Exodus started out pretty exciting (and weird): snakes, rivers of blood, hordes of frogs, gnats, flies, locusts. Good times.

Then the instructions begin. Instructions on how to build the tabernacle and everything inside it. I previously had no clue the Ark of the Covenant was made of acacia wood -- two and a half cubits long, a cubit and a half wide, and a cubit and a half high. That it was overlaid inside and out with pure gold to which four gold rings were fastened on its four feet. Or that the gold-overlaid poles inserted into the rings were never to be removed. Or ... .

But I kept reading and finally was rewarded by ... Leviticus. Leviticus is God's way of making the reader feel as if she too is wandering in the desert for 40 years. Tell me the sin, and I'll tell you the animal to be slaughtered. And where to smear its blood. And what to do with its fat. I cried out to the Lord in my suffering.

What struck me is the incredible specificity of the guidelines for sacrifices, cleansing, observing feasts, etc. juxtaposed with how often the Bible is incredibly, even frustratingly brief. There are 45 verses on how to handle persons with infectious skin diseases. There are six verses on Lot's daughters getting intentionally impregnated by their drunken father. Yes, it's gross. But that's it? Six verses? Did Lot get suspicious when the kids were born with his hairline? Did he care?

Here's the important thing, though: even when I was wading through Leviticus -- and it gets much more interesting after that -- I felt comforted by being in the word every day. I still do.

One night my leg was hurting enough to warrant some pain medicine and a heat pack. As I laid in bed, I started to do that thing. You know. Where you imagine every ache is a tumor? Normally, I mentally walk that road until I fall asleep and then wake up feeling foolish. But that night, no sooner had I taken a few steps down that path than my spirit heard: "Whatever happens, I'm with you. Rest." And I did. Immediately. It was awesome.

The more I read, the more I view God as an incredibly mysterious, forgiving, judgmental, frustrating, loving personality. I'm also seeing a much broader picture of The Story than I've seen before, which is helpful, to say the least.

And as for the questions raised by what I've read, for the most part I accept that "the secret things belong to the Lord our God, but the things revealed belong to us and to our children forever ...." (Deut. 29:29)

I thank God for what he reveals. Even in Leviticus.

-30-

On a winter's day

I bundled Madeline and Connor up yesterday to go break off icicles (several of which are now in the freezer) and expend some pent-up energy. These two photos speak volumes about their personalities.

Please, join our heresy

I received an email yesterday that engaged me more than anything I've read in a while. It was from Janet, my heart's sister. She asked me some no-frills questions about spiritual doubt. I love those sorts of "hard" questions. No wishy-washiness. No Sunday school language. Just: Here's what I've been thinking about. What's your take?

Sometimes the discussion is resolved with an "answer," oftentimes not. But always I feel invigorated by the discourse. Aren't we instructed to love the Lord with all our hearts, minds and souls? He's not afraid of our questions. What are yours?

I'm posting a very slightly edited version -- I had to dumb myself down just a little, you know, so as not to intimidate anyone -- of our "conversation" yesterday. I invite you to join in.

----- Original Message -----

From: Janet
To: Toni
Sent: Wednesday, January 10, 2007 12:21 AM
Subject: rambling...

Toni,

I don't know if this has ever happened to you, but I was being asked a gazillion questions by Austin about Lucifer and his descent into Hell, when it dawned on me – I'd rather be asked about Santa Claus, because THAT I can explain. Have you ever felt this way? I mean, I know what I know; I feel what I feel; but sometimes I can't help but feel I'm perpetuating some myth Frank told us all was fake long ago.


I'm not having a crisis of faith. I repeat: I AM NOT HAVING A CRISIS OF FAITH.

But still...

Austin had asked me about Lucifer's fall from Heaven, because he’s been explaining it all to a friend, and I found myself longing to explain Santa Claus's rise from Chris Cringle and the whole Rudolph saga. It's much easier.

So I talked to Wade, and he read me an excerpt from "The Brothers Karamazov" that was so compelling, so riveting that it was comforting. This has seriously been a question for thousands of years. And, as I had suspected: agnostics, atheists and believers alike all require faith. Faith. What a hard-to-nail-down word. What is faith?

And, how can God really value it when I have NOTHING else to offer? Everything takes faith. Not believing. Believing.

You know I love Jesus Christ with all that I am. He is my Savior; He has my heart, soul, marriage, my two boys and my girl. What I am extending to you is an opportunity to share any insight or struggle of your own. Wade and I sat up, with him reading to me from his marked-up copy of "The Brothers Karamazov," which was romantic and intellectually and emotionally stimulating in and of itself. But I thought I'd extend the question to you, my dear friend: Have you doubted God? Satan? What does that doubt look like?

I'm not expecting an answer back quickly...take your time. I love you.

JT

----- Reply -----

From: Toni
To: Janet
Subject: question
Date: Wed, January 10, 2007 11:18 AM

JT,

I love that you would think to ask me these questions, that you would share your thoughts on this subject. What a gift. Thank you.

Have I doubted God? Well, yes. Honestly, I think anyone who says they haven't is either a) lying or b) not given to thinking deeply about things. Part of faith is, for me, choosing to believe even when I doubt. Now, if I was plagued by doubts, that would speak to a deeper issue, one that would need resolving. But my doubts about God or the best manifestation of himself, Jesus, have usually come fleetingly amidst times of prolonged spiritual laziness.

In fact, I think what doubts I’ve had in the past were rooted more in a ... desire that there NOT be a God. What I mean is, wouldn't it just be easier if this life was it? Granted, I'm living a life that is, by the standards of at least 90 percent of the world, luxurious. So it's easy for me to say that. I'm not hungry or in pain or lacking for ANYTHING. So wouldn't it be easier, I have mused, if I could do what I wanted without consequences beyond this life? Existentialism – the view that we must create meaning for ourselves in an unknowable, godless universe – is seductive. To my mind it can be boiled down to two things: seize the day and, if you're nice, do unto others as you'd have them do unto you. The end.

But, the thing is, I couldn't believe that if I wanted to. God is too real. I'd have to literally pretend not to see him and hear him. I would have to ignore all the amazing works he's performed. It would take more faith for me to ignore him than to concede him.

And his way, the Jesus way, is hard. It's about service. It's about dying to yourself. It's about becoming less so that we can become more. Jesus was unbelievably radical. He turned the universe on its head and then said: Follow me. Do what I do. Was he serious?! Do what he did? Me?

So, yes. Sometimes I feel too lazy to follow and I think, Wouldn't it be easy if I could just carpe diem and, while I'm at it, be nice to people whenever possible? But what did David say? He said this life is but a breath. We were created to live eternally, and earth is not our home. So what seems as though it would be easier – not believing – would be incredible folly in light of what's ahead, like happily splashing in a puddle when the vastness of the ocean is over the rise.

Then, of course, when I embrace the Lord, there are not only hardships, but incredible blessings. Unexpected and bountiful blessings. And life without him would be so hollow, a sounding gong.

As for Satan, well, JT, it may just be easier to believe in him than God. This is his turf we're on, and surely he is horrendous beyond my ability to conceive. I read stories of torture and murder throughout the world, things happening right now -- as I write this. A few days ago, I struck up a conversation in the post office with a Jewish man who survived a concentration camp in Poland. His father and brother were shot in front of him. He was 13. He escaped to the woods. No one took him in. I've never doubted Evil. Satan is Evil. I choose not to think too much about him; there are dark places we're not supposed to go. And, as you know, I've seen a glimpse once or twice, and it's terrifying.

I love you, my very dear friend. And I'd love to hear more of your thoughts.
t.

Just leave a message, you say?

You know the character Hugh Grant used to play variations on? The guy in "Four Weddings and a Funeral" or "Notting Hill" who, while somewhat amusing as he does it, tends to ramble on and on without being able to stop himself?

I channel that behavior an alarming percentage of the time when leaving a voice message. It's as if the beep of the answering machine queues my inner Manchurian Candidate, and what should be a relatively simple activity -- "Hi, JT. Just checking in. I'll call later." -- more closely resembles an oral roller coaster.

It starts out innocently. Then, somehow, I find myself steadily pulling further and further from the simplicity of the act, until everything tips and I'm hurtling toward a tangential freak show of verbosity. Part of my brain is demanding "Just shut. Up." Sadly, that part has little control over my mouth.

So what comes out is something like: "Hi, JT. Just calling to see how you're doing. It's been two weeks since the latest round of strep throat turned your house into a den o' pestilence, so I figured someone's due to get sick soon. NOT that I'm trying to jinx you. But Lord knows the weirdest things happen to you. Who else runs into J-Lo in the mall, for Pete's sake? I mean seriously. And then has her son ask why they keep calling that woman Jello? Or leaves her phone in a hotel where it's picked up by a member of the president's security detail? [Inner Sane Toni is yelling "Abort! Abort!"] But ANYWAY just calling to say --" BEEP!

Having been cut off by the end of the tape or the five-minute max on the voice mail service, I am left with nothing to do but stare at the phone and wonder why, why do I do that? I sat in a room and negotiated a piece of pipeline safety legislation with oil company representatives. I've won awards for extemporaneous speaking. Gift of gab have I, my friend. Oh, yes.

But, apparently, as all girls learn from fairy tales, there is a catch with the gift. A caveat. A stipulation. A sine qua non, y'all.

The listener must be alive.

-30-

He did what with what?

I had just closed the front door early this afternoon, clutching a handful of newly delivered Christmas cards and a couple of bills, when I heard a yelp from the kitchen. Not a barbaric yawp, mind you. It was a Connor yelp, but not in one of its usual forms. It wasn't an I'm-furious-my-horse-won't-stand-up holler, or a my-sock-is-bunched-up-in-my-shoe growl. It sounded something like a small, surprised animal.

I had taken only a few steps before he came running toward me. He didn't say a word. Just stuck his tongue out and pointed.

"What?" I asked, seeing no signs of injury or destruction.

His pointer finger pumped like a piston at his now drooling tongue, and he raised both eyebrows, as if to say, "Hello! My tongue is what!"

I leaned down, careful not to get in the line of drool, and inspected it. It looked pink, kinda sandpapery. About what you expect to see in a healthy tongue.

I motioned with envelope-laden hands. "What, Connor?"

"I touched it," he said.

"Touched what?" I asked, but I knew. I knew.

"That." He pointed back toward the kitchen. There was no longer any question, really. But -- seeing that he didn't seem worse for the experience -- I wanted to hold onto the illusion a bit longer that surely, SURELY, my son (who, might I add, takes after his father very, very much) wouldn't do such a thing.

"Show me what you touched."

He stuck his tongue out again and pointed at it a bit peevishly this time.

"No," I began walking toward the kitchen briskly. "What did you touch your tongue on?"

He didn't comment. He couldn’t, really, since he had his tongue in his hand.

"You touched your tongue on the skillet, didn't you?"

I looked over my shoulder at him. He nodded.

"Connor, WHY did you touch the skillet with your tongue?" I removed it from the burner, on which I had briefly (it's possible to get the mail without stepping fully outside our front door) left a grilled-cheese sandwich browning on low heat.

He shrugged. And held his tongue. I examined it again closely and still saw no sign of a burn.

"Connor, haven't I told you never to touch anything on the stove?" He nodded. "That includes WITH YOUR TONGUE."

"Yesth, mahm."

I'm fairly sure he didn't know the skillet was hot. But he suspected it might be. So, he reasoned, the safest way to find out if it was hot or not would be to, you know, test it with his tongue. A tongue is wet, after all.

The obligatory moral of the story is never leave something hot on the burner, however briefly, when there's a four-year-old in the house. I shouldn’t have. If he had been seriously burned -- or burned at all -- it would be a different kind of story and I'd feel awful instead of mildly guilty. (Will there be a point in the rest of my live-long life that I don't feel some degree of guilt associated with parenthood?)

But a secondary moral might very well be, when instructing a boy never to touch the stove or items on it, be clear this includes with his tongue.

-30-

Would you rather eat Comet or Blitzen?

A couple of friends have emailed this meme to me, and I've seen it posted. So here we go:

Eggnog or hot chocolate?
I tasted eggnog for the first time yesterday. It wasn’t bad, but I prefer hot chocolate. However, my favorite winter drink is a fruit tea* my husband and I first tasted long ago at a Tennessee B&B. I harassed the proprietor until she gave me the recipe. (What, did she think I was going to start a fruit-tea conglomerate?) I’m drinking the tea right now, in fact, out of a mug bearing the likeness of Young Elvis.

Does Santa wrap presents or just sit them under the tree?
Santa NEVER wraps his gifts. The very idea. Although, with Madeline, the jig is up. A few months after last Christmas (and turning five) she informed me one day, “I’m thinking Santa isn’t real. I’m thinking you and Dad give the presents.” She’s agreed not to tell her brother.

Colored lights on tree/house or white?
This seems to have become quite an important distinction in the past few years. I actually think white lights are, well, classier. But we have colored lights on our tree because that’s what I had as a child and that’s what Roy had. And apparently, that’s what our Indian/Irish/English ancestors hung on their teepees/cottages/chateaus. So we simply Can’t Break the Tradition. Santa might die or something. I’d like to say white lights on the outside of the house. But we don’t seem to get around to outside lights anymore.

Do you hang mistletoe?
Yes. Over our bed.

When do you put your decorations up?
The second weekend following Thanksgiving. I just don’t have the energy to go into full-blown decorating that first weekend. We just relax. It's like the calm before the storm.

What is your favorite holiday dish (excluding dessert)?
Excuse me? Excluding dessert? That’s like saying, what you’re favorite song, excluding the lyrics? Actually, this one’s pretty easy: my mom’s dressing. Oh, my, it’s so good. It’s very moist. It tastes wonderful. And – touching on a decades-long debate with family friends – it doesn’t have any sage. None. Nunca. Sage is bad. Bad, I tell you.

Favorite holiday memory as a child.
No way could I choose one, so I’ll pick a favorite older memory.
One cold Christmas Eve, as a teenager, I drove with my brother to town to pick something up for Mom. Sam was probably seven or eight. The sky was heavy with that crystalline quality, where sound travels miles and the darkness is almost blue. Cresting a hill on our farm-to-market road, we encountered the moon, perched hugely before us. It shimmered ivory in its enormity, close enough so that if we left the car, the steam from our breaths would have caressed its surface. My heart filled, but I didn’t say a word. My brother did. He exclaimed, “Wow.” “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I asked. “Yes, it is,” he said. And that’s when, for me, my little brother became less my little brother and more his own person, someone who thought on his own, saw beauty and shared it.

When and how did you learn the truth about Santa?
I was probably in kindergarten. I just kind of figured it out and, on the way home in the car (sitting in the front seat, before all children had to be chauffeured), I asked Mom if Santa was real. She told me no, and I cried quietly. Not because I was bitterly disappointed, but – and I remember this feeling still – because I mourned the loss of something magical.

Do you open a gift on Christmas Eve?
We sometimes gather with another family for a Christmas Eve gift-opening party. But it’s not a matter of tradition that we open a Christmas Eve gift.

How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
I love pulling out ornaments because almost every one of them bears a memory or belongs to one of us. There are ornaments from my childhood, bearing my name or the name of my first dog (and still the best dog evvuh). There are ugly-but-lovely wooden soldiers Roy painted as a boy. (I don't try and hide them or anything.) The kids have gotten ornaments each year, and they love to see them again. Several my mammaw made for me. There are strands of wooden beads and, of course, lights. It’s not a designer tree, but we love it.

Snow! Love it or dread it?
Love it. Rarely see it. One early December, when Madeline was just a few days old, we woke to a blanketing of snow. Roy and I bundled her up like the Michelin man and went walking through a wooded park. It was magical.
The only other sound's the sweep/Of easy wind and downy flake./The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,/But I have promises to keep,/And miles to go before I sleep,/And miles to go before I sleep.

Can you ice skate or ski?
I can ice skate as long as no one gets in my way or makes me turn sharply. Or speaks to me. As for skiing, does water skiing count?

Do you remember your favorite gift?
My sister, Christy. Her birthday is Christmas Eve, and I adore her still.

What's the most important thing about the holidays for you?
It’s a perfect time to talk about the birth of Jesus into the world – God, all-powerful, mighty God, born into the world as a helpless infant to a teenage mother in a barn. Is that not poetry? But I would be lying if I didn’t also say I love Christmas music and sharing that love now with Madeline.

What is your favorite holiday dessert?
Oh, NOW we talk desert. This one’s easy. Every year, my dad and I make divinity fudge together. We use my grandmother’s recipe (I have the actual sheet of paper in her faded handwriting). It takes time, skill and – at the end – at least two people and preferably three to get it all out of the bowl before it loses its liquidity (you know it’s time to start spooning out when it begins to lose its shine). It’s almost an art form getting it just right. Dad’s the master, and no other divinity comes close.

What is your favorite holiday tradition?
I don't always get to do this, but most Christmas Eves, our church has a very simple service, wherein the Christmas story is read out of the Gospels, in between the singing of classic Christmas hymns. Members of the congregation take turns reading, and the music is led simply and without fanfare. At the end, the lights are extinguished, and the candles passed out upon entering the sanctuary are lit one-by-one as people pass the flame from person to person. It is an exquisite symbol of Christ's love. "I am the light of the world," he said. When all the candles are lit -- hundreds of them -- we sing one more time by the shimmering light. Writing about it makes my throat swell.

What tops your tree?
An angel. Growing up, for YEARS my parents used a cardboard star I cut out and covered in glitter. Every year or so, I had to reglitter. I loved that thing. I recognize now it was pretty hideous. My parents really loved me.

Which do you prefer giving or receiving?
Giving. Definitely. My godmother says she loves to give so much, it’s a shame she’s not rich. I feel the same. It would be really cool if she were rich. ;)

What is your favorite Christmas Song?
Hands down: “O Holy Night,” when it’s sung with skill and heart. When it’s done right, and I hear “Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices …” I tingle all over. Incredible song.


*Fruit tea recipe
Make a gallon of your favorite tea (five tea bags) in a big pot on the stove. I use caffeine free, and there’s no difference in the taste.
Add:
2 cups sugar. You can start with less and add more at the end after tasting.
1 can lemonade from concentrate
1 can orange juice from concentrate
½ can pineapple juice from concentrate
5 or 6 cinnamon sticks
8-10 cloves
Serve when it’s hot enough (the kitchen will smell great). I refrigerate remaining tea and heat by the mug until it’s all gone. You can fish out the cinnamon sticks and cloves or leave 'em in.

-30-

Getting abreast of the situation

Author's Note: I know I have a few readers of the male persuasion, which is fabulous, of course, with me liking men and all. But the following is intended for a female audience. I've got material too rich to pass on, but I really don't care to share it with anyone possessing both an X and a Y chromosome ... unless you happen to be my husband. In which case I hope you know who you are. So, if you don't have breasts, you'll need to skip this one. Or, at the very least, pretend you did.

6666

My mother-in-law, Sandra, says that as we age, medical tests get steadily more invasive and dehumanizing.

I'm beginning to see that may be true. Certain events took place, which had me taking a trip to the radiology department last week for my first mammogram.

Yippee.

The procedure was mostly about peace of mind, in light of an It's-Probably-Nothing concern. Of course, like most women, I'd heard about how getting a mammogram is even more fun than an annual pelvic exam. And I'd seen the stock photos of a woman getting one. Those pictures usually show the woman from behind, perhaps partially draped, while a sweetly smiling tech (let's call her a boob technician) takes an x-ray from behind the protective screen.

It's quite clear why you only see the back of the patient. The kindly photographer is shielding you from the fact this woman's boob -- besides looking like a week-old, Dollar Store balloon wedged under the dresser -- is being pulled two feet from her body by a $300,000 vice. They like to call it a "mammography machine." Wink. Wink. And the tech is smiling because 1) her boobs are not where yours are, and 2) you look ridiculous.

The whole procedure, while necessary and not particularly painful, is pretty much an exercise in humility. In situations like that, I find it's best to roll through with humor. My boob technician, it turns out, was a former student of my mother's and remembered me from when I occasionally accompanied Mom to school. Life is funny, you know. One day you're 11 and shyly waving hello to a roomful of teenagers. The next day one of those teenagers is 42 and telling you you'll need to wear nipple stickers. That's what she said. Nipple. stickers.

I lifted one eyebrow.

"We're all out of tassels," she deadpanned. Thus I discovered a boob technician after my own heart.

The whole clamping ordeal -- you must get in as much breast tissue as possible -- reminded me a bit of trying to get an overstuffed pillow into a starched case: you shove on this side, and it pops out the other. My job, I was told as she positioned and tightened, was to relax. Yes, relax.

At that, I couldn't help but laugh out loud -- which of course created jigglege, which then necessitated reclamping. Eventually, though, I just sort of checked out of my body and watched remotely. Not exactly like Shirley McClain, but with that part of myself that takes notes to process later. And here's one of the things I noted: It is possible, even when one's mammary glands have gone from oval to linear, even when a virtual stranger is sticking metal-tipped stickers on parts of oneself never intended for accesorization, it is possible even then to continuously suck in one's stomach.

Because, by golly, a girl has to maintain her image.

-30-

Best holiday of the year

I am amazed. As I sit to write, it's not yet 11 o'clock this Thanksgiving Eve. I have baked cookies -- and by baked I mean added an egg and butter to the package mix -- prepared the first half of the cranberry salad (which must sit overnight), remembered to set out the yeast rolls and managed not to burn a chess pie. I've done more food preparation this evening than in the last, uhm, what year is it? I realize this is a paltry effort compared to, oh, most any mother with two good hands and a stomach. My own mom has probably been in the kitchen for 18 hours by now. BooMama has doubtless cooked enough to make Paula Deen weep.

Roy has injected a poor, defenseless turkey with Cajun garlic marinade, and we've set aside the neck and sundry other bird gut items for Mom to use in her giblet gravy tomorrow. Roy won't touch the stuff, but he's faithful every year to set it aside for her.

And here's the really amazing part: the house is pretty clean. And there's not one basket full of clothes waiting to be folded anywhere in this house. It's like an early Christmas miracle. The fact that I can say all of this before 2 a.m. is astonishing.

Tomorrow we'll load up sometime before noon and make the five-minute drive to Mom and Dad's house. Family I haven't seen in years -- the California Garrards -- will already be there. In fact, they're probably arriving at my parents' house as I type this. Not long after we get there, the Browns will arrive en masse*. They're family by choice, and we've been gathering for Thanksgiving as long as I can remember Thanksgivings. The only year I've ever missed was when Roy and I were living in Ireland. To my shock, the Irish don't observe an American Thanksgiving. Go figure. Although one pub we visited offered free buffalo wings that Thursday. Oh, yes. Guinness and dried-out chicken wings: We were one Wampanoag short of recreating Plymouth Colony.

I've always loved Thanksgiving. By the time I hit my mid-teens, I had decided it was better than Christmas. I love being around so many people I love, so many people who make me laugh, so many people who complain about the board games we always play. There will be incredible food, someone will bring wine in a box and insist it isn't that bad. Mom will pull out all her china and my grandmother's. The silver will be used. We'll run out of room and tables and tell the kids to quiet down. They won't.

After dinner, we'll gather all the food on the island in the kitchen and cover it with a clean tablecloth. Then we'll visit and laugh and not two hours will go by before someone pulls up a corner of the tablecloth and digs in again.

I love Thanksgiving.

-30-

* Writing en masse takes me back to a lovely time in my life as a journalist. Early in my newspaper career, I pulled a story off the Associated Press wire about some poultry disease spreading through Mexico. In an effort to stamp out the disease, the government was wiping out the entire poultry population. I used the story and, pushing deadline, hurriedly slapped on the headline, "Mexico kills chickens in mass." Probably somewhere in Haiti, there are people perfectly comfortable with this marriage of voodoo and Catholicism. But that wasn't exactly what I was going for. Y'all don't go killing any turkeys in church over the holidays. Trust me. It's frowned upon.

Worrying, happiness, vomit and thanksgiving, or The Day I Turned 35

Today is my birthday. From college on, I don't recall getting particularly excited about a birthday. I'm perfectly pleased to have lived another year, and haven't the slightest qualm about my age. But a birthday is pretty much another day for me, except, if I'm lucky, my mom phones early to sing happy birthday. I get a few thoughtful presents. Some people I love call me or even visit. Those are good things.

Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of the day my best friend's father died. She's the same age now her dad was when he died. That and something else that occurred yesterday had me thinking this morning -- before I ever got out of bed -- about the possibility of dying young. (Not that I've been given any bad news, mind you.) Connor wouldn't remember me. Madeline wouldn't remember me well. So there I was -- the woman who rarely cries at crying-appropriate times -- all weepy.

Poor Roy. He behaved as though he didn't even notice the wife he went to bed with had obviously been body snatched by Sally Fields in a performance somewhere between "Steel Magnolias" and "Not Without My Daughter."

Connor woke and crawled into bed with us, and we giggled together. Then Madeline made an appearance in all her tumble-headed glory. And I felt better.

We all joined Mom and Dad for breakfast before church, and I got presents and kisses and the pleasure of just being with my parents ... without having to pull Connor into the bathroom for a stern talking to/thrashing. Nothing spilled. No one cried.

I felt good.

The music was great in church. The band led us in a super-charged, rockin' down-home version of "I Saw the Light" which no one under 30 had the slightest clue what to do with. But we older folks -- you know, 35 and up -- clapped and sang like we all have Dolly Parton and Randy Travis on speed-dial. Oddly enough, there were helium-filled white balloons loose in the sanctuary -- probably the remnants of a wedding -- which would swoop down from time to time while we sang and while the pastor preached. Kyle made a joke about how God had appeared as a dove. Maybe he takes balloon form these days. From then on, I imagined the slowly diving and lifting orbs as his spirit. I know they were just balloons, but the visualization was a comfort.

Sometimes, even when it brings out the Sally Fields in us. Even when it's at an inappropriate time, like your birthday, I think it's worthwhile to remember we aren't promised tomorrow. "Man is like a breath. His days are like a shadow that passes away," the psalmist tells us. In my recent sleeplessness, I came face-to-face with a review of regrets I would have if, indeed, I didn't have tomorrow: an angry response to a wet bed, days and days without answering a prompting to open my Bible, putting off making cookies with Madeline, not getting under the sheet-and-chair tent with Connor. Not praying enough.

Our church had a potluck Thanksgiving meal tonight. Unfortunately, Roy couldn't go with me because -- in the fine tradition of my sister throwing up on me one long-ago Christmas Eve -- poor Madeline was hit by a stomach virus this afternoon. You know, to commemorate Mom's special day. Roy insisted on staying home with the kids, so I went on and even wore the tiara and red feather boa all members of our small group must wear during their birthday celebrations. Picture the looks caused by a woman sweeping by in twist of red feathers, a head full of cubic zirconia and a plate piled with chicken enchiladas. Priceless.

After we ate, Kyle told us about the Pilgrims' tradition of counting blessings during the meal and prompted us to do the same. It was a wonderful exercise and a great way to close out the evening. In fact, expanding on what was shared around the table tonight, the following is an incomplete, in-no-particular-order, off-the-top-of-my-head list of 20 things I'm thankful for:

1. I'm thankful for a great marriage. Not a good one. A great one;
2. I'm thankful for two healthy kids (present stomach virus excluded);
3. I'm thankful Madeline didn't throw up in a restaurant;
4. I'm thankful for the carwash vacuum cleaner, floor mats and Febreeze;
5. I'm thankful for the flowers, the cake and the balloons waiting on me at dinner tonight (even if the balloons were already tangled 40 feet up in the ceiling joists when I arrived);
6. I'm thankful for thick, warm socks on a cold night and the feeling of taking my bra off after a long day;
7. I'm thankful for music -- jazz, rock, pop, praise, bluegrass and even the occasional splash of hip-hop;
8. I'm thankful for living in a country where education, access to healthcare and the right to worship and vote are largely considered givens;
9. I'm thankful the holidays are coming, and I'll have a chance to make memories and take pictures and see my children thrilled;
10. I'm thankful for terrific friends, good conversation and a bottle of wine;
11. I'm thankful for being tall;
12. I'm thankful for serving in a church that truly cares about people;
13. I'm thankful I can pick up most of my children's toys with my toes;
14. I'm thankful Roy is able to provide well for our family;
15. I'm thankful my mother-in-law just moved back to Texas;
16. I'm thankful my parents live in the same town, and my sister has a new baby boy;
17. I'm thankful I have a brother who enjoys my company;
18. I'm thankful for a king-sized bed and the man who shares it with me;
19. I'm thankful for good books that don't end with the hero dead; and
20. I'm thankful for God's grace.

Your turn.

-30-

A cowboy, an Indian and an ill-mannered orangutan

Apparently along with the gum, lolly-pops, fake cigarettes and jaw breakers, Connor and I picked up a virus for Halloween. Fortunately, it doesn't seem to have hit Connor as hard as me. (Yes, I knocked on wood -- you know, just in case there is no God but rather an angry family of imps randomly punishing people for spilling salt, breaking mirrors and assuming they've dodged trouble.)

Halloween night was fun. We trekked over to my parents' house so the kids could show off their costumes to Grandbee and Granddad. A few days earlier, we spent a small fortune on Connor at Lone Star Western Wear. I was going to go the Wal-Mart route, but Roy and I decided to splurge, and the kid's outfit ended up costing about the same as a one-minute Super Bowl ad. It was worth it, though, when I saw him all dudded up. Connor looks like my dad in his Stetson. As for Madeline, well, she was a Disney Princess for the fourth year running. This year it was Pocahontas. A very blond, Nordic-looking Pocahontas.

Roy couldn't make it because, poor man, he was home in bed with a migraine. Nevertheless, the kids and I met up with Erin and her clan to trick-or-treat through Bel-Air neighborhood. Folks there have to buy candy in milo-sized bags.

It was, as always, a memorable experience. On the occasions I hung back while the kids walked up to a door, inevitably something interesting would happen. Connor really enjoys ringing doorbells and viewed the evening as a doorbell delicatessen. Once, Madeline reported he had squashed a plant. I asked him if this was so.

"No," he said very seriously. "I just laid on it."

About 30 minutes into the evening, Madeline began grabbing her throat and making fairly impressive hacking sounds. "I need water," she demanded. "I need water!"

"Did you eat hot candy?" I asked.

"No! I'm just thirsty." She looked at me as though I was capable of pulling a Capri Sun out of my nose.

We stared at one another a while, her exasperation refreshingly wordless. She waited for me to DO something.

"Well," I offered, "I could spit in your mouth." Because, you know, I'll go the extra mile for my kids. "Otherwise, I don't know what you expect me to do at this moment." I held my hands out to verify I had no liquids.

She looked at me the way she will be looking at me for at least the next 15 or so years and turned on her Disney Native American heel toward the next house. There were about a billion kids pressing toward the door and I was caught toward the back with Connor. So it wasn't until I heard the man at the door saying, "Yes, sweetheart, go right on in." And the yelling: "HONEY, can you get this little girl some water?!" that I realized Madeline had taken matters into her own hands.

By the time I made my way past the press of humanity and identified myself as the camel's mother, she was walking out of their kitchen wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and looking very satisfied. I guess the spitting idea wasn't her first choice.

Once home, the kids had a few pieces of candy, and I got them cleaned up and to bed, just in time to have my mom come over while I took Roy to the ER with his migraine. Two hours and shot of Demerol and Phenergan later, he was doing much better.

Wednesday morning, I woke up not feeling so great. Nevertheless, Roy's headache was gone, and we had plans to go to the Fort Worth Zoo with the kids, where Roy had arranged to meet a high school friend of his (with her oldest daughter) whom he hadn't seen in 21 years. When it's been over two decades since a visit -- not to mention having told the children 500 times they would be going to the "big, big zoo" that day -- feeling a little under the weather and having logged a trip 10 hours earlier to the emergency room isn't enough to call it off. So away to the zoo we went.

We did indeed meet up with Roy's friend, Shannon, who, not surprisingly, proved to be lovely and witty company. Those two caught up as we walked through the exhibits. My favorite was the primates. Connor was particularly fond of the orangutan, which looked just like the one in "Every Which Way But Loose." While I was thinking about Clint Eastwood and how much I hated that movie and wondering why it was broadcast on network TV at least 50 times when I was a kid, the hairy beast walked right up to Connor from the other side of the glass and proceeded to eat his snot.

I don't buy into humans having descended from monkeys, but Connor and that primate have eerily similar eating habits.

About an hour and a half into our visit, I was freezing -- more so than the weather should have caused -- and feeling generally awful. So I excused myself from our company, left the kids with Roy and returned to the car.

And I slept. For two hours. In the zoo parking lot.

So that's what I did yesterday: Went to Fort Worth to take a nap.

Good times.

-30-

More than I asked for

If the first sentence of my last post has taught me anything, it's that you don't joke about hating someone. At least not someone who works for a church and is beloved by the masses.

The things is, I figured I could say something like "I hate my friend Erin" without worrying because it's so obvious IT'S NOT TRUE. It's akin to saying after a while you'll get used to the smell or God is a Republican. (Kidding! We all know he's a Socialist.)

I've mentioned somewhere in my musings that, while I have many friends, it's rare that, like Anne of Green Gables, I find a kindred spirit.

I moved back to Athens, my hometown, nine years ago. I had my wonderful husband and my parents around me, which was and is an incredible comfort. But I felt the absence of a really good friend. So I started praying about it.

It took a while, but God answered that prayer in the form of two people. My friend Elise (who deserves her own post) and Erin.

Elise and I think scarily alike. We say similar things. We like similar things (excepting her freakish love of marching band music). We travel well together.

On the other hand, Erin and I really aren't all that alike -- at least not on the surface. She accessorizes the house according to seasons; I do Christmas. She's very sensitive and nurturing; I've never cried at a wedding and I'll nurture you if I HAVE to or if, you know, you're my kid or something. She remembers everyone's name; Now who are you again?

When we first met, I felt drawn to her but didn't figure there was much of a chance we'd be close friends. I was wrong.

Almost five years ago, she reported (in what I recall being a shell-shocked manner) that she and her husband, Jon, were expecting another child. Up until that time, she was just my friend, Erin, who had three kids. It was with the birth of Caleb nine months later that she became My Friend Erin With Four Kids.

Two months after Erin's announcement, I learned I was pregnant with Connor. In the years that have passed between then and now, our families have gotten increasingly intertwined. They love us and our kids, and we love them and their kids. I've viewed that fact as a blessing for a long time now. But it really settled in my heart last week.



Connor and Caleb both attend Angel Keepers a few days a week (a Mother's Day Out-type arrangement). Those two adore one another, which is a joy to my heart. This particular morning, Erin was running a bit behind, so she dropped Caleb off at my house, and I took both boys to their class.

We sang together in the car on the way there. Caleb requested Johnny Cash. I prayed over both of them. On the way down the hall, I held Caleb's hand and he held Connor's. Outside the room, I put lunchboxes in their spots and then knelt down to hug them both. Kiss them both.

"Love you boys. Have a good day," I said. And they marched in where they were greeted by a chorus of "Connor!" and "Caleb!"

I smiled all the way back to my car as I thought how much I love Erin's son, and what a precious gift that is. I wouldn't hesitate, nor would Roy, to take not only Caleb but every one of those four children as my own.

That's God for you. I asked for a friend, and he delivered a family of six.

-30-

Running without being chased

I hate my friend Erin with four kids.

OK. Not really. I love her. But last night while I was running in the half-dark round and round a mile-long path, and it was humid, and hot in a way that is RIDICULOUS for October, I was not thinking of how I love her.

I was thinking about how two weeks ago she casually asked, "You wanna run the Turkey Trot with me?" And how -- though my brain screamed, "SAY NO! For the love of Kraft cheese, say NO!" -- I shrugged as if it were a minor matter not involving pain and phlegm and said, "OK."

Obviously, I was in denial of the last few times I've decided to start running again. (And by "again" I mean since graduating from high school sixteen years ago.) You see, I used to be an athlete. Really. Four quarters up and down the basketball court? No problem. Four quarters up and down the soccer field? No problem. I got tired, but my body went as long as I told it to.

Then, at 24, living in Austin, I decided to join an adult women's soccer league. I was once an awesome soccer player (never mind that it had been a decade since playing competitively).

I couldn't keep up. I had to ASK someone to substitute in for me. Small children and bunnies mocked me. I had a splitting headache the rest of the day following games. It was humiliating. My body wouldn't behave the way my brain told it to, and I detested that so much I did what any proud, self-respecting former athlete would do: I quit.

Damn you, bunnies!

Since then I've briefly re-entered the cardio-workout world on a few occasions. But, to my total shock, my body STILL would not behave the way my brain told it to. I got exhausted quickly. And I hurt. And I felt like crap afterward.

Isn't there supposed to be a rush of hormones that makes me feel wonderful? Aren't I supposed to be energized? "Natural high," anyone?

Well, let's just say after a good margarita and Mexican food with friends, I feel pretty darn good. After a run, I feel like the fourth day of a flu. This is clearly a no brainer.

Then Erin said, "Wanna run the Turkey Trot with me?" And I said yes. And I've been dying ever since then, because I CAN'T just quit now. I can curse the day we met. I can curse the fact that two children, no exercise and an unholy love of cheese does not make for physical superiority. I can just curse.

But. I. can't. quit.

So there I was last night, running/walking/running/walking ... I've worked up to longer runs between the walking. Eventually (she tells herself) I'll be just running. Although at this point, it's hard to imagine that happening. The good thing is, in the short time I've been running, I no longer feel like Toni McKillMeNow for three hours after the run (like the first day), and I'm no longer sore over most of my body (like the first week). So that's progress.

When I no longer check my watch every minute to see how much time I have left to suffer and when I no longer breathe to the beat of "I-hate-this," then I'll REALLY be making progress.

Thing is, I don't REALLY hate it. I mean, I don't love it. I don't even like the running itself. But I do like the sense of accomplishment afterward. I'm not too old or too lazy or too out-of-shape to push myself. That's a good thing. It may not be non-stop up and down a field, but it's something.

And that's more than I could say a month ago.

-30-

WTFFDTM, or What The Frickin' Frackin' Does That Mean?

There's something that's been bothering me for quite a while now. More, I daresay than the waning popularity of celebrity poker. In my Internet perusals and the occasional email, I come across acronyms that mystify me.

Hi, Toni. IHHFYIAW. How R U? What's new in ur world? IRAAMND.

And, of course, I'm supposed to just know this translates into:

Hi, Toni. I haven't heard from you in a while. How are you? What's new in your world? I recently acquired a monkey named Deborah.

At the risk of offending millions, is it THAT HARD to spell out words like "are" and "you"? I suppose I should note I'm not talking about text messaging, which involves pecking out correspondence on the cell phone keypad while eating a Frito pie and tailgating me at 70. Clearly, that's a time when linguistic brevity is the only reasonable course of action.

I just missed the boat entirely when it comes to knowledge of all the commonly used shorthand acronyms. I've figured several out from context, of course. It only took a minute or two of pondering to discern IRL means "in real life." At first glance I wondered if "Maybe we can meet IRL someday" suggested a liaison in Ireland.

So in the absence of an authoritative www-shorthand source (and being too lazy to Google it), I've devised my own translations. I like to think they add a certain je nais se qua to the original text.

ROFL. Now I know this denotes laughter. I often see a smiley face next to it. But I cannot figure out what it stands for. ROFL brings to mind the sound one makes while vomiting, which I don't equate with hilarity. But that's just me.

BTDT. I'm clueless. "Beautiful turkeys don't talk." "Beware the dainty trucker."

KWIM. "Kool-Aid works in ministry." "Kan we ingest monkeys?"

MRME. "Methinks randy merriment ensues."

IMHO. "Ima ho." Clearly.

I could go on, but TWJBA. (That would just be annoying.)

-30-

The other man in my life

I was out late with the children tonight. Those of us who went to Guatemala last month gathered with loved ones at Ted and Melissa's house to watch an incredible video Steve put together from the thousands of photos taken on the trip. Afterward, we ate more and talked while the kids played upstairs in an Elysian Fields of a playroom.

What with all the visiting and kids not bothering me and pudding eating and visiting, it was just after 11 before I gathered the children and headed home. We skipped teeth brushing (they'll grow new ones) and got right down to the nitty-gritty of prayers and "see ya in the mornin'."

Madeline was asleep inside five minutes. Over half an hour later, Connor was still restless. He's been afraid of the dark lately, so I let him go to sleep with a little flashlight. Sounds like a bad idea, I know. But, to my surprise, he usually turns it off after a short while and goes on to sleep. I suppose it's more about the comfort of having a light than using it.

A few minutes ago, I went in to check on him. As I pulled the tangled sheets from under his little body and spread them out again, he shined his growling tiger flashlight on me.

"You're beautiful, Mom," came a voice raspy from sleep and allergies.

I leaned down closer. There was no charmer's grin. He was sleepy serious. Before I could gather myself to respond, he said again -- in case I hadn't heard the first time -- "You're beautiful."

I put my lips next to his ear.

"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," I whispered. "Thank you."

It wasn't what he said. It was the way he said it: spontaneous, unsolicited, sincere. I thought of all the times he's frustrated me and when I held him as a newborn so full of love I thought my heart might break. I thought of the years ahead when he'll naturally start to pull away, and my heart will break.

You're beautiful, Mom.

My hair is pulled back in an ugly hairband I use for face washing. The makeup hiding the scar across my eyebrow is gone. I'm wearing a 15-year-old robe.

He thinks I'm beautiful.

-30-