Moving on to "A Musing Mama"

Links to My New Blogs

2011-09-21T18:35:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone! I wasn't sure if the links for my two new blogs, "Heart of the Party," and "A Musing Mama" were active.

So here they are again! These are the two new homes for my writing. Thanks for reading.

Heart of the Party: Deepening Relationships Through Parties With Purpose

www.heartoftheparty.blogspot.com

A Musing Mama

www.a-musingmama.blogspot.com

Change is in the Air...

2011-09-07T11:33:00.000-07:00

To all my wonderful readers,

A few months ago, I mentioned that I was going to redesign stuff and narrow my topical focus.

Well, I finally did it! Enchanted has run its course. I will now be posting on my new blog: A Musing Mama.

So if you'd still like to join me for encouraging stories and updates and such, please go to:

www.a-musingmama.blogspot.com

Thanks again for reading!

Are you smarter than a toddler?

2011-09-06T18:50:00.000-07:00

You would think that after 22 years of knowing God, going to church, and being around encouraging people, I'd always feel pretty secure as a person. But I sometimes struggle with the lie that, despite my rich theological environment/heritage, I must be a disappointment to God.
This lie bleeps loudest when I consider my less-than-holy dealings with other people - particularly knee-high people who scream when they don't get their way and can't even get themselves a glass of water without help.

Now, the Bible has a TON to counteract the lie. I have a scriptural crush on Hebrews and am reading through it at the moment. There's so much truth in there about how my debt has been paid "Once for All" and how Jesus is able to save forever those who draw near to Him through faith because He always lives to intercede for them. There's even an Old Testament quote in there where God talks about how, in the New Covenant, He will remember people's sins no more.

"Yep, yep, yep. True, true, true" as E.B. White's Goose said. But sometimes it's my heart that needs reminding - not my head.

And who does God use to give me these reminders? See aforementioned knee-high others.

About a month ago, Selah learned how to brush my hair without threatening my roots. I LOVE having my hair brushed. And lately, she's adopted a particularly endearing habit of informing me of my truest identity while she combs through my fine, graying tresses: "Mommy, you're a princess!"

*sniff*

Another time, I shoved my to-do list aside and just let Caleb lay on me while I sat on the couch. He was touching and chewing stuff and just being a happy baby when it hit me - I'm delighting in this kid. He's not producing a product. He's not having a deep conversation. Heck, he's not even being particularly clean or neat. He's just being. Being happy. Being happy in my presence. Being happy in my presence, and being close enough to nuzzle.

I literally teared up thinking about that.

Yay for heart reminders!

Reflecting on the River

2011-05-28T11:21:00.001-07:00

After enjoying a comfy winter with all the trimmings, I, along with half the city of Chattanooga, am trying to get back into shape by frequenting the River Walk. Exercise has often been a source of conflict for me as I wrestle with my silly (and idolatrous) insecurities regarding health, beauty, and identity in general.

On my good days, I just delight in moving and thank God for letting me live somewhere so cross-hatched with trails, sidewalks, parks, and water. I feel alive outside and breathing (or gasping) the fresh air does my soul good.

On my not-so-good days, I struggle with shame and pride. Either I’m feeling self-conscious and defensive of my curvy abdomen (especially when people CONTINUE to ask if I’m pregnant seven months after Caleb), or I look down my nose at those who cast a wider shadow than I. This usually degenerates into an inner dialogue of condemnation:

“I’ll never measure up to all these pretty joggers…Then again, that lady probably invests everything in her looks and career… If she actually had kids, her abs wouldn’t look like that…At least I’m doing better than this fat person…There I go judging people again…I shouldn’t think stuff like this…Maybe that woman has a great personality…I’m such a disappointing Christian…”

When my eyes focus on me, it’s hard to see the bigger picture. But God re-reminded me of it during a jaunt across the Walking Bridge a few weeks ago.

As I plodded over the great wooden arc, I glanced down at the Tennessee River and noticed that the ordinarily murky water seemed bright and blue. Then I realized the sun’s morning angle had made the river reflect the sky. In places where the water flowed gently and quietly, the reflection looked especially clear.

Kind of reminded me of the famous beauty verse in 1 Peter 3:3-4: “Your adornment must not be merely external - braiding the hair, and wearing gold jewelry, or putting on dresses; but let it be the hidden person of the heart, with the imperishable quality of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in the sight of God.”

Ultimately, just trying harder to think “holy thoughts” during my time on the River Walk will only result in more guilt and frustration. If I try to be good out of my own self-discipline, I’ll run myself ragged and present a pretty muddied picture of the gospel. Not very beautiful.

But if my heart remembers how God drew me close when I was spiritually dead, that He likes me and has given His Spirit so I can act like the redeemed creature I already am, I can rest in what God’s done instead of trying to do it over again. I can even talk to Him about my mental hurdles.

The fact is, I’ve got it far better than the Tennessee River. That murky water’s blue reflection is just a trick of the morning light. But my identity has been truly purified and truly beautified through Christ’s blood. He will continue to purify me until the ultimate morning when time and eternity meet and marry.

So here’s to the “Already, Not Yet” truth that it’s not what I do - it’s what God’s done. And when I remember that, my heart gets quiet. My idols dim. And I am freed to fight the good fight, reflect the Son’s light, and run with perseverance the race marked out for me.

Tally ho!

To My Beautiful Blog Followers: A Change In Address

2011-03-29T10:44:00.001-07:00

If you are reading this note, please know that I am honored you would take the time to visit my blog when you could be perusing a million other sites right now. Thanks for your support.

I first intended this blog to be a platform for two books I’d written: Dr. Hickerup: The Hiccup Healing Man and Don’t Settle for a Fairy Tale: A True Love Story. Later, I just wanted an audience for whatever I felt like posting. Then I had a baby and started working on other projects. Basically, my posting has been sporadic both in regularity and subject matter.

So, I’m trying to slim down (both literally and literarily). Don’t Settle for a Fairy Tale now has its own official site with photos, a pod cast, bio/contact info, and updated excerpts at www.dontsettleforafairytale.com.

Since my posts have been more personal/devotional of late, I’m bagging the all-inclusive net of this blog and downsizing to a fishing rod. In other words, from now on, this blog will focus on my relationship with God in the context of womanhood.

I’ll be changing things around a bit (titles and categories and such) in the coming months, but I hope you all won’t mind still coming with me as I work and write through life.

Again, thanks for reading.

Almost Published

2011-03-09T15:30:00.000-08:00

A couple weeks ago, my clean, crisp nametag of “Bona fide Writer” got torn from my chest when I discovered my first published piece scheduled to be released this month is, unfortunately, still an unpublished piece.

Last fall, I’d received the congratulatory email, signed a contract, and sent in my permissions forms. The notice stated that “the vast majority of manuscripts” would be published. Apparently, my piece was in the itsy bitsy minority.

Rats. Thank goodness I didn’t announce the news of publishing without a cautionary caveat.

It can get frustrating at times, working for hours on stuff that people may never read. Dreaming of the day when the gatekeepers of the writing world will affirm me as one of their race. I know I’m a writer - because I write. I’ve been writing all my life. And even I had zero chance of being read by the masses, I would still write.

Even so, I want the name tag.

I’m aware that this desire to be read can easily get idolatrous. On the one hand, there is always the temptation to base my identity on what I do rather than on who I am.

I do writing. I do mothering. I do dishes. I do vacuuming. I do singing. I do exercise. I do tea.

But -

I am God’s daughter. I am unique. I am redeemed. I am creative. I am victorious. I am loved.

I know this is true, but still need my memory jogged from time to time. Even this morning God reminded me that I do not need to seek man’s affirmation of my gift/identity/importance when He, the Great Creator of the Universe, knows, approves, and loves me.

How can I look at a sunrise and be satisfied to write my own story for my own puny glory? Is it not far better to be in His story? To be following Him in an eternal epic? And to honestly delight in using my gifts for HIS glory without trying to steal some of it for myself?

My pen, my vocal chords, my relationships… didn’t He give them to me, as well as the opportunity to develop them? He also gives me my eternal name tag made of stone, not just flimsy paper (see Revelation 2:17).

On the other hand, God designed humans to work and enjoy the fruit of their labor. For the writer, this fruit equals being read. And usually, being read equals being published.

Madeline L’Engle has been mentoring me through her words in Walking on Water. She writes, “The writer does want to be published; the painter urgently hopes that someone will see the finished canvas..; the composer needs his music to be heard. Art is communication, and if there is no communication it is as though the work had been stillborn” (p. 30).

So here I am - still waiting. Still wanting. Still learning. Still struggling. Still hoping. Still trusting (and complaining, but trying to trust more).

Still writing…

and almost published.

*Two notes of encouragement: Jason and I got the chance to speak to the youth group at our church and have received encouraging feedback from parents. Yay! It’s nice to know that we’re able to communicate a little through the spoken word while we await to do the same through the written. And it was also good to hear that the youth were enchanted by God’s story - not our eloquence. That’s the right place.

It also warmed my heart today when someone referred to me as a writer at Bible Study.

The Abdication

2011-01-28T05:21:00.001-08:00

Once a smooth and shiny seed fell on a warm, deep furrow.
And though designed for underground, she did not want to burrow.
The other seeds dove into earth and sighing, shed their casings,
But this seed stood upon the mound and looked down, hesitating.

A flying raven spied the seed, smirked secretly, and landed.
“Why they choose to die,” he said, “I’ve never understanded.”
“Do they die?” the seed asked in a voice now clearly shaken.
“Yes,” he cawed. “Rain makes them bulge and turn truly misshapen.

“Not like you, you’re black and smooth. No need for dark or hurt.
“It’s nicer here in sun and air. Stay out of that dank dirt.”
“Why then?” asked the puzzled seed. “Why throw their lives away?”
“Baser instincts, I suppose,” was all the crow could say.

“Not like you, enlightened one. You’ve found the sunny spot.
“Let them bury their potential in that stuffy ground and rot.
“You don’t have to lose yourself. It’s your life and your right
“To do important things instead of living hid from sight.”

“You are wise,” the seed replied. “My world’s not in the earth.
“I won’t waste my time or beauty squandering my worth.
“I’ll be much more productive up above where soil’s fallow.”
“My thoughts exactly,” raven said -

He ate her with one swallow.

The seed forgot her noble task. Her use above was slight.
Her earthen calling would have fruited impact of true might.
Had she survived, she would have seen the change in all her friends.
Buried alive, they too did die, but that was not their end.

For in their sacrifice of self, a paradox did grow
From dead, dark earth to bright new life, their joy did overflow.
In death she would have found her life, in losing she would gain.
In sacrificing her smooth shell, she’d birth new heads of grain.

Likewise, let us not forget the function of our form.
God grows the future of His plan through gifts of children born.
We are to introduce Him to the newest generation
Our love, our lives, our gifts resulting in His veneration

Let not the black bird’s lies of self-centeredness enchant us
Nor grasping after fashion’s wind seduce, sedate, supplant us
Let not the culture choke us with its rich and anxious hold
Nor worldly fame or beauty cram us into empty molds

Peaceful and praiseworthy is the heart that’s heavenward
In following the footsteps of our dead and risen Lord
Though dying to myself is not my fleshly inclination,
Let not the title of my story be “The Abdication.”

“So that [older Christian women] may encourage the young women to love their husbands, to love their children, to be sensible, pure, workers at home, kind, being subject to their own husbands, so that the word of God will not be dishonored.” ~ Titus 2:4-5

A Modern Merry Christmas

2010-12-17T04:28:00.000-08:00

If I grew a pine needle for every time I’d heard/sang/acted out part of the Christmas story over the last 25 years, I would put Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree to shame. You’d think I’d have at least a doctorate in Christmas Appreciation by now. Yet my very familiarity with the holy event sometimes tempts me to turn the Christmas story into a fairy tale on par with flying reindeer and singing snowmen.

Although I can quote most of the Christmas narrative, I feel a universe removed from its components. I have never been to Israel, never met a shepherd, and never seen an angel. I associate stables not with ramshackle sheds but with high-class tack and pedigree thoroughbreds - probably not the same venue Mary and Joseph visited. And even those stables had their share of poo.

With the way we set up nativity scenes and sing “Away in the Manger,” you’d think Mary and Joseph had stayed at a famous locale with iconic flowing robes and serene smiles. Instead of coming to grips with the true humility of Christ’s birth, I can easily halo the details and make the divine incarnation as comfy and traditional as sweet potato casserole.

So what if, just for kicks, we brought the Christmas down to earth in our own century? Contextualized for the modern American audience, the Christmas story might sound something like this:

And it came about during the Augustus Administration that a new law required people to file tax returns in the state of their birth. So construction worker Joe hopped a Greyhound down to Bethlehem with his pregnant teenage fiancé, Mary.

While there, Mary started having contractions. Unable to find a room at either the Holiday Inn or local hospital, Mary give birth to a boy in a chilly garage after several hours of painful labor. Joe wrapped the baby in a Goodwill receiving blanket and set him down to sleep in an empty tool box.

Later that night, some tired security guards shuffled about their rounds when the sky lit up like the fourth of July. With sunbeams shooting from his skin, an alien warrior slashed through the darkness. The guards, now fully alert, almost wet their pants.

“Don’t freak out,” the angel said. “I’ve got great news for everybody! Tonight, a few blocks away, the powerful Rescuer of mankind was born. You’ll find him wrapped in a blanket and lying in a tool box.”

With that, a million other angels ripped through the atmosphere and belted, “God is astounding and wholeness will come to the people whom He approves!”

After regaining their strength and senses, the security guards ran toward the nearest neighborhood and soon found Joe, Mary and the infant. Leaving the garage, they quickly called everyone listed in their cell phones and posted the news on Facebook and Twitter. And everybody who got the memo tried to figure out what it all meant.
~
May you revel in the humility and mercy of God this season. As Linus put it, “That’s what Christmas is about, Charlie Brown.”

Pure and Tired

2010-11-15T15:05:00.000-08:00

Having a baby takes a lot out of you. Especially in my case - Caleb Jay arrived October 9th weighing 9lbs 12oz! I’m so thankful for this new little guy, and it’s hard to believe he’s already 5 weeks old. But then again, details tend to run together like watercolor once sleep and schedule get scrambled.

A few days ago I cracked an egg on the frying pan only to dump its contents back into the carton. Later that afternoon, I almost put the flour into the refrigerator. And that evening, I totally blanked out while talking with a salesperson over the phone:

“You need my mother’s maiden name for security reasons? Ok. Poff. No, not D-O-F-F. P-O-F-F. You know, ‘P’ as in… um… uh… (can’t say THAT word)… ‘pecuniary’!”

Brian Reagen and I could be friends.

You can only go so long before lack of uninterrupted sleep starts to affect your mind. Nevertheless, I read enough of God’s word the other day (before falling asleep sitting up) to have some bloggable thoughts.

As I read in Matthew, I came across the verse, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” I had to pause after reading that.

Living in the “Already/ Not Yet” time between my perfect purification in Christ (already accomplished via Jesus’ death and resurrection and not my performance, thank God) and the ultimate manifestation of that free-from-sin reality (when Jesus comes back to rule or I go to heaven to be with Him… whichever comes first) is tricky and often frustrating. I rarely do much of anything without muddled motives.

While thinking about this, a simple heart-check question popped into my head: After I have done activity X, do I want people to say, “Hey! Look at Katie!” or “Hey! Look at God!” ?

Yikes. How often is it option A? Or maybe a mixture of both? Eight verses later, Matthew writes, “Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” In other words, it’s not about me.

I forget this a lot. Especially when my children’s behavior interferes with my comfy, clean, sleep-saturated ideals. Am I singing to Selah because I want to reassure her after a bad dream? Or do I just want her to calm down so I can get back to bed?

Thankfully because of Jesus, I am already perfectly pure in His eyes (and this is a God who still knows my every thought, word, motive, and hair follicle… not really sure how both truths dance together, but that’s what the Bible says). Because of Holy Spirit, I have all the power and divine presence I need to live out the life God’s called me to. Plus there are all those comforting promises of God finishing His work in me, keeping me blameless, perfecting and strengthening me, etc.

Louie Giglio has a great analogy comparing Christians to the moon. Ultimately, the moon’s just a big ball of dust. But when it reflects the sun’s radiance, it shines brilliantly. Likewise, we Christians do not generate our own light. Yet when we’re rightly aligned with THE Son, we reflect God’s glory. When people look at us and think we’re awesome, we should point them to the true source of our light.

One day, I’ll be totally free from the mixed motive thing. But in the meantime, I can just continue turning my heart back over to God for readjustment and battle specific temptations with Scripture and prayer.

So the next time Selah’s screaming in her room (if I don’t wallow in self-pity or angst against high-volume toddlers), I might see God answer my prayer for her peace and glimpse His glory as He concurrently works on my purity of heart.

Finish Lines

2010-09-30T03:40:00.000-07:00

I make a motion that we convert all our “deadlines” to “finish lines.” “Deadline” just seems so negative. While I understand there must be some cutoff point to projects, I feel like “finish line” insinuates successful completion. On the other hand, “deadline” conjures up images of hyper-caffeinated college students staring bleary-eyed at their computers trying to create coherent sentences at 3:00am. And no, this is thankfully not me at the moment…

Last night, Jason talked about an article he’s writing that got me to thinking about lines in general. We tell people to “get in line.” There’s the line between good and evil, lines we draw in the sand, lines we’re towing, grocery lines, gas lines, quotable lines, pick-up lines… you get the picture.

Then a certain Scripture passage that used to freak me out came to mind. Matthew 7:21-23 talks about some people who die and meet Jesus. They come to him with various lines as to why they should be allowed into heaven: “Hey Lord, Lord! I prophesied in your name!” “Lord Jesus, I cast out demons in your name!” “Hey, in your name I even performed miracles!”

Those sound like some pretty impressive lines. Great people doing great shiny stuff in the name of Jesus. But there’s a big difference between slapping the name of Jesus on some good deed and walking in an obedient relationship with Him. For all their glimmering religious resumes, Jesus turns to these fellas and says, “I never knew you. Depart from me, you who practice lawlessness.”

Ouch. These prim and proper so-called saints based their eternal hope on how well they could perform, not on knowing the Savior. In verse 21, Jesus says, “Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of My Father who is in Heaven will enter.”

Jesus then talks about the wisdom of people who hear His words and act on them - a.k.a. faith. In John’s gospel (6:29b & 40), Jesus spells out the will of God even further: “This is the work of God, that you believe in Him who He has sent… For this is the will of My Father, that everyone who beholds the Son and believes in Him will have eternal life, and I Myself will raise him up on the last day.”

So, in other words, it’s not my faithfulness to God, my ability to keep the rules, or my accomplishing really great Christian stuff that enables me to know Jesus or gets me into heaven.

Rather, it’s God’s faithfulness to me, His Spirit freeing me from my condemned sinful nature, and His grace that I don’t deserve and can’t earn that saves me. It’s looking to the perfect, dead, and raised person of Christ for my spiritual sufficiency. It’s not believing in myself to be a good person, it’s believing in Christ - the only perfect person to make me right with God. And once I’m connected to Him in relationship, then He can empower me to do the whole obedience thing.

And if I’m His, I can be confident that my life’s deadline will truly be a finish line.

A Teacup of Truth

2010-08-28T12:04:00.000-07:00

Some women have a fondness for jewelry. Others, an Achilles’ heel for shoes. I, however, have a weakness for teacups. Particularly bone china ones that don’t cost a fortune (but look like they do). Sometimes I even dream about them. And while I know the tea will taste much the same whether I sip it from plastic or porcelain, my heart insists that a dainty china cup is the only proper context for tea with company.

            I haven’t always had this affinity for teacups. For many years, I didn’t even care for black tea unless it came in the form of a heavily-sugared latte. Then, about five years ago, my mother hosted my bridal shower and asked each guest to bring me a teacup. I thought the tea party theme was cute, but didn’t fully appreciate my quirky set of mismatched cups until I later went to a tea room with a girlfriend.

            At first I found the gold-trimmed china intimidating. Roses graced the shiny dishes in colorful profusion, and tiny silver spoons conjured up images of girly six year-olds playing with plastic pink tea sets. I’d spent most of my childhood riding my bike, making bird nests out of mud, and pretending I was an animal. Teatime, therefore, felt oppressively feminine. I hoped I wouldn’t break anything.

            Yet as I conversed with my friend, my tension dissolved as quickly as the sugar in my tea. I felt somehow womanly and sophisticated with the beautiful cup and saucer in hand. The tea warmed my body as the conversation warmed my soul. Art met practicality in the china teacup, enabling human connection with elegance.

            I quickly purchased my own teapot so I could host private tea parties with other women at my home. Teatime became a weekly ritual that deepened several relationships as my friends and I talked, laughed, and prayed together. I enjoyed equipping certain friends with teacups of their own and thanked God for my little “tea ministry.” But I had no idea then that He also delighted in my teacups.

            For my birthday this year, I decided to buy myself a new teacup for my collection. I was picky, of course. I wanted a bone china teacup with blue roses (and I didn’t want to spend a fortune on it). I got online and searched through E-Bay’s inventory for several days. Yet whenever I auctioned for an item, some teacup thief in cyberspace would outbid me at the last minute. After two or thee episodes of throwing up my hands and yelling at the computer screen, I gave up on the internet and started window-shopping at more civil retailers. But I never found anything I liked. So I gave up my treasure hunt and contented myself with my existing collection.

            Then one day, while I was out walking with my two toddlers in the stroller, God seemed to tap me on the shoulder. After heading out of a grocery store, I crossed into the parking lot of The Knitting Mill -- a massive brick building housing thousands of antiques. I was about to pass by when a quiet thought whispered through my mind:

            Go inside, Katie.

            What? I thought in reply. Do you remember what happened the last time I took the kids in there? Weeping and gnashing of teeth, that’s what!

            Go inside the Mill.

            I made a deal. Okay. I’ll go in. But only if the kids are cool with it.

            “Elijah,” I asked, bending over to face my two year-old, “Would you like to go home or go into the store?”

            While I fully expected my son to favor going home over looking at things he wouldn’t be allowed to touch, he announced his surprising preference. “Store!” he said with a smile.

            Alright then… I wheeled my way up the large ramp and through the wooden front door. My double-seated stroller barely fit down the walkway as I scanned through antique stands in search of teacups. Furniture, flatware, jewelry, clothing, and knick-knacks of all kinds lined the aisles in faded glory. Dozens upon dozens of booths contained hundreds of items crammed together on every open surface. The prospect of finding a single object was visually overwhelming. Yet contrary to habit, my children sat quietly in the stroller despite the caterpillar pace.

            I’d only passed about ten booths or so when I spotted it. The gold-plated trim danced along the edge of the glossy, white china. The handle curved gracefully as if to welcome a woman’s fingers. And printed both on the cup and saucer was a beautiful blue rose. All this for an unbelievable $12.50. My teacup!

            As I walked home from The Knitting Mill, I still couldn’t believe that God would concern Himself with something so eternally insignificant. I knew He was sovereign over the nations and relied upon His provision of the essentials. But with all the war, pain, and poverty out there, why would He care about something as silly as a teacup?

            That day God reminded me that He does not merely rule the universe in a broad, general way -- He’s also intimately in tune with all the particulars. He knows when I’m walking with my kids. He knows when I’m sitting down to tea. And He delights in delighting me with a new teacup for my birthday. King David said it best in Psalm 139:1-3 when he wrote, “O Lord, You have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down and when I rise up; You understand my thought from afar… and are intimately acquainted with all my ways.” God is truly master over all the details -- even the silly, insignificant ones.

Only For A Season - A Poem

2010-07-17T13:25:00.000-07:00

And... We're back! At least for monthly posts :-).

Ever have a summer job that made you wonder why you were getting paid? The summer befrore Jason and I married, I worked in a retail kitchenware store and often spent hours alone at the the register. Who buys kitchen supplies at 9:00am anyway?

During one particularly slow day, I scribbled the following poem on a napkin and dreamed of my wedding in December. Enjoy!

Only for a season
Shall that seat near you be empty
Only for a season
Shall you hunger for my hand
Only for a season
Will you just see flicks with Lee
But I am also waiting
And our pain He understands

Only for a season
Shall I miss your handsome smile
Only for a season
Shall I not be at your side
Only for a season
Shall you race a lonely mile
But know that He is with you
And I long to be your bride

Only for a season
You’ll eat icecream on your own
Only for a season
Desire shall be fettered
Only for a season
My voice shall ring just on the phone
And you’ll find new motivation waiting for December

Only for a season
We’ll pray with hands un-intertwined
Only for a season
Our hearts both burn and ache
Only for a season
Shall we endure this discipline
Emerging from this blazing trial pure
Should we partake

Only for a season
Will you not gaze in my eyes
Only for a season will my face begin to fade
Only for a season
Will patience you despise
But God’s still sculpting us into His shape
From lumps of clay

Only for a season
Will your lips yearn for my kiss
Only for a season
Will you feel a sort of lacking
Only for a season
Dear Jason, you I’ll miss
But soon our pain will turn to joy
And mourning turn to dancing

For Jason dear, we merely mirror
The Truth of Jesus’ love
And how though we
Still sinners be
Receive grace from above

He is the Groom; We are His church
United two as One
And our love imitates His own
As we rest upon His Son

Why we’re so blessed
Though hearts feel torn
I cannot guess His reason
But this I know
He loves us more
Than only for a season

An Apology

2010-05-20T19:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Fans,

You have probably noticed that I've been most negligent in updating my blog. Rest assured, I am still breathing. But I wanted to give you some excuses as to why I've been such a slacker.

Basically, I do not currently have the internet in my home. Jason and I were splitting the cable bill with some gracious neighbors, and they have recently moved on to bigger and better things (literally... though they are thankfully still in the area :-).

While we have researched other internet options (mostly via old-fashioned technologies like the phone and personal recommendations), we haven't yet selected a service. Hence, no blog updates. (I'm typing this from my in-law's living room computer).

While some of you may be shocked that I could even live without the internet, I've been surprised at how productive this season of famine has been. I've had so much more time to actually write - just not blogs. Jason and I are working on a book and I'm happy to say that my contribution to it is 98% complete. Normally, I'm distracted by my email and facebook accounts and wind up neglecting my other writing projects.

And since Jason and I don't spend so many hours staring at our little glowing rectangle answering email or doing official bank stuff, we've had more time to do other things... like talk and watch movies... the second still involves a glowing rectangle, but I digress.

So, our plan is to get decisive soon and reinstate internet in the next couple months. And when that happens, I will endeavor to be a more faithful blogger.

Till then, have a swell summer!

A Holy Paradox

2010-03-16T19:39:00.000-07:00

You are transcendent, yet You are intimate

Sovereign King, Suffering servant

Terrible wrath, Tender embrace

Fire and wind, Still small voice

You astound me… Hallelu

You astound me… Hallelu

Immortal Being, Incarnate Flesh

Wrapped in Light, Wrapped in rags

Holy Hands, Bleeding for sin

Buried, Rising again

You astound me… Hallelu

You astound me… Hallelu

You are the Father, You are the Son

Humble, Exalted One

You are unseen, You are most real

And by Your wounds, I’m wholly healed

You astound me… Hallelu

You astound me

Hallelujah

Parking

2010-03-05T12:43:00.000-08:00

During my sweet summer of living in Georgia, Jason often made the three hour trip to Commerce. Commerce is a tiny town right off the freeway. And while it hosts nearly every American fast food franchise, its other entertainment options are limited. Jason and I evaluated our choices and decided to go on a picnic. We packed our sandwiches, hopped in the car, and headed toward Sandy Point, a local park complete with wooden picnic tables and small lake. Here we could enjoy the sun from the shelter of shady trees. We could talk openly without the din of the dinner crowd. And best of all, we could avoid Atlanta traffic.

As we drove into the park, Jason passed the paved lot in favor of a verdant spot close to the water. Although I appreciated Jason’s desire to hoist our lunch over as short a distance as possible, I had a funny feeling about parking in the grass. Many parks take their vegetation way too seriously, and I didn’t want Jason to get into trouble.

By now, we had both opened our doors and were standing outside the car. But that vague sense of guilt still hung over me like day-old mascara. Turning to face Jason from across the roof of his Saturn, I cleared my throat.

“Jason,” I piped up, “could we park in the parking lot instead?” Jason turned toward me with focused eyes and furrowed brows. I softened my request with, “I really don’t mind walking a bit.”

Jason frowned in annoyance. We hadn’t seen any huge “No Parking” signs on the way in and were practically halfway there already. He probably felt like I was being overly legalistic. Yet instead of saying, “Katie, you worry too much,” and slamming the door, he humbly deferred with, “Well, I really want to serve you. So it’s your choice.”

“I think I’d rather go back, if that’s okay,” I answered. We returned to our seats and re-buckled our belts as mild tension wafted through the atmosphere. Jason turned the ignition and made a U-turn.

That’s when we saw them: four bold signs warning all vehicles from parking on the green. Since they were facing the opposite direction, we’d completely missed them before.

We drove back to the parking lot in silence. I considered mentioning my superior intuition and extracting a penitent concession from Jason, but soon thought the better of it. I didn’t want to ruin our picnic. And I had to give Jas some credit. Although he thought my request was silly, he’d still honored it.

Once we reached the pavement and were legitimately parked, we looked at each other and just laughed. Both of us had learned a little lesson in humility that day, even when it comes to parking.

Thirsty

2010-02-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

Sweltering.

Desperate.

Dry.

Parched panting.

Sweat cascading down.

Hot wind whips.

Blazing sand chafes.

Sun strikes earth, searing air into transparent flame. And every second my core craving grows.

I am thirsty.

Step after dragging step, I finally reach the swinging double doors and collapse into a wooden chair. Smoke curls from thick cigars as a drunken song reels through the room. Snoring patrons clutch empty tumblers. Feathered, painted women hang on men hunkered over a game of poker. And on the shelf behind the bar stand bottles of flavorful forgetfulness.

I seek relief.

“What’s your pleasure, traveler?” calls the mustached bartender as he dries a yellowed shot glass.

“Water,” I utter faintly.

“What?”

“Water,” I cough.

“That colorless stuff?“ the bartender cackles and wipes his hairy nose. “That’s for children. Why not something more grown up, like this full-bodied beer?”

I lick my cracked lips. “I just want some water.”

The bartender points toward the shelf of glinting, boxy bottles. “If you want something that’ll put the spunk back in your spirit, I’ve got the best whiskey in the state.”

I shake my head.

“Brandy, then?”

“No.”

“Rum?”

“No.”

“Club soda?”

I curse.

“Water. Where the devil do you keep the water?” I demand.

The bartender scowls, marches outside, and returns, slamming the shot glass in front of my sunburned face.

“There,” he says flatly. “Compliments of the horse trough.”

Thin, green ooze coats the liquid’s surface. Flecks of brown matter revolve in the cup, trapping an unfortunate insect. It thrashes for life. So do I.

Unthinkable. Undrinkable. Unacceptable.

I waver to my feet and stumble toward the doors.

“Come back when you’re man enough to drink something real, you idiot!“” the bartender yells from inside.

White sky. White heat. White death.

I am still thirsty.

Suddenly, I spy something green in the distance. A bush? A tree? A mirage? Not disappearing… Buzzards soar in sickening circles overhead. I urge my carcass onward. Just a few more steps and…

Merciful shade!

Refreshing shade!

Luxuriant shade, snuffing out sun’s anger.

And music. Not of winds or brass. But the fluid tinkling of a brook racing over, under, around smooth rock, scattering bubbles across the pristine expanse of a deep, blue pool. A living spring.

I’ve arrived.

I plunge my hands into the crystalline water and bring them to my mouth again and again and again. Cool, clear droplets checker my cheeks like tiny diamonds. When my mind clears, I lift my hands toward heaven and shout in triumph. Thankful tears course down my face and drip off my chin, making ever-widening arcs in the water.

Then I toss my dusty rags aside and dive deep.

Into relief.

Into life.

Into pure delight.

The Spirit and the bride say, "Come!" And let him who hears say, "Come!" Whoever is thirsty, let him come; and whoever wishes, let him take the free gift of the water of life. ~ Revelation 22:17

Boston Pie in the Sky (Part 2 of 2)

2010-02-15T14:25:00.001-08:00

“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but my car’s making a funny noise. Do you have any idea what could be wrong?”

The man took one look at Wim’s car and replied with, “Well, for starters, you have a flat tire.”

A flat tire? Great. How would I make it to mile nineteen in time to see Jason? How would I even make it out of the parking lot? Thankfully, Wim had a spare tire in the trunk and the gentleman happened to be a mechanic by trade (not just by gender). He graciously volunteered to put the donut on for me.

“Now, just don’t drive over fifty-five and you’ll be fine,” he said, rising to his feet.

I thanked the man and headed for the highway. The tire change had cost me some time, but I decided to play it safe and drive slowly. If the spare exploded, I’d have to walk to Boston. And carry three spent men back to the car.

I drove about twenty miles, picked an exit, and tried to find the racecourse. After getting directions at a Laundromat and navigating through car-logged residential streets, I found a parking space and checked my cell phone to estimate Jason’s running time.

Jason had told me, to my amazement, that modern marathon runners wear computer chips on their shoes to track their progress. He’d also arranged for my cell phone to receive text messages informing me of his pace as he passed certain mile markers. My cell phone now showed that he’d passed mile fifteen running a six minute, twenty second pace…about half and hour earlier. I tried doing the math in my head. If he’d maintained that pace through mile nineteen, then I’d already missed him.

Now I was running. I found a suitable spot within the narrow crowd of people lining the racecourse and clapped half-heartedly for passing sweaty strangers. I didn’t see Jason anywhere. Although I knew he’d still love me regardless of my athletic attendance, I’d come to Boston to cheer him on - not carry him home.

I waited a few anxious minutes without seeing Jason, then trudged into a nearby bakery to get directions to the subway. I felt like a loser girlfriend. But maybe I could catch him at the finish line. Blinking back tears, I explained my situation to the cashier inside and scribbled her directions onto a napkin. Interestingly enough, her instructions told me to cross the actual racecourse.

I jogged a hundred yards or so along the throng of people and looked both ways before crossing the road. Once the closest runners passed by, I dashed to the other side of the street. As I reached it, I heard a familiar shout.

“Kate!” Jason yelled as his feet pounded the pavement. I spun around, astounded. Jason had no idea why I’d crossed the course, but he gave me a hug, told me he loved me, and sprinted away. Had I been a mere fifteen seconds earlier, we never would have seen each other.

My eyes and shirt were both damp from Jason’s embrace. I was filled with wonder at God’s sense of timing, and could not have felt happier even if Jason had won the Boston.

Boston Pie in the Sky (Part 1 of 2)

2010-02-08T18:55:00.001-08:00

Confession: I’m not a huge sports fan. I’ve never flown athletic flags on my car, painted my face in bright colors, or whooped and hollered for my team in inclement weather. This is probably because there is no “my team.” I watch one football game a year out of patriotic duty, and even then I mostly just pay attention to the commercials. So when I started dating a marathon runner, I had no idea how adventurous the world of athletics could be.

In April, I flew up to Boston to watch Jason run the city’s famous marathon. He had already completed the Boston three times and had nothing to prove. However, he’d never had a girl in the stands before, so this race would be something of a novelty. I looked forward to seeing Jason rejoice in his element, and felt determined to be a supportive girlfriend.

For the non-sports fan, watching a marathon is wonderful because you only have to pay attention for the four seconds your man runs by. The tricky part is getting to a certain point on the course before he does. This is where expert driving comes in handy. And unfortunately, I’m no expert.

On marathon morning, Jason met me at the Harvard dorm room I’d spent the night in and led the way to his two racing buddies, Wim and Cal. The four of us piled into Wim’s large Buick Le Sabre and headed to the marathon’s starting line, 26.2 miles away. After missing the off-ramp onto the freeway, it took us nearly an hour to turn around. Boston doesn’t like left turns. Thankfully, we had plenty of margin and arrived at the shuttle site well in time for the race.

After parking the car, we boarded a school bus that took us to the starting line in the town of Hopkinton. I have never seen so many healthy people in my life. Thousands of leggy men and women wore tiny shorts and sat on the grass, walked under huge tents, listened to the open air concert, or stood in long lines for the portapotties. Meanwhile, hundreds of volunteers collected the runners’ bags, handed out racing bibs, and organized tables of Gatorade along the course.

The four of us sat in the warm sunshine until it was time for Jason to line up. As he waded through the river of humanity, Jason kept his eyes on me and mouthed the words, “I love you.” A few minutes later, a gunshot set the river racing toward Boston. I waved Jason off and retraced my steps along the flood of runners back toward the shuttle.

The plan was simple: after seeing Jason cross the starting line, I would return to the car, drive nineteen miles, cheer Jason on when he most needed encouragement, take the subway to the end of the race, and then reunite with the men. But does life ever go according to plan?

After I turned the key, Wim’s car rolled out of its parking space like a groggy tortoise. That’s not normal. I fiddled around for a minute, then sheepishly released the parking brake. Thinking all my problems were solved, I lightly tapped the gas pedal.

That’s when I noticed the flippity-floppity noise. That doesn’t sound good! Jason was getting further and further down the course by the second. If I couldn’t get Wim’s car to work properly, I could miss seeing Jason altogether. Just then I spotted a couple heading to their car. Feeling so stereotypically female, I rolled down my window.

“Excuse me,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but my car’s making a funny noise. Do you have any idea what could be wrong?”

The man took one look at Wim’s car and replied with, “Well, for starters, you have a flat tire.”

Visit me next monday for the conclusion!

Another Reason Why Reading is Cool

2010-02-01T14:01:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, my friend, Charissa, remarked upon the beeping, flashing educational toys on the market for toddlers. You know, the ones that light up and sing songs after you push 1, 2, 3, or A,B,C.
“So, how exactly are those going to teach my son to sit still and read a book?” she wondered aloud.

Compared to all the glitz of TV and high-paced internet, reading can seem kind of… well, boring. Just black and white. No movement. No music. Nothing fancy.

Charissa’s comment got me thinking. If kids are implicitly trained to think that all learning must always be entertaining, then they probably won’t find reading or critical thinking all that appealing. Let’s face it: reading takes work and it’s easier to watch a movie.

The very fact that you are visiting this blog implies that you think reading is somewhat valuable. And there are many educators, scientists, and psychologists who would agree with you. Few people ever argue against the merits of reading. (And even fewer take their criticisms seriously).

Unlike watching a movie, old-fashioned reading taps into two innate human needs: the need for both community AND individuality. When an audience sits in a movie theatre, everyone sees the same film. People may have their different opinions, but everyone experiences the same stimulus. Unless you’re an active film critic, the experience is largely passive. You sit. You watch. You get entertained.

It’s true that people will always interpret the film differently. One will say that so and so is a great actor while another will disagree. But everything from the setting to the characters has been presented on a platter. The major work has already been accomplished according to the director’s interpretation of the story. This is why it is possible for Hollywood to make oodles of money in remaking old films. A new director re-interprets a script, slaps on some younger faces to the characters, and we have another new movie.

But books are different. Each person becomes the director by imagining the setting and characters. You have to have a longer relationship with a book than with a movie in order to enjoy. There’s more connection and personal investment. In general, reading provides a more personalized, engaging experience. DISCLAIMER: I am NOT suggesting that people should disregard the original author’s intent and meaning. I am merely saying that people will visualize and apply the text descriptions individually.

And when you meet someone who’s read the same book, there’s a mutual sense of communal nostalgia as people recall their old mental haunts and relationships with the characters. Few movies elicit such personal enthusiasm to the same degree. A person who’s spent ten hours with a book will naturally have a deeper appreciation for the story than the person who’s only spent two hours with a movie. You can’t cram ten hours’ worth of description, details, and inner-monologues into a two hour film. This is probably why I have NEVER heard anyone say, “Wow. That movie was sure better than the book!”

The point? While I certainly enjoy my share of movies like every other middle-class American, I think we all (myself included) could better understand and appreciate stories/information if we actually read these and thought about them rather than letting some director (whose worldview may be questionable) interpret reality for us. Active reading is a more humane process than passive observing. Even if the observing is more physically colorful.

No wonder it’s so hard to read the Bible these days.

Of Wisdom and Orange Juice

2010-01-25T19:23:00.000-08:00

When I Finally Felt Grown Up

Orange juice not from concentrate - that’s when I’d know I’d arrived. No more mashing cylindrical slush with a wooden spoon. No more scraping sweet sludge against the pitcher. When I grew up, I would buy 100% Natural OJ and sip all I wanted without getting my fingers sticky. Once my fridge was stocked with fancy orange juice, name-brand pickles, and Miracle Whip instead of mayonnaise, I was sure to feel like a sophisticated adult. At least that’s what I thought as a child.

My notion of what it means to be a real grown-up has gone through as many stages as a Broadway musical. As a kid, my concept of adulthood was simplistic; it basically boiled down to the power to purchase. Grown-ups swore that money didn’t grow on trees (and I spent enough time climbing them to know this was true). Yet it seemed like adults could always buy whatever they wanted. All they had to do was whip out their debit card and voila! A dress. A car. A house. My modest allowance just didn’t have these capabilities. But when I became a grown-up, I’d have tons of money (and would probably invest much of it in candy).

As my body matured, however, so did my tastes. When I finally got a job, I didn’t want to eat chocolate by the bag anymore. Candy was nice, but sweeter still was the idea of independence. Throughout childhood, I’d relied on my parents to pay the bills and make the rules. But once I could survive without Mom and Dad, then I’d surely be an adult.

Soon after turning nineteen, I drove six hundred miles from home to live with some girlfriends for a summer. I worked in retail selling kitchen supplies and soon discovered that discretionary income is always a few digits shy of the number on the paycheck. Liberty is not only exciting; it’s also expensive.

The ironic thing about personal freedom is that once you have it, you have to pay for things that were once free. Rather than going toward an indulgent stash of sweets, most of my capital paid for practical things like rent, electricity, and groceries (usually the non-fancy kind). Along with the ability to run my life came the responsibility to support my lifestyle, and being in charge could be complicated at times.

One day while I was at work, I noticed a police car parked by my Saturn. Since there were no customers, I walked outside to find that someone had accidentally hit my car. Sure enough, there was a sizable dent near the brake light with an apologetic woman standing beside it. Thankfully, the damage was merely external.

Although my car functioned well, I still needed to figure out all the insurance stuff. So I did what most stereotypical females do when they have a car problem - I called my dad. He’d found the car for me in the first place and usually handled this sort of thing.

However, I soon realized my dad wouldn’t be able to fix this problem for me. For the first time in my life, I would be the one to call the insurance company, research auto mechanics, and gather damage estimates. I was intimidated. But I flipped through the phonebook, made some calls, and drove to the mechanic like a big girl.

While taking care of my car and paying the bills gave me a new sense of competence, I still felt like a kid in some ways. After all, I still watched movies, hung out with friends, and went to school (although I now paid for these things). I didn’t have a curfew, but I also didn’t have that peaceful feeling of being a full-fledged grown-up. Maybe that feeling would come once I got married. Only true grown-ups ever did that. I thus upgraded my definition of adulthood yet again and looked forward to living happily ever after.

I didn’t have to wait long. Shortly before turning twenty-one, I married my favorite person and moved to Tennessee to make his home my own. Ironically, changing my name did not change my attitude; I had the ring, but not the self-assured reality of being a grown-up. Jason and I had been friends since high school, so marriage felt more like an eternal slumber party rather than a milestone of maturity.

Several months later, I found out I would soon be moving to where all the truly official grown-ups lived - motherhood. Moms are like God; they see everything, know everything, heal the sick, and can be in two places at once (thanks to cell phones). As a mom, I was sure to have all the answers. But it didn’t take long to learn that parenting produces its own plethora of questions.

How would I recognize real labor? What do I do when the baby cries? How does weaning work? Do babies sleep on their tummies or on their backs? I spent the next nine months reading books on pregnancy and feeding schedules. I researched online. I even took a childbirth class with my husband. But for all my studying, I knew the real education lay ahead.

On delivery day, I felt less than omniscient as my entrance into motherhood was anything but graceful. Our son arrived early while Jason and I were out of town for a wedding. Jason sped toward the hospital where we’d pre-registered while I clutched the door handle and hummed Take Me Back to the Black Hills during contractions. Two hours later, we arrived home only to discover our hospital was full. We went elsewhere and had a confusing time finding an entrance, a parking space, and assistance. After hours of pushing with little progress, I ended up with a C-section and spent my first day of motherhood bound to a gurney.

After life regained some routine, I was surprised to find that having a newborn was a lot like toting a baby doll around. Although Jason and I were often tired, we were still socially mobile. If our son wasn’t getting passed around party guests, he was sleeping through entire events (and celebrating with us later at 2:00 and 4:00 in the morning).

I also learned that motherhood does not morph you into a “sophisticated” adult. In fact, it reconnects you back to childhood. I started taking new delight in passing planes and cars because my toddler thought they were amazing. I also started reading picture books, playing with bubbles, and watching Winnie the Pooh. Sometimes I felt more like a kid on a new adventure rather than a field expert.

Getting my degree didn’t grant me that grown-up feeling, either. I graduated in December, but there are no huge commencement ceremonies in winter. I was happy to finish school, but doing so did not significantly alter my identity. I was still a wife and mother. Attending spring graduation was somewhat of an afterthought.

What sort of magic could possibly transform me into a grown-up if independence, marriage, motherhood, and graduation couldn’t do the trick? I was beginning to think that self-assured adulthood might be a myth. But I unexpectedly felt a sense of restful competence as I entered motherhood for the second time.

Unlike my first pregnancy and birth where everything was new and uncertain, I now knew my way around the block and had total freedom in my personal homebirth. It was miraculous and empowering to bring a new person into the world without being passively strapped to a surgeon’s table. When push came to shove, God was merciful and gracious to give me a baby girl. And it was nice not to fret every time she cried on this second go around. Although there was more excitement at the birth of my first child, there was certainly more peace at the arrival of my second. I was battle-proven now, no longer barraged with incessant questions or doubts that I could survive on the homefront.

On my second trip into motherhood, I learned that life isn’t all about the milestones - it’s about the miles in between. It’s not about leaving home; it’s about learning responsibility. It’s not about the wedding day; it’s about the marriage. Not having the baby. But bringing it home. It’s the lessons you learn while walking beyond the milestones that truly make you a grown-up.

People often look to a marriage license, child’s birth certificate, or Bachelor’s degree to define themselves. Yet wisdom often goes undocumented. Being a grown-up is not based on what you have, but rather on what you do with what you know. That’s wisdom. My knowledge gleaned from past experiences enabled me to smile at a future with two children. Maturity didn’t come instantly. It grew for over twenty-four years to make me who I am today. It may take time to cultivate, but ripened wisdom produces a harvest of peace that can lift your spirit and nourish your soul. Just like orange juice not from concentrate.

Driving Lessons

2010-01-20T06:57:00.001-08:00

In 2005, I left my home in Maryland to live in Georgia with some girlfriends for the summer. I looked forward to this new adventure, and also to narrowing the 600-mile distance between me and Jason. Now I could drive three hours to see him instead of eleven. And thanks to the hospitality of Jason’s friends, my Chattanooga accommodations never cost me a dime. My car needed a surprising number of oil changes that summer. But even more surprising was the number of lessons I learned from behind the wheel.

My first trip to Chattanooga was anything but easygoing. An hour into my trek, I got trapped in Atlanta traffic. Then my “Service Engine” light started flashing. I’ll take care of it later, I thought, secretly hoping my car was just overreacting to the caterpillar pace. But when I accelerated, my little automatic wouldn’t shift properly. My car had settled into fourth gear and roared in protest if I tried to go any faster.

Putting along in the slow lane, I rummaged around for my cell phone. I needed male expertise. After trying unsuccessfully to reach Jason, I called my dad back in Maryland. I knew very well he couldn’t pick me up or anything, but I needed some assurance. He calmly advised me to drive slowly and pull over if my engine started to overheat.

I had no desire to get stranded halfway between Commerce and Chattanooga. Not only would it take my friends from both cities an hour and a half to pick me up, but it would also waste precious time -- time I could be spending with Jason. I took a breath, gripped the steering wheel, and asked God to help me make it to Tennessee. I also asked my girlfriends to pray.

After watching other cars zoom past me for two hours, I finally saw signs for Chattanooga. Almost there, almost there! As I rounded a scenic bend in the highway, I spotted not only the city of my beloved, but also two beautiful rainbows. I felt so relieved, I cried.

With the first rainbow, it seemed like God was saying He’d be faithful to get me to Chattanooga. With the second, that He’d keep me faithful once I got there. Jason and I both desired to have a pure relationship, free from premarital sexual involvement. But I still felt timid in my ability to withstand the natural temptation to get too intimate too quickly. Yet here, en route to my testing ground, God had painted a portrait in the sky to remind me of His presence. He was with me always. Even on the highway to Chattanooga. I brushed a tear from my cheek and thanked Him.

Then I got lost.

I hate getting lost. Hate, hate, hate it. I was already running late due to my fifty mile-per-hour commute, and now I couldn’t find my way a mere ten miles from my destination. Will I ever get there? Fortunately being a woman, I had no trouble pulling into the first gas station I saw to ask for directions. After talking with the man behind the counter, I hurried back to the car. When I turned the key, the “Service Engine” light vanished! And to my unexpected joy, my car once again shifted into fifth gear without a fuss.

After stopping once more at the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel for additional directions, I eventually crossed the Tennessee River and found Jason. He spied me at an intersection, and I gladly called “shotgun” as he took the driver’s seat. As far as I was concerned, he could keep it for the rest of our relationship.

2010-01-20T06:57:00.000-08:00

My first trip to Chattanooga was anything but easygoing. An hour into my trek, I got trapped in Atlanta traffic. Then my “Service Engine” light started flashing. I’ll take care of it later, I thought, secretly hoping my car was just overreacting to the caterpillar pace. But when I accelerated, my little automatic wouldn’t shift properly. My car had settled into fourth gear and roared in protest if I tried to go any faster.

Putting along in the slow lane, I rummaged around for my cell phone. I needed male expertise. After trying unsuccessfully to reach Jason, I called my dad back in Maryland. I knew very well he couldn’t pick me up or anything, but I needed some assurance. He calmly advised me to drive slowly and pull over if my engine started to overheat.

I had no desire to get stranded halfway between Commerce and Chattanooga. Not only would it take my friends from both cities an hour and a half to pick me up, but it would also waste precious time -- time I could be spending with Jason. I took a breath, gripped the steering wheel, and asked God to help me make it to Tennessee. I also asked my girlfriends to pray.

After watching other cars zoom past me for two hours, I finally saw signs for Chattanooga. Almost there, almost there! As I rounded a scenic bend in the highway, I spotted not only the city of my beloved, but also two beautiful rainbows. I felt so relieved, I cried.

With the first rainbow, it seemed like God was saying He’d be faithful to get me to Chattanooga. With the second, that He’d keep me faithful once I got there. Jason and I both desired to have a pure relationship, free from premarital sexual involvement. But I still felt timid in my ability to withstand the natural temptation to get too intimate too quickly. Yet here, en route to my testing ground, God had painted a portrait in the sky to remind me of His presence. He was with me always. Even on the highway to Chattanooga. I brushed a tear from my cheek and thanked Him.

Then I got lost.

I hate getting lost. Hate, hate, hate it. I was already running late due to my fifty mile-per-hour commute, and now I couldn’t find my way a mere ten miles from my destination. Will I ever get there? Fortunately being a woman, I had no trouble pulling into the first gas station I saw to ask for directions. After talking with the man behind the counter, I hurried back to the car. When I turned the key, the “Service Engine” light vanished! And to my unexpected joy, my car once again shifted into fifth gear without a fuss.
After stopping once more at the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel for additional directions, I eventually crossed the Tennessee River and found Jason. He spied me at an intersection, and I gladly called “shotgun” as he took the driver’s seat. As far as I was concerned, he could keep it for the rest of our relationship.

The Twisted Tale of Oliver Dumfries (Part 2 of 2)

2009-12-16T07:15:00.000-08:00

Oliver gulped. He didn't want to take something that belonged to someone else. But the clothes looked so beautiful, and he was the most civilized animal he knew.

So when it grew dark and all his family slept soundly, Oliver wiggled underneath the pig pen fence and headed for the chicken coop. Most of the hens were roosting high above the nestboxes, leaving their precious eggs unguarded. Oliver took a deep breath, then started gathering.

Everything went smoothly until Oliver headed toward the coop door. He was carrying so many eggs, he didn't see the chicken feeder on his right. He tripped and bumped right into Riley Rooster.

Riley took one look at Oliver and started bellowing at the top of his lungs, "Thief! Thief! Cock-a-doodle! Thief!"

In half a second, the whole coop exploded with a cacophony of clucking, pecking and scratching. Oliver sped through the coop entrance, but not without dropping a couple eggs and receiving several painful pecks on his tail.

After nursing his pride and aching backside, Oliver limped to the Farmer's front porch. The Farmer's wife always kept Fluffy's food dish well supplied with cream. But unfortunately, Fluffy now lay curled around it, snoring.

Oliver tiptoed up the stairs and slowly, ever so slowly, picked up the dish to pour its precious contents into the empty milk bottle nearby. Once he drained the dish, he carefully put it back against Fluffy's side.

But not carefully enough.

Fluffy's eyes shot open, his pupils narrowing in the bright moonlight. With a hiss most unpleasant, he swiped at Oliver's face, leaving a crimson scratch upon the pig's nose.

Oliver grabbed the cream and sprinted back toward the pigpen, running at top speed.

When he finally caught his breath, Oliver wiggled back under the fence to his beloved shed and clean hay. Jacob Foxworthy sat just outside the pen, waiting. He smiled at the disheveled pig.

"My, my!" He exclaimed. "You're quite a sight, little pig. Have any trouble?"

Oliver blushed and placed his loot on the ground. Mr. Foxworthy sniffed at the pile of eggs and half-filled bottle of cream. (Much of the cream had sloshed out of the bottle during Oliver's little dash back to the pen).

"This is not what I asked for," the fox said.

Oliver shot Mr. Foxworthy an exasperated glance. "If you only knew what I went through to get this, you would be satisfied," he grunted.

Mr. Foxworthy shrugged. "Very well," he yawned. "You need this outfit more than I do. Anything would improve your appearance tonight."And with a quick flick of his tail, the tailor trotted out of sight.

Oliver quickly donned his reward and headed for the water trough to see his reflection and wipe his aching nose. Despite the minor wound, Oliver felt pleased.

"How handsome I look," he thought as he stared into the water. "Tomorrow I shall go to town and show all these common farm animals just how civilized a pig can be."

The next morning, Oliver again stood in the far corner of the pig pen, careful not to get any mud on his new clothes. It didn't take long for all the other pigs to notice his new look.

"Oliver," his brother said, "is that you?"

"Why of course it's me. How do you like my clothes?" Oliver asked, beaming with pride.

"You... you don't even look like a pig anymore, Oliver!" Reginald stammered.

Oliver smiled a huge smile. His brother couldn't have paid him a greater compliment.

"Exactly," Oliver replied. "I'm finished with this pen. I'm going to town, and maybe I'll find an outfit for you too."

"How did you get the clothes? And where did that scratch on your nose come from?" his parents asked.

But Oliver had no time for questions. "Unlike you, I actually have places to be. So enjoy your dirt. I'm off to the town. Farewell!" And with that, he left the pen while his family and friends stared sadly after him.

Oliver didn't know exactly which way town was. But he'd seen the Farmer head north that morning and figured he could try that direction first. Some of the animals snickered as Oliver passed by, walking on his hind legs. But most were so stunned, they just gawked. Oliver loved the attention and stuck his snout higher in the air.

"They all wish they dressed as well as I," he thought to himself.

Oliver followed the road and sure enough, it led him right to the marketplace at the center of town. Oliver's eyes widened at the sight of tables with ripened cheeses, baskets of fresh sweet corn, carts filled with juicy apples, and more colors and sounds than he had ever known.

He was about to sample a ripe peach, when he heard an angry shout.

"William! William!" A bearded man with a red face pushed his way through the crowd and pointed right at Oliver. It was the Farmer!

"What on earth are you doing out of school, young man?" he demanded. "I ought to take you out to the woodshed right now!"

Oliver turned white. Apparently Mr. Foxworthy was more a theif than a tailor.

"Come here, lad. We're going home!" The Farmer reached for Oliver's hand, but Oliver turned and ran, bewildering the Farmer and everyone else.

The chase began. Oliver got on all fours and sprinted back to the road with the Farmer following like an angry tornado.

"William!" he kept shouting, "Stop at once! You'll not eat supper for a week! William, stop!"

Oliver ran for his life, dodging in and out of thickets, trying to lose his pursuer. Finally, he reached the pig pen. Oliver dove under the fence, but the clothes caught the wires. Wiggling feverishly, Oliver tore his way out of the outfit and dove into the mud puddle for cover.

Three seconds later, the Farmer saw his son's clothes hanging on the fence. He huffed and puffed, catching his breath. He looked this way and that, but couldn't find his son. All he saw were a bunch of muddy pigs staring back at him. Throwing his hands up in frustration, he stomped up the steps to his house.

Back at the pen, Oliver sat in the mu weeping. All the other pigs stared at his scratches and bruises. He was a miserable sight. After several minutes, Oliver's family wallowed toward him. His mother gave him a kiss and started applying more mud to his aching body. Oliver hated to admit it, but the mud did feel cool and soothing against his scraped skin.

"I'm sorry," Oliver said at length. "I'm sorry for making fun of everyone. I'm sorry for taking the eggs and cream. And I'm really, really sorry for shaming us all. I must have looked rediculous just now." Tears streamed down Oliver's face, making tiny pink streaks in his muddied countenence.

"We don't really care what the other animals think. We're just glad you're home, son," Oliver's dad grunted. Oliver looked at Reginald's smiling face, as well as the encouraging faces of all his cousins and friends. And for the first time in his life, Oliver was happy to be home too.

The Twisted Tale of Oliver Dumfries (Part 2 of 2)

2009-12-09T18:53:00.000-08:00

Oliver was the most civilized swine he knew, and it would be a travesty for any other creature to wear the clothes.

The Twisted Tale of Oliver Dumfries (Part 1 of 2)

2009-11-02T14:32:00.001-08:00

The Dumfries family lived on a damp piece of real estate enclosed by a barbed wire fence. Neither criminals nor prisoners, the Dumfries were, in fact, pigs. They didn't mind wallowing in swamp-like conditions or eating out of a cement trough. They enjoyed the cool, squishy mud and munching on dried sweet corn.

Mama and Papa Dumfries could often be found luxuriating in a communal mud bath with their hoggish neighbors in the far corner of the pen. There, they'd discuss pig politics while the piglets would alternate between tussling in the mud and napping in the hay. The Dumfries led a simple, happy existence and most of their friends led the same. However, there was one pig in the pen who was not content.

Oliver Claudio Dumfries hated the mud. He couldn't stand getting dirty. Every morning while his siblings and friends wrestled in the pen, Oliver would sit in the small shed on a pile of clean hay, grooming himself.

"Hey Oliver!" yelled one of his cousins. "Come on over for a game of 'steal the rutabaga'! You can be on my team."

"Humph!" Oliver replied with his snout in the air. "I don't have time for games. And besides, you all look so silly when you're filthy."

Another time, his older brother Reginald asked him to join in a mud bath. "You can't just sit in the shed for the rest of your life. Come on out with us! The mud is so soothing!"

"You don't see any other animals on the farm rolling around in the mud, do you?" Oliver snorted. "Take Fluffy the Cat, for example. He spends hours licking his fur till it shines with perfection. And he still has time to take naps in the sun. Then of course there's Riley the Rooster. Such class! Such strut! Very popular with the hens. The secret? Preening. Grooming. Poise. I'm sorry to say it, but your personal presentation needs serious work, Reginald."

His brother's eyes narrowed. "Fluffy doesn't have any friends and Riley is a loudmouth. You're a pig, Oliver. And if you keep living like something else, you're gonna miss out on all the fun in life." With a flick of his spiraled tail, Reginald wallowed toward the other pigs.

Oliver stuck his snout in the air and sniffed. "What a boarish brother I have," he said to himself.

Weeks passed and soon all the other piglets got tired of asking Oliver to join them in their games. Oliver's disgust with his comrades grew more potent each day. "How dumb and dirty they are," he thought. "The other animals must think we're all crazy. But I don't act like that. My family is so embarrassing. Why am I the only one with principles?"

The next morning, an intriguing visitor came to the farm. He was tall, intelligent, perfectly groomed, and had a green waistcoat, plaid vest, and a bushy red tail. Oliver had never seen such a handsome creature. Catching the lone, pink pig's eye, the clever visitor sauntered toward the corner of the pigpen. All the other pigs were too occupied to notice.

"Good afternoon," said the clean-cut gentleman. "My, I've never seen such a handsome pig before."

Oliver blushed at the compliment. Finally, someone understood him! "My name is Oliver. Oliver Dumfries."

"My name is Foxworthy. Jacob Foxworthy. And you are just the kind of pig I've been looking for!"

"Really?" Oliver asked.

"Why yes! You see, I am a tailor, and I've designed several outfits for the more fashionable among animals. I have a suit here that would fit you quite nicely, I believe." Jacob Foxworthy produced a leather bag, out of which he drew a pair of blue trousers, a white collared shirt, red knee-high socks, brown shoes, and a leather cap.

"These are beautiful!" Oliver gasped. "How much will you sell them for?"

"Oh, not for much. Just a dozen eggs and a bottle of cream."

"You want me to steal from the other animals?!" exclaimed Oliver.

"I didn't say that. I just listed my price. If you want the outfit, I'll meet you here at midnight. But I'm a very busy person. I must be off after that. So if you're not ready, I'll offer these clothes to someone more civilized."

Oliver gulped. He didn't want to take something that belonged to someone else. But the clothes looked so beautiful...

A Long Day's Eve (Haiku)

2009-10-26T20:00:00.000-07:00

Falling on sofa
exhaling daylight's focus,
barefoot now I breathe.

The Curled Tale of Oliver Cleanwater Dumfries (Part 1 of 2)

2009-10-26T19:44:00.000-07:00

Oliver Cleanwater Dumfries lived in

Procrastination in Poetry

2009-10-12T17:18:00.000-07:00

Perhaps if I got penalized, I then would mend my way.

Really, I’ll have tons of time to work after I play.

Of course I’ll get it finished for the sun is still quite high.

Certainly I have the time to spend with friends, don’t I?

Rumor has it this assignment won’t take long at all.

And there’s a super sale for just today inside the mall.

Surely I can’t miss the famed finale of this show!

Tonight’s the big event and am I skipping it? Heck no!

I work best under pressure and I guess I must begin it.

New mail in my inbox? This will only take a minute.

And now it’s time to get a snack. I’m past due for a break.

Tomorrow morning’s not far off - I’m sure to be up late.

Espressos fuel my fuzzy mind as I procrastinate.

Only For A Season - Engagement Poem to Jason

2009-10-05T20:08:00.000-07:00

Only for a season
Shall that seat near you be empty
Only for a season
Shall you hunger for my hand
Only for a season
Will you just see flicks with Lee
But I am also waiting
And our pain He understands

Only for a season
Shall I miss your handsome smile
Only for a season
Shall I not be at your side
Only for a season
Shall you race a lonely mile
But know that He is with you
And I long to be your bride

Only for a season
You’ll eat icecream on your own
Only for a season
Desire shall be fettered
Only for a season
My voice shall ring just on the phone
And you’ll find new motivation waiting for December

Only for a season
We’ll pray with hands un-intertwined
Only for a season
Our hearts both burn and ache
Only for a season
Shall we endure this discipline
Emerging from this blazing trial pure
Should we partake

Only for a season
Will you not gaze in my eyes
Only for a season will my face begin to fade
Only for a season
Will patience you despise
But God’s still sculpting us into His shape
From lumps of clay

Only for a season
Will your lips yearn for my kiss
Only for a season
Will you feel a sort of lacking
Only for a season
Dear Jason, you I’ll miss
But soon our pain will turn to joy
And mourning turn to dancing

For Jason dear, we merely mirror
The Truth of Jesus’ love
And how though we
Still sinners be
Receive grace from above

He is the Groom; We are His church
United two as One
And our love imitates His own
As we rest upon His Son

Why we’re so blessed
Though hearts feel torn
I cannot guess His reason
But this I know
He loves us more
Than only for a season

A Compliment to Active Beauty

2009-09-28T19:24:00.000-07:00

My double stroller’s quite the gift
It gives my children both a lift
I get to run, they get to ride
We all enjoy the air outside

One day while jogging thus behind
A question trotted through my mind:
Why am I praised for exercise
More than I am for being wise?

Don’t get me wrong, I like the smiles
Shot my way o’er sweaty miles
They aren’t trying to insult
Can commendations have a fault?

But often compliments are placed
Not on our souls but on our waists
On what we own or what we wear
Our jewelry or our new-cut hair

Somehow I do sincerely doubt
That I’d obtain the self-same clout
From wiping snotty nose of son
Compared to running marathon

I would not get as many smiles
From those within grocery aisles
Were I to withstand child’s rant
(My toddler wants to roam, but can’t)

Rather than support respect
They all would want me to defect
But for the mom who well dissents
Alas there are no compliments

Though beauty was first God’s invention
We make it just one dimension
Easier to say “Nice earrings!”
Than to praise the deeper things

While we should not go spite our faces
Or disdain cosmetic graces
Beauty’s more than being thin
Or having super-model skin

It’s living life with energy
And loving those God brings to me
And though our culture says it’s true
Health doesn’t always come “Size 2”

Culture does not oft sing anthems
Of not giving in to tantrums
Honest work or being pure
Of love that isn’t keeping score

Choosing people over profit
Standing firm when crowd says “drop it”
Of changing diapers, paying bills
Or taking care of parents ill

Truthful, loving confrontation
These aren’t lauded by the nation
But while we all can point and sigh
We Christians also buy the lie

For as it is, we often feel
So restless without abs of steel
We may spend thousands on a gym
And kill ourselves to get real slim

External beauty’s so divine
We lose the inches and our minds
Eating grapefruit till we’re sick
Conforming to a “lovely” stick

We tear through makeup catalogs
To steer our way through fashion’s fog
We trim our noses, bleach our teeth
But truer beauty lies beneath

While faces surely have their part
The real thing lives in tranquil heart
Now anchored firm against mad tide
Within our Prince who for us died

For Jesus did not judge by sight
He praised great faith and widow’s mite
He lives and gives us hearts anew
Forget the mirror for this is true

Lovelier than perfume’s essence
Is life fragrant with Christ’s presence
Daughters of the Most High King
Beauty’s our identity

Though some find us unattractive
Beauty’s deepest when it’s active
Flowing from beneath the skin
Colors every thought and action

So as well as clothes that flatter
Let’s commend the things that matter
Like confessing, killing pride
Seeking those on life’s outside

Helping tired single mothers
Trusting God and hon’ring others
Fighting against Satan’s lies
Hugging toddlers when they cry

Seeking justice and forgiveness
Giving more and hoarding less
Hating sin when crowd is lenient
Loving when it’s inconvenient

To such things I tip my hat
To inner beauty lived like that
Not founded upon cute makeup
But welling from within clean cup

Let’s not stress o’er mere externals
But praise more of life’s eternals
And express our satisfaction
Seeing beauty shine through action

An Untraditional Finish (Part 2 of 2)

2009-09-14T19:46:00.000-07:00

But now that I was expecting a baby, could I honestly expect a diploma as well?

Our child wasn’t due until early summer. This would allow me to complete my first two semesters without any complications. Well, almost.

During that first academic year I gained a new appreciation for things I’d always taken for granted. Commuting to class in the mornings was challenging enough. But doing so with morning sickness was a horse of a different color - often a pale green. Luckily, my statistics professor (as in MWF at 7:45am Statistics) didn’t mind me coming to class a few minutes late. Leaning over the sink to get some soap from the dispenser in the restroom had never been a problem before. Nor had sitting in those little chairs with the folding desktops. But now I had a watermelon-sized bulge on the front of me and suddenly all those little things had be reckoned with.

To make matters worse, my midwife ordered me to go on eight hours of bed-rest a day due to some swelling in my legs. I felt like I’d just been grounded, and all I was trying to do was pass college. I don’t know what I would have done without a certain girlfriend who let me borrow her bed between classes.

Fall and spring came and went and soon my son was born - all nine pounds, eleven ounces of him. No wonder it had been so hard to reach for the soap. I had two peaceful months to recover and the summer passed joyfully. Our son had even learned to sleep through the night before school started. But autumn came quickly, bringing with it my most complicated semester yet.

Due to a miscalculation the previous year, I would have to take nineteen credits in the fall to graduate on time. I had never taken nineteen credits before. And I certainly would not have chosen to do so while breastfeeding an infant. Speaking of the baby, I was going to need quite a few babysitters to pull this semester off. I couldn’t very well bring him to “Show and Tell” every day.

But God provided. I quickly recruited four babysitters to cover my afternoon classes and Jason’s boss let him work remotely so he could keep an eye on the baby in the mornings. The best part was that we didn’t have to pay the babysitters. They were willing to watch our son in exchange for a few loads of laundry or out of sheer love for children. I was grateful.

My final semester proved to be a busy one, but we made it. I met all the academic requirements in December 2007 and graduated with distinction the following spring. I am still amazed that the details of transferring, pregnancy, writing papers, finding babysitters, breastfeeding, and finally graduating all came together. By the time I left school, I had learned more than just the subject listed on my diploma. I learned that God’s got the details figured out and always provides for His children. My college career had been an untraditional journey, but it was also an adventurous one that I wouldn’t trade.

An Untraditional Finish (Part 1 of 2)

2009-09-07T14:30:00.000-07:00

Most people who go to college usually take classes for a few years, graduate, find a job, and eventually get married and have kids. I did all this too - just not in that order. When I set off for college in the fall of 2003, I had no idea that earning my degree would require not only managing the responsibilities of a student, but also those of a wife and mother as well.

My first few years of school were spent at a local community college and a small Bible school. After getting married during my junior year, I moved out of state with my husband, Jason, and transferred all my credits to a Christian liberal arts college near Chattanooga, Tennessee. Although I had almost three years of schooling under my belt, this new college required all new students to attend a weeklong orientation prior to starting the semester.

I felt odd that week being the only married transfer student amid the throng of bubbly freshmen. In terms of life-stage, I had more in common with the professors than I did with the students. Unlike the “kids,” I wouldn’t be returning to the dorm to discuss my latest crush or quirky professor. I wouldn’t participate in campus pranks, late night parties, inside jokes, or early morning runs to the local Krispy Kreme store. Instead, I would spend most of my evenings driving home, eating dinner with my husband, and going to bed before midnight.

Sometimes this social distance proved comical. While eating in the cafeteria with another student, an upperclassman approached us and started talking to me. He was being sweet and attentive, but I didn’t want to lead him on at all. So I casually mentioned something about my husband. The other student smiled and said something to the effect of “Oops, better take her off the list.”

Another time, I found myself assuming a maternal role. While doing a service project with my orientation team, I noticed that our leader’s mascara was smeared. I offered to fix the problem and she accepted. There I was, spit-shining the face of an authority figure that was younger than I was. When I had fixed her makeup, she smiled and said, “You’ll make a great mom someday.”

My team leader must have been majoring in prophecy. A few weeks later, I found that I had not only begun my first semester at this new school; I had also started my first trimester. I was pregnant. And this hadn’t exactly been in my graduation plans. Jason and I were hoping to become parents after I completed my degree. But now that I was expecting a baby, could I honestly expect a diploma as well?

A Song For Jason

2009-08-31T13:27:00.000-07:00

You asked me a question on an old wooden bench
With roses of kindness and a kiss on the hand
'Neath a coppery moon with a live violin
A night water ride and a provident dance

Season of waiting to be closer than close
Longest six months of my life
Candle-stands of iron and a pretty white dress
Prayer, promise, kiss, our first night

You are the one I've been praying for
You are the man running through my dreams
You are the friend that I'm clinging to
You are the son of our Holy King
You are the perfect gift from above
Jason, you're the one my soul loves

I love your smile, your corny jokes and that you drive
And that you still travel with me (though we're not often on time)
I love it when you read aloud and let me stroke your face
That you listen when I need you and remind me of God's grace

I love distracting you from a disenchanted world
Comforting you when you feel unfulfilled
Three years of marriage, two babies in tow
I'm excited to see how our lifetime love will grow

You are the one I've been praying for
You are the man running through my dreams
You are the friend that I'm clinging to
You are the son of our Holy King
You are the perfect gift from above
Jason, you're the one my soul loves

Princess Lavender (Part 2 of 2)

2009-08-24T14:53:00.000-07:00

Prince Ian knocked on the huge wooden door of the castle. A royal guard showed him to the throneroom to see Princess Lavender. The princess smiled a half-smile at his arrival. Although she was flattered to have yet another suitor, she knew too well that he probably wouldn't stick around for long.

"Good morning, sir," she said with a hint of sadness. "Have you journeyed from afar, young prince?"

Prince Ian bowed and yawned, "No, mylady. I am Prince Ian - Ian Somnia from the kingdom of Celere. It only took about two days of riding to get here."

The prince rubbed his eyes and Princess Lavender noticed that they were red. Although the prince's attire was regal enough, he appeared somewhat disheveled. It looked like he hadn't slept in days. Prince Ian noticed her gaze and bowed a second time.

"Pray, excuse my fatigued appearance this morning, Princess Lavender. As I mentioned, I am from the kingdom of Celere and we grow a very potent tea in that land. 'Celeri-tea,' we call it. Anyway, after years of drinking the stuff, I've developed an ineptitude for sleep that makes my mornings frightfully tiresome until I have another cup, that is. The whole thing forms a beastly cycle. I do apologize."

At this, Princess Lavender's eyes lit up. Perhaps this was the prince she'd been waiting for.

"Why don't we go for a walk in the royal garden?" she asked, and the two went out of the castle toward the walking path.

As you may have guessed, Princess Lavender and Prince Ian hit it off famously. They talked for hours amid the rose bushes and daffodils. They ate dinner together in the lavish hall. Prince Ian introduced himself to the King, and all in all things couldn't have gone better.

Eventually, it was time for the princess to go to bed and, as was the custom, she kissed the prince on the cheek before saying goodnight. Prince Ian smiled, closed his eyes and sunk to the floor. And, as was the custom, two guards came to hoist the snoring prince off to the guestroom.

That week was the longest week Princess Lavender could ever remember. She paced through the long corridors. She barely ate supper. Day in and day out her thoughts focused on one question: when he awoke, would Prince Ian ride off into the sunset with her or without?

Finally, the fateful day arrived. As a result of her nervous tossings and turnings during the night, Princess Lavender slept right through the morning breakfast bell. Her maid gently greeted her a few hours afterward.

"Princess, are you ill?" the white-aproned girl inquired.

"No! I mean, uh, what time is it?" the groggy princess asked.

"Why, it is half past ten mylady."

"Oh no," said the princess, her eyes growing wide. "Is Prince Ian still here? Did he go or did he stay?"she asked in near panic.

"I believe he left early this morning, mylady."

"REALLY?" the princess exclaimed in a voice louder than she'd anticipated. The maid froze in surprise at the outburst.

"Yes, mylady. Would you like your breakfast this morning?" she asked.

Princess Lavender tried to swallow back her tears. "No," she said flatly. "I don't have much of an appetite at the moment."

"Very well, your highness," said the maid as she left the room.

Princess Lavender burst into tears the second she was alone. She felt the sting of a hundred rejections afresh and could no longer control her emotion. "I really thought this one would stay," she lamented. "If I had known this, I wouldn't have wasted my time."

Just then, there was a knock at the door.

"Go away please, I don't feel like meeting any new princes today," the soggy princess answered.

"Well, what about an old one?" a familiar voice asked.

Princess Lavender gasped. There in the doorway stood Prince Ian looking remarkably rested and handsome. "I'm sorry to have worried you, princess. But I left this morning to pick you these," Prince Ian explained as he presented her with a bouquet of wildflowers.

Princess Lavender dabbed her eyes and smiled. "You mean, you didn't want to get as far away from me as your steed would carry you?"

"Are you joking? Last night I had the best sleep I've had in years!"

Princess Lavender's heart sank."That's only because the night lasted for a whole week. Haven't you heard about my curse? Everytime I kiss a prince, he sleeps for an entire week. You don't want to sleep the rest of your life away, do you?"

The prince thought for a few seconds, then said, "Princess, I haven't felt this rested in a long time. It's wonderful. And I would be willing to spend the rest of my life sleeping by your side if that's the only way I could receive your kiss."

Princess Lavender threw her arms around the prince (careful not to kiss him yet as this conversation wasn't finished). The prince smiled warmly and then released his embrace. "I've got it!" he nearly shouted.

"Got what?" the princess asked.

"Have you ever put the power of your curse up against the power of celeri-tea?"

"Why no!" Princess Lavender replied. "You know, that tea just might do the trick!"

Well, not too much time passed before the prince and princess were married. As the bishop pronounced the happy couple "man and wife," Prince Ian kissed his bride and fell happily asleep at her feet. Within minutes, a cup of steaming hot celeri-tea was brought to his lips. Sure enough, the prince was back on his feet in time for the first dance.

So thus it was that every night Princess Lavender would kiss her husband happily to sleep. And every morning she would wake him up with a cup of tea. And with such a cheerful schedule it's little wonder that the two of them lived happily ever after.

Princess Lavender (Part 1 of 2)

2009-08-10T12:46:00.000-07:00

We've all heard the story of Sleeping Beauty. You know, that gal who got cursed by a witch and slept in a castle tower until Prince Charming woke her up with a kiss. What is little known, however, is that Sleeping Beauty actually had a cousin named Princess Lavender who had her own curse to reckon with.

In many regards these two princesses were very similar. They were both beautiful. They were both kind. And they both wanted to marry the prince of their dreams. But unlike Sleeping Beauty, Princess Lavender had a harder time finding her true love.

It wasn't because the princes weren't interested. Young men would come from miles around to court the princess and ask for her hand. Her Father, King Ferdinand, even offered half the gold in his treasury as a matrimonial inducement. But invariably, the princes would ride home in a huff without so much as a second date.

What was wrong with the Princess to make her so undesirable? Well, no one could tell at first, but soon a pattern emerged that gave everyone in the royal family great alarm (which is probably why you never heard about it from Sleeping Beauty). Prince X would be shone to the throne room, introduce himself, and then take Princess Lavendar for a ride in the forest or a walk in the garden. Then came dinner, dessert, and the evening entertainment. Everything went just fine until the kiss goodnight.

You see, while Sleeping Beauty was cursed to a semi-eternal slumber until her true love's kiss, Princess Lavender's kiss invariably cursed its recipient to a week in bed.

"Royal Butler!" she'd call from the doorway, "It happened again!" At this, the butler, along with two or three guards (depending upon the size of the suitor) would hoist the sleeping prince to a large guest bedroom (that often housed other slumbering princes from the nights before). A week later, the prince would wake up, shake the cobwebs from his head, and run for the door as quickly as possible (without saying goodbye, this time).

Princess Lavender would sigh and then sit on her throne until another prince was shown in. As the months turned into years, the princes showed up less and less often. The little princess grew quite despondent for it seemed she would never get married, or if she did it would have to be to someone who was too respulsive to kiss.

But all that changed the day Prince Ian knocked on the door...

Love Letter 20050308

2009-08-03T12:24:00.000-07:00

Psalm 90:17
"Establish the work of our hands"
Dearest Lady,

I was merely going to send you photo[s] and these other odds and ends, but I figured some thoughtful words might be appropriate and therefore should be added.

When I say I love you please hear more.I am saying more than three words. It ought to carry more weight than a light package of chocolates or bunch of pretty flowers.

When I say I love you, hear me say: "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

When I say I love you, hear me say: "I want to be very close to you."

When I say these three words please don't hear cliche. Hear phileo, agape, and eros all in one.
I love you, Katie. Please hear sacrifice: I want to give up much so that you might be nearer to the King. When I say I love you, hear my heart pushing you gently into His eternal embrace. Hear me say: "I see Christ Jesus in your loving service, I hear Spirit's power in your beautiful voice, I am brought nearer to Him by you.

Hear me say that I choose you.

There will be times when I say those words and I have nothing for them to stand on or nothing to back them up with. Please forgive me. There will be other times I say those words and I will not feel their truth; I will not always feel in love with you. But I will still love you.

Because I choose you. And I decide to love you. And I am commanded to love you. And He is leading me to love you. And He is teaching me to love you. And I long to love you. And it is my great desire to love you.

Forever.

May I have the honor and grand privilege to love a woman of God like you? May I love you, Katie?

I do. Katie, when I say I love you, hear me say simply that I LOVE YOU.

Yours,

Jason

Procrastination Poem

2009-07-27T09:37:00.000-07:00

Perhaps if I got penalized, I then would mend my way.

Really, I’ll have tons of time to work after I play.

Of course I’ll get it finished for the sun is still quite high.

Certainly I have the time to spend with friends, don’t I?

Rumor has it this assignment won’t take long at all.

And there’s a super sale for just today inside the mall.

Surely I can’t miss the famed finale of this show!

Tonight’s the big event and am I skipping it? Heck no!

Iwork best under pressure and I guess I must begin it.

New mail in my inbox? This will only take a minute.

And now it’s time to get a snack. I’m past due for a break.

Tomorrow morning’s not far off - I’m sure to be up late.

Espressos fuel my fuzzy mind as I procrastinate.

Dr. Hickerup (Part 3 of 3)

2009-07-20T12:46:00.001-07:00

Billy peered into the room and soon his jaw dropped wide.
He stared and blinked in disbelief while Doctor gazed with pride.
Attached onto a cushioned chair was a monstrous machine
With pipes and dials everywhere, more than he’d ever seen!

Inside a globe upon the top, electric bolts were flashing.
And through the gears the boy could hear a generator crashing.
It filled the room with all its bulk of chords and coil unending.
Billy’s eyes then caught a sign that read: “It’s Patent Pending.”

The young boy turned to face the doc and said, “You must be nuts!
If you think I’m sitting in that chair, be sure I’ll raise a fuss!
I’ll tell my parents! Call a lawyer! File for malpractice!
And I’ll show them just how phony all your hiccup-healing act is!

I’ve opened doors, had all your cures, drank medicine, got scared,
Blew that crazy horn, got tickled… Boy, how I have fared!
And yet for all your promises, no miracle has happened.
That’s it! I quit! I’m going home! I’ll come back for my refund.”

The doctor stood there silently while Billy had his say.
But when the boy concluded then, he yelled, “Hip, Hip Hurray!
I am a genius! Yes I am! I knew Door Five would work.
When patients see that great machine, they tend to go berserk!
But happily, (now thanks to me), while you were prattling on,
You failed to notice one key thing! Your hiccups- They are gone!

Bill could scarce believe it. Could it honestly be true?
Could his unhappy hiccup problems finally be through?
He glanced back toward the doctor, and counted one to ten.
But as the doc predicted, the hiccups did not come again.

“You did it Doctor! Now I’m cured! You’re truly a magician!”
“All in a nine-to-five day’s work,” said the gratified physician.
“I’m glad you liked my fancy cures. So far, they’ve never failed.
“Don’t worry about thanking me- your bill will soon be mailed.”

Billy shook the Doctor’s hand and grinned from ear to ear.
It was so peaceful breathing now, with no hiccups to fear.
Now problem free, to home with glee the happy Billy ran.
All thanks to Dr. Hickerup, the hiccup-healing man.

Dr. Hickerup (Part 2 of 3)

2009-07-13T06:57:00.000-07:00

The room behind the second door was not to Billy’s liking.
Inside stood a group of beasts with teeth and claws quite frightening.
Some had seven legs at least while others, none at all.
Some were just the size of cats, while others were quite tall.
“Boo!” a furry creature yelled mere inches from Bill’s ear.
“Hiccup! Hiccup!” the young boy cried. So much for using fear.
“I just don’t get it,” said the Doc. “That cure sure works for me.”
“I didn’t like that room a bit.” “That’s why we’ll try Door Three.”

Behind the third door on a stand an odd contraption sat.
It was a brass-like instrument with knobs for sharps and flats.
“This is my own invention- the Flimeyblimahphone.
I’m proud to say (for most, anyway) it cures when it is blown.
No music knowledge needed, just stand and take a breath.
And if we have a dash of luck, there’ll be no hiccups left.”

Billy sauntered toward the horn and filled his lungs with air.
He blew so loudly on it though, it frizzled all his hair.
“My, my,” the doctor then observed, “what powerful lungs you’ve got!
Perhaps the hiccups now are gone?” “HICCUP!” Bill sighed, “They’re not.”

“Now don’t you worry,” said the doc. “And don’t despair, dear child.
I’ve got cure behind door four that’s bound to make you smile.”
Billy nodded, but said nothing, having a sad hunch
That he’d have hiccups forever and he should go home for lunch.
“I’m hungry,” said the sickly boy, “and should be home by noon.”
“Never fear,” the doc said. “Here’s the cure! We’ll be done soon.”

Inside the forth door, what a sight! Four peacocks stood encircled
With feathers gleaming blue and bright and tails of green and purple.
“This cure just takes a minute, and I’ve got my watch right here.
Just stand inside the circle and prepare to laugh to tears!”
Billy stood amid the flock, looked toward the Doc and nodded.
The doctor started his wrist clock as peacocks’ feathers prodded.

They poked, they stroked, they tickled Bill and drove the young lad silly.
He laughed, he cried, he split his sides. They all had fun- but Billy.
At the end of sixty seconds when the feathers finally stopped,
Doctor Hickerup then strode to where the boy had flopped.
“Well, did it work?” the doctor asked. “Have they finally gone away?”
“Perhaps…(HICCUP). Oh, never mind,” was all the child could say.

“I have one final cure, dear boy, when hiccups are their worst.
It’s never failed a patient (though your case may be the first).
Years of ingenuity made this dream come alive.
So come my son, don’t dally now. Let’s go behind Door Five.”

Dr. Hickerup (Part 1 of 3)

2009-07-06T13:39:00.000-07:00

Billy got the hiccups on one dull and dreary day,
And try although he might they simply would not go away.
The hiccups made poor Billy bleat like some sad little goat.
Passersby would stare and pry, “You got frogs in that throat?”

When the hiccups grew so mighty that the boy could hardly stand,
Billy went to Dr. Hickerup- the hiccup healing man.
The doc was famous in the town for all his fancy cures.
Eccentric, yes, but patients found they got hiccups no more.

Billy stood upon tiptoe to ring the office bell.
“Step inside,” the doc replied. “We’re going to get you well.”
Dr. Hickerup was lean and stood about six feet.
He saw the child, waved and smiled and said, “Have a seat.”

“Are you allergic?” asked the doc. The boy then hiccupped, “Nope.”
“Great,” said Dr. Hickerup as he grabbed the stethoscope.
“HICCUP” the sad, sick child hicked before the doc could start.
He listened to the young boy’s chest and sighed, “You’re off the chart.”
“What shall I do?” poor Billy cried. “Well now, are you insured?”
“I think I am,” the lad replied. “Then soon you shall be cured!”

The doctor took the child’s hand and led him cross the floor
Beyond the tiled waiting room to a hall with five big doors.
“Behind these doors,” the doctor said as he waved a latexed hand,
“Are my best cures. Some strange, scary, simple, silly, and grand.
As it’s your first time visiting, let’s start with something fun.”
Billy took a big deep breath as the doc opened Door One.

And what a scene met Billy’s eyes as the door now stood ajar:
A giraffe of quite enormous size was on some monkey bars!
“Hiccup!” the young lad hicked again. “Now how will this help me?”
“Why don’t you go and play?” Doc said. “And then drink this and see?”

So Billy swung on monkey bars and hung upon the neck
Of the most obliging giraffe at hand, the nicest one he’d met.
Eventually, he got thirsty and hanging upside down
He sipped and sipped the watery mix while trying not to drown.
The medicine poured down his throat but failed to cure the youth.
“It didn’t (HICCUP) work,” he said. The doctor sighed, “Door Two.”

TUNE IN NEXT MONDAY FOR PART TWO

My Magical Engagement (Part 3 of 3)

2009-06-29T08:16:00.000-07:00

Jason returned bearing an ornately carved box about eight inches long- a little too big for a ring box. He knelt before me.

“I got this box while I was in India,” he explained. Jason had visited Bangalore during a previous summer. “I wanted it to remind us of how God might one day use us in that country...”

My fingers glided over the pattern of intricate flowers and vines. My suspicions for the evening were confirmed. I knew where this conversation was going.

Inside the box were three curious objects. Jason picked them up and explained them one by one. The first item was a dried saffron bloom I recognized from the first bouquet Jason had ever given me. “This,” he began, “is a dried flower from India and since it doesn’t wilt, one of its names is ‘The Eternal Flower’. I give it to you now to symbolize my eternal love for you.” I sat in a dreamlike trance as Jason picked up the next object.

It was an iron key. “I need you to hold on to this key for a little while if that’s ok.” I accepted it silently from his hand, not sure what it might unlock, but also not caring enough to ruin the mood with questions.

At last, he pulled out a small wooden box. This was it. I was at the top of the high dive and there was no going back. Jason took a deep breath. “I got this box in Chattanooga. The angel carved on it is there to remind us that God will always be with us.” Jason slowly opened the top to reveal a small gold ring bearing three tiny diamonds. Jason held my hand and gazed deeply into my eyes. “Katherine Ann Ladny,” he began. “I love you. Would you make my joy complete? Will you marry me?” The world stood still. I broke into a huge grin, took the plunge, and answered, “Yes, Jason Andrew Mitchell.”

Jason slipped the ring onto my finger and kissed my hand while I sat beaming in a joyful daze. God had been so generous with us and now He was writing a new chapter of our relationship. After a while, Jason pierced through the emotional whirlwind with an unusual question. “Do you want to go on an adventure?” he asked. Another one? I was so happy that I would have gone to the moon if Jas wanted.

“Do you still have the key I gave you?” he asked. I’d completely forgotten about it, but thankfully hadn’t lost it yet. I gave it to Jason and followed him down another bank. At the bottom rested a two-person kayak! Jason unlocked the tiny boat. “You might want to put your ring back into the box, just to be on the safe side,” he suggested as he rummaged in the hull for the life jackets. The ring needed to be sized down a bit and it would be a shame to lose it, especially before showing it to anyone! We put our things deep into the bow of the kayak, tightened the straps of our life preservers, and shoved off.

Our paddles sliced through the dark water. Occasionally a wave would hit us head on, spraying us both. The summer solstice moon glowed copper and at times I would turn to face Jason and exclaim, “I can’t believe we’re getting married!”

We rowed across the river past the sleeping sailboats. Eventually, we came upon the Annapolis pier. Jason tied our kayak to a wooden pole, helped me out, and wrapped a towel around me. My jeans and tee shirt were soaked. We were tired, wet, and couldn’t have been happier. The whole proposal had been unbelievable, and it wasn’t over yet!

Jason grabbed a basket of tea lights and another book from the hull, then left me for a few seconds to see about something. I waited on the dock in joyful expectation not only of Jason’s return, but also of a possible answer to a secret prayer.

Prior to dating Jason, I’d visited a Sunday school class that was discussing the pain of divorce. It sounded awful. I was pretty sure that I didn’t want one, but I was also pretty sure that people getting married rarely plan on getting divorced later. I had little experience and didn’t want to marry the first jerk that paid attention to me only to spend years of emotional and financial heartache extracting myself from the relationship.

So one day, I asked God for a sign to indicate the man He’d want me to marry. And the “fleece” I chose was a voluntary invitation for me to dance with him on the Annapolis pier. It was a silly request, perhaps, yet here I was; sitting a mere hundred yards from the appointed spot. To be honest, I sometimes tried to force God’s hand by asking current crushes if they’d like to dance with me there. Before we started dating, I had even asked Jason. (He declined.) To this day, no one had ever asked me.

Jason presently came back, led me to the edge of the pier, and started placing tea lights in a large square. Curiouser and curiouser! My eyes soon wandered to the book that Jason had brought with us. I couldn’t believe the title! There, on the faded red cover, read “Modern Ballroom Dancing by Victor Silvester.” I was astounded. Had my prayer been answered? Do such prayers get answered? I flipped open the front cover and inside was the following penciled inscription: “Dearest Kate, shall we dance?” I was too joyful to do anything but smile. It was as if God had just penned his signature of approval on my love story.

A moment later, Jason helped me to my feet. His left hand lifted my right into the air while his other arm encircled my waist. In my mind’s eye, I recalled the time when I was sixteen, teaching Jason how to waltz for the first time. I grinned at the memory while Jason gazed into my eyes, hesitating for some reason. Would I be teaching him again? Just before I was about to ask whether he remembered the steps, a live violin filled the air with its smooth song. I gasped, delighted!

One, two three, one, two, three…we waltzed together on the pier with Jason leading beautifully. He danced even better than I did. (I found out later that he’d taken lessons for this occasion.) The song ended to the applause of several Annapolis tourists and the engagement was now complete.

Perhaps I looked silly dancing that night in my damp tee shirt, wet jeans, and soggy tennis shoes. But I felt like a princess in a great romance, enjoying the embrace of her prince and rejoicing in the smile of her King. God had proven Himself a masterful storyteller, and I couldn’t wait for the next chapter.

My Magical Engagement (Part 2 of 3)

2009-06-22T18:20:00.000-07:00

“I believe this was our fourth stop,” Jason commented as we were on our way again. “Fourth stop?” I wondered. I’d been so involved with my own feelings that I hadn’t even considered that there might be a reason for interrupting our walk every few minutes.

“Let’s see,” I thought to myself. “That was stop number four. It’s our seventh anniversary. I just received 77 roses…if the pattern holds, then our seventh stop will be our last and I bet I know where we’ll end up!”

The sky behind us deepened into indigo. On the horizon to our left, which now included the Annapolis cityscape, faint orange rays struggled to light our way. For our fifth stop, we rested on another wooden bench (still not ours, by the way) and watched silhouettes of motorboats cut through the dark tide. It was lovely.

“You know,” Jason began, hugging me closer, “It brings me such joy just being near to you.” My heart fluttered. We held each other for a few minutes and watched the sun dip from view. “We still have places to go,” Jason eventually said as he released his embrace. We rose and walked back toward the path, my body still enjoying the warm memory of Jason’s arms.

It was now nearly dark. Jason slowed as we approached stop six. I was slightly confused, for this time no bench was in sight. To our right waved the tall grasses of the park. And to our left was a clear view of the Annapolis Capitol and city lights from across the river. Jason shot me a reassuring glance and started descending the bank. I followed, greatly curious as to where we were heading.

“Careful,” Jason instructed as he guided me down the rocks. “Watch your step.” In a minute or so, we had successfully navigated to the water’s edge without so much as a scraped knee. The water lapped the land as Jason led me to a nearby boulder. “Rest here a moment,” he said as he started searching for something. Within seconds he found a wooden bowl and small towel. My heart skipped a beat. I remembered the story of how Jesus had shown his love to his friends by humbly washing their dirty feet. Now it seemed that Jason was about to follow in His steps.

Jason dipped the bowl into the water and stood before me. “Katie,” he said quietly, “I desire to serve you. May I please wash your feet?” I nodded without a sound. Jason started untying my double-knotted shoelaces. My, was I ever grateful I’d shaved that morning!

Jason’s strong hands gently removed my shoes, then my socks. He dipped each foot into the bowl, his fingers caressing me from my ankles to my toes. I watched in reverence as he then patted them dry and tenderly reinserted each foot into its proper sock and shoe. Despite the lack of light, he even managed to retie my laces. I smiled. Jason helped me down and led me once more over the rocks and back to the path.

We now approached what I was certain would be our seventh and final stop. This particular part of our walk was both the most surreal and the most silent. We spoke not a word, but listened to the music of the wind, the waves and the rhythm of our own heartbeats. With each step my expectation rose. I felt like I was climbing a high dive, traveling further and further from the life I’d always known. Soon the proverbial board was beneath my feet as an old, familiar bench stood twenty yards away and closing. Jason reached for my hand once more and I wistfully followed his lead.

Jason sat me down. “Just a minute,” he said before rummaging in the tall grass for something. He returned bearing an ornately carved box about eight inches long - a little too big for a ring box. Nevertheless, he knelt before me...

My Magical Engagement (Part 1 of 3)

2009-06-18T19:32:00.000-07:00

On the evening of June 21st, 2005, I discovered that God, although the established author of a bestselling narrative, is also a romance novelist. Jason and I were eating at the waterfront Annapolis Charthouse to celebrate seven months of dating. The sun slowly dipped toward the horizon as its rays danced upon the Chesapeake. Boats bobbed up and down with the gentle waves and a warm breeze sent their lines a-swaying. Inside the restaurant I sat across from the man I wished to dine with for the rest of my life. And though normally talkative, I found myself rather taciturn and a bit nervous this night.

Jason had dropped hints months earlier regarding the importance of this particular anniversary. I anticipated that before it was over, he would probably address the issue of my naked ring finger. So far, all was going well. The food was delicious and Jason had arranged for the waitress to present me with several yellow red-tipped roses (my favorite flowers) throughout the meal. I smiled wryly at Jason as I received each one from her hand. This wasn’t going to be an ordinary date.

After paying our check, Jason suggested that we change clothes before visiting one of our special places - Greenberry Point. I eagerly pushed open the wooden door to the ladies’ room. Goodbye heels! Hello tennis shoes! Greenberry Point was a nature preserve located on a peninsula that faced the Chesapeake Bay Bridge on one shore and the city of Annapolis on the other. Prior to our romantic relationship, Jason had introduced the park to me and a mutual friend. He had even confided that he one day planned to propose to his future wife there. When we started dating, he and I often sauntered along its sandy paths and watched the water from our favorite wooden bench.

After changing, we drove from the restaurant to the Point. Once parked, we strolled hand in hand toward the preserve’s main entrance. But to my surprise, Jason seemed to be passing it! This couldn’t be right! I gently pulled him toward the gate. Jason turned and said with a smirk, “Now where do you think you’re going?”

So much for a subtle hint. “Aren’t we going to visit our bench?” I asked. Surely he wouldn’t break our tradition.

“Oh, not yet. I thought this time I’d show you some parts of Greenberry Point you’ve never seen before.” With that, he smiled confidently and led the way toward a different path on the opposite side of the park.

After walking a few hundred yards, Jason retrieved a Bible and some bug spray he’d hidden and then introduced me to a large tree whose branches nearly dipped into the bay. We climbed onto a low-hanging bough and breathed deeply as the bay breeze combed through the leaves. “This is beautiful,” I remarked. “We should have come here before.”

We talked to God together, thanking Him for creating such a gorgeous day and asking Him to direct our steps. I would have been content to stay suspended over the water, but Jason said we had places to go and things to do while it was still daylight.

Our second stop was located atop a man-made sea wall. Thick logs bordered by large rocks formed a barrier to protect the land from the crashing waves. Jason stepped gingerly onto one of the wooden beams and held my hand securely as I followed. We sat and watched the breakers dash white against the shoreline while the wind played with my hair. “You’re so beautiful,” Jason murmured as he admired the work of the breeze. “Thanks,” I replied quietly.

Jason pulled out the Bible he’d been carrying and started flipping through the thin pages. “I’ve been thinking a lot about joy lately,” he said, “and I wanted to share some insights with you.” I made myself comfortable and listened through the roar of the waves as Jason read seven passages about God giving true joy to those who’d often failed Him. I was encouraged to be reminded of God’s loving faithfulness toward His people. At length, Jason looked up from the book and reached for my hand. “Let’s go back to the path.”

As we walked together, Jason seemed to possess a quiet determination about him. I was certain that all this creativity was crescendoing to something I’d only ever dreamed about, and the anticipation was making me jittery. To dispel my anxious energy, I suddenly broke our mutual contemplation with, “I’m in a mood to jog.” Surprised, Jason laughed as we trotted to our next stop. Our arms swayed by our sides in rhythm with our shoes as they pounded the path. Soon a wooden bench (not ours) came into view. I plopped down with a loud, “Whew!” as Jason sat next to me.

“Are you thirsty?” he asked.

“No (gasp) thanks,” I said, catching my breath.

“Well I am,” he announced as he reached under the bench, procuring a bottle of sparkling grape juice and a wedge of smoked Gouda cheese. I giggled.

“Just thought we’d have a little ‘wine’ and cheese tasting party,” he said as he unwrapped the foil from the green bottle-top. We both snacked, enjoying our view of the Bay Bridge. We didn’t linger long, however. Jason deposited the small picnic along with the Bible and bug spray he’d been toting back under the bench and headed for the trail.

We plodded on for a few minutes before finding another wooden bench (also not ours) located near the tip of the peninsula. Jason sat me down and asked me to close my eyes. When I was permitted to open them, they grew wide in amazement. Inside a wicker basket by Jason’s feet were dozens of yellow red-tipped roses, each with a small note tied to its stem! Jason started handing them to me, reading the notes aloud. “These are the things about you that bring me joy, Kate,” he said softly.

“When you smile, when you sing to me, when you leave long voice messages, because your eyes grab my heart, because you laugh at yourself, when you laugh at my jokes…” Jason gave me one rose at a time. My small pile began to grow.

“…When you point me to our Savior, when you put your hair up, when you let your hair down, when you hold my hand, because you can whisper and shout…” I felt honored, cherished, and then comforted as a quiet thought whispered through my mind: “If Jason, a sinful man, can take such delight in me, how much more would a perfect God?”

Note after note was read until he finally came to number 77: “Because you are wonderful to behold.”

We sat silently for a few moments. “Thank you,” I said meekly.

“Of course. I love you, Katie,” Jason replied, draping his arm around me. We put the roses back into the basket and Jason scampered through the bushes to hide them once more.