Try On, Cry On

Being the ringbearer meant trying on a tux.

Getting measurements was the easy part.

In a large, open store on a cool February evening,

with an easygoing
tailor who joked in a Latvian accent, the mood was light.

The mother says to the boy in her best bass voice

like the man on the commercial,

"You're gonna like the way you look."

\

The dad stands nearby,

also getting fitted.

The occasion becomes a memory

of pre-wedding pleasantries.

Being the ringbearer meant trying on a tux

Again.

Three days before the Big Day.

To make sure everything fits.

It's early March in Maryland,

but feels nearly Bahama-ish.

Which is great

if you're outside.

Trying on a tux means putting on
layers of clothes.
And accessories.
Shirt.

Vest.

Tie.

Suspenders.

Jacket.

Pants.

Socks.

Shoes.

In a small dressing room,

already too warm,

he begins to panic.
Dramatic breathing.
Pulling at his collar.
The shirt sleeves are too long.
The lady rolls them up.
It looks tacky.

"Let me try a different one for you,"
says the lady.
"No, please not another one!"

His mother is helping him get the shirt off,
but she is also overheating
in more ways than one.
It's not drama, it's real.

"Mom, I have warmaphobia!"

The mother smiles, but the boy says it's not funny.
His brother in the next dressing room

trying on his own tux that fits beautifully.
He hears the commotion, embarrassed,

and when he comes over, says
to the sibling half his age,

"Man up. Don't be such a girl."

"I'm not being a girl! I'm dying of heat!

Get this off of me!"

The mother tells the older brother (the best man)

not to antagonize. It IS really hot.

The pants are too loose, but the new pair, says the

lady (who is not the Latvian comedienne, but a

serious Sally)--"the new pair might stay up better."

"What?? I have to try on another pair of pants???!!

The new pair is too tight.

You would think he had just been squeezed by a boa constrictor

the way he fought the black fabric on his legs.

Put the first pair back on with suspenders, I suggest.
"They're fine, Mom. They'll stay up, don't worry!"

I believe him. Let's just get out of here.

I share his warmaphobia.

I snap a couple of pictures of the suffering.

Photojournalism at its best.

Or worst, depending

on which side of the camera you're on.

The store lady is doing her best to hurry up and get us

"scanned out."

Thank you. Yes, we'll go across the street

to your other location for a shirt that fits right.

What's one more trying try-on session

if the promise is that

You're gonna like the way you look.

Three days later,

in a very-cool-on-purpose hotel room

the mom stood by with her camera

while her boy and his dad tried on

those tuxes for their March Down the Aisle.

The mother smiled yet again.

She knew

she was gonna like the way they looked.

Later.

Much later.

When the wedding day

was a cool 45 degrees outside,

he was feeling great in all those layers.

And he did, indeed, like the way he looked.

Crushing Sadness

I wish I could talk about it, but I can't. Let's just say I'm grieving but no one has died. I'm grieving the loss of something I wish I had , a few somethings actually. All I feel is a crushing sadness, like a slab of cement sitting on my chest. Will it ever lift? Will I rise again? Will I experience what some other people take for granted, in a good way? How long, O Lord? How long? Can I please get a picture of my life without this pain? This grief? I can't remember the last time I felt really happy, really light, really free.

Slump

I'm in a slump and I've been here for a very long time. I'm miserable, actually. Yesterday my husband asked what my goals are. I have none. Me without goals, I know. Strange. I have tried and failed so many times I am on the brink of giving up with my goals--weight loss, housekeeping, you name it.

I want to know where I fit in, what I'm supposed to be doing, and whether anyone gives a crap.

The teaching job didn't materialize. The school can't afford to hire me. They have given the art class(es) to someone who is already hired to teach other classes as well. So ,for the first time since 1993, this August I am not planning any lessons or field trips. I'm not updating my professional wardrobe. I'm not emailing parents about school supplies lists.

I'm not excited about much of anything. I feel like I'm just observing everyone else enjoying new things or relationships.

I'm lost. I feel utterly out of my element. I have always worn the mantle of teacher and loved it, whether it was a homeschooling teacher or a classroom teacher. I help my husband teach once a month a church (3rd and 4th grade class, combined), but that's it. While I enjoy it, I'm not satisfied. I think I feel like a golden retriever without anything to fetch. I'm listless and looking for purpose. Being Suzy Homemaker doesn't cut it for me. I can only declutter and clean so much before I find myself saying, "This is dull-- and besides, who cares?? Really ,would anyone's life be that much better if my house were spotless?" I cook well enough to satisfy stomachs. I keep laundry pretty much done or in varying states of doneness.

But that stuff doesn't bring me the kind of high that planning lessons does. I love studying history and relating it to geography and art and Bible all at the same time. I love seeing what kids create with pen and paper or paint and canvas. I love having a little stack of tests to grade, especially the essays where they come up with some really clever answers. I enjoy helping kids learn new skills. I love the discussions about presidents and artists and entrepreneurs. My heart gravitates to the academic environment and all things school, sans math. (Math and I had a fling a 9-month fling called Geometry class back in the day; he was the one exception to my "math gives me cooties" motto. One math teacher friend burst my bubble when she declared, "Well, geometry is not real math." What is it, a touched-up, magazine model?)

Anyway, I can't stand this feeling. I have other issues to deal with, issues too private for the internet, but this one I can talk about. This lousy feeling that I'd rather be thriving in heaven than floundering on earth. In some ways I feel like my work on earth is done.

Susan Asked; I Answered. "A Blog Retrospection"

For whatever reason, Susan at thecontemplativecat chose me as one of five bloggers to do this Blog Reflection/Retrospection post. Given that I've posted some 1323 times, maybe she figured I'd have myriad selections upon which to reflect or retrospect. Or because she knows I'm not afraid of prickly topics. Or that I am just a sucker for thought-provoking memes.

Thanks, Susan. You made me smile. (And folks, you must visit her blog. She'll make YOU smile, too.)


Category 1: Most beautiful "Hallmark Commercial in my Classroom." While rereading this post, tears flowed down my cheeks. How I miss teaching, and "Ryan" in particular. He has a beautiful spirit, generous and encouraging and pure. Just last week I saw him and he told me he still misses having me as his teacher. It doesn't get much better than that.

Hallmark Commercial in my Classroom

Category 2: Most popular "Walking Cliche' for Halloween" (a humorous piece) garnered a lot of laughs. I wrote it while thinking about Halloween costumes and simultaneously grading some high school essays. I had read one cliche' too many that afternoon, which led to a "eureka!" which I carried out only on paper. I was in a really giddy mood and apparently a lot of people needed a good laugh that day. The comments cracked me up and I wished I could take all the commenters out trick-or-treating with me.

Walking Cliche' for Halloween

Category 3: The Most Controversial There may be others, since I get a bit "riled up" now and then. It happened as I was blog-hopping and I came upon an ultra-crunchy momma's page whose "About Me" stuff made me say to myself (in the words of my dad, "Oh, forevermore." I questioned why people find it necessary to include "we cloth diaper" in their blog profile. Shoulda figured that a topic that covers waste products would create such a stink. I realized that it takes intestinal fortitude to stand up for what you believe, or bowels of mercy to stand down on bandwagon issues that truly, in the whole scheme of things, don't matter. At all. To me. So I wrote,

Seriously?

Category 4: Most Helpful "Let Me Tell You, I Love My Man!" It buoyed my spirits to write it, since I tend to focus on the negatives of people most important to me, or-- if I think on the positives-- the thoughts don't necessarily flow freely from my lips or pen. It's a terrible thing. I have to work at being encouraging to my closest companion. Judging from the comments, it helped other women to focus (at least for a little while) on the good they see in their husband. And, I would guess my hubby felt bolstered by reading it, even though he pretends he doesn't read my blog.

Let Me Tell You, I Love My Man!

Category 5: The Post whose success surprised me Well, that one is from the A-Z Challenge, a challenge for which I chose "memories" as my guiding theme. "M is for Mailboxes" was a gutsy confession of something I'm not proud of. In fact, I was sorely tempted to simply keep it in my drafts, but wanted God to be spotlighted as the loving forgiver of the sins of my youth "and my rebellious ways." For it is His kindness that leads us to repentance.

M is for Mailboxes

Category 6: The Post most ignored Pshhhh. Too many to choose from. I figure if it was ignored when it was fresh, why mention it now when it's stale?

Category 7: The Post I am proud of . Okay, the phrase "proud of" makes me squirm with regard to my own writing. But I can say that a post which took some work (and you will agree that I use the term "work" loosely if you choose to read it) was one called "Three Wee Rings." I wrote it after my hubby took me to the jewelry store on our anniversary a while back to get my wedding rings and a diamond band upsized. (Yes, I asked for the sizing as a gift; he would never dare suggest it.) Our anniversary is at Christmastime, so the post is a poem set to the tune of "We Three Kings."

Three Wee Rings

Now I must choose five fellow bloggers, and notify them of their choice to participate or not. I'm choosing ones I think will say yes and who occasionally spark controversy but keep it civil.

The writers I'm picking for this blog reflection post are:
Sarah (my delightful daughter) at Homeward Bound
Kelly at Through the Water
Amy at Lavender Sparkles
Krista at Corn Rows and Meadows
Joyce at From This Side of the Pond

Ready or Not...

I am not ready for all the changes that have come upon me lately. I'm not saying they're bad things. They're not. They're natural and, for the most part, predictable in the course of one's life as parent. But so far I've only been at arm's length from the stark realities that come at rapid-fire pace as being the mother of three young adult children. I thought that having three kids in four years was hard when they were little. Thank the Lord I could not see into the depth of pain in the future.

I seldom feel needed. I rarely feel considered in anyone's plans. Usually I just feel both invisible and lost, as if I'm wandering around in a thick fog with laryngitis saying, "Hello? Can anybody hear me? Do you see me? Hey, did you catch that I made plans and expected that you'd be part of them? Hello?" And then it's as if a dial tone is all I hear in the fog. But instead of the dial tone saying, "Bzzz," it answers with,"Uh, yeah, I'm going out tonight. I'll be back late, 12:30, 1:00 maybe." Or it says, "I won't be here this weekend." Or, "By the way, I'm moving out in a few weeks. Thought I'd give you and Dad a head's up."

They say "don't blink or you'll miss it." When did I blink? There haven't been enough sunrises and sunsets yet. There haven't been enough hugs and kisses. There haven't been enough kind words and certainly not enough apologies. There haven't been enough car rides, long talks, or walks in the park. I am aching with an unquenchable ache to do it all again, do it better, be the mom I wanted to be, the mom I pictured being when I was carrying them but the mom who goes to bed almost every night with guilt over what she said, what she should have said, how she should have listened better. The mom who looks at herself in the mirror and says, "Who are you and what is your purpose anyway?"

I've got to find a new identity because being "Mom" is too painful right now. I don't have the same amount of control and they aren't exactly coming to me for advice. I feel rejected and abandoned. I am glad they have chosen good paths with God, good friends, higher education, jobs. I remember wanting the same freedom from my parents at that age that our kids want from us. And, come to think of it, I don't recall considering that my parents had feelings when I was 18, 19, 20. I thought they wanted me gone as much as I wanted to be gone. Never did it occur to me how they might have been having trouble adjusting to a lighter nest quickly, since my older sister and I left home , one right after the other. I never had a sit-down, let's talk-this-over conversation about my decision to ask how they felt. It was all about how I wanted my own place, was ready to work hard enough to pay for everything myself. Maybe my mom was just more stoic or mature or something. I don't remember that she cried, don't remember her begging me come home for meals or visits. Maybe she did. Or maybe she didn't allow herself to feel used that way. I don't think they cared to see my first apartment, don't know they were ever in it, as a matter of fact. Maybe it was too painful, especially since it was so small that if you rolled over in bed you could wash your hands, or if you rolled the other way, you could open the front door.

I think, then, that I've been taken off guard. Unprepared for this phase of life. Where are my friends who are going through this? Some of them are around, but I don't see grief and ache. Do we just not talk about these milestones the way we used to talk about potty-training and getting them to sleep through the night?

I think that not seeing my own mother struggle with our leaving home has handicapped me. I am not saying this as a blame; I'm saying that I have taken so many unconscious cues about how to handle children's phases from my mom. She guided me through nursing the children, diapering them, getting them to eat a variety of foods, watching for medical care I might have missed, disciplining them (though, thankfully, she kept a far distance on that one), educating them. But oh.my.word. Guiding me in how to let them go? I am floundering. Floundering! There aren't college courses on this, are there? If so, where do I sign up and I don't care if I have to pay a lot for it (just tell me where the tutors are)

I have only had one teaching on the subject, but didn't find it particularly helpful. Mabye because it was given by a dad, and I can't even get my husband to tell me how he's feeling. So I think men process it way differently. I feel like a mother who has given birth to triplets on the edge of a high cliff, and the babies are dangling by the umbilical cord which has a gazillion nerves in it, and everywhere I turn one of the babies is sawing away the cord little by little. The babies are about to cut themselves free over Grand Canyon, and fall, and all I can do is lie here shouting, "Nooooooooooooooo!"

"Duly Initiated": Is That What You're Calling It?

This is my second rant about how colleges "honor" their good students.
Last night was the so-called "induction ceremony" for Sarah into the Tau Sigma Honor Society. It's for transfer students who have achieved a 3.5 or higher. She holds a 4.0.

A little background: at first she didn't want to go because it was a care group night (what our church calls small group meetings) with this meeting being a social among college-age kids. She loves care group. I love ceremony. A couple weeks ago I told her it's not often that parents get to see their kids shine on stage, but she gets to go to care group every week. Please humor me. (Yes, I am a terrific travel agent for guilt trips.) My plea became even more important when Ben's graduation tickets didn't materialize because his college "ran out" (see previous post if you haven't, and if you care, and who could blame you if you don't?).

Sarah was told there was no guarantee that it would be over by 6:30, but that her name would be called first since she explained she needed to leave by 6:30. I was expecting to have to slip out inconspicuously while some big whig was yammering away at a microphone.

So we make plans to arrive at Towson by 5:20, hand Joel off to Ben in the parking lot, expecting that "light refreshments" start at 5:30, will last 15 minutes with mingle-till-you-tingle, and then the formalities get underway .

What actually took place was a far cry from our expectations. Sarah and I fought rush-hour, accident-laden traffic in the rain and arrived at 5:25, did the hand-off, met up with Paul, and headed upstairs for the light refreshments, which consisted of small cold tortillas, cold stuck-together mozzarella sticks (I couldn't even separate the two in order to leave one in the pan). I took a bottle of water and called it a snack. Apparently the "mingle" portion was more about hungry guests getting something to tide them over. All of this took place in a crowded little conference room with a banner up front, some TS souvenir stuff like beer can holders (because the brightest students can hold their liquor as well as their GPA with the greatest of ease).





It was standing room only for Paul and me and a few other parents.
The emcee stood up and introduced himself as a native Baltimorean who was glad to be back in the area after three winters in upstate New York.
Okaay, so ....what does that have to do with this? Well, then he added that
these students should be very proud of themselves to be the "cream of the crop."

Then a girl in a mini-skirt introduced herself as a senior, having transferred from U Mass. She asked the inductees to rise for the Tau Sigma pledge. Some yim-yam about striving to do well in their education and upholding the principles upon which the society was based. WhatEVer. Sarah told me in the car she has no intention of getting involved , nor taking a leadership position, that the school already sucks enough time, energy, and money out of their students. She thought the $45 TS app fee was plenty "giving back"! She just wanted the certificate for her portfolio.

After Miss U Mass was finished, Mr. Native Balmer took the floor again and said, "I've got your certificates here, so just line up and I'll hand them to you. " He didn't call anyone's name. He didn't acknowledge anyone's GPA, didn't thank the parents or significant others for coming to honor their achievements. Nothing. While I was snapping this only "official" (ahem) picture of Sarah at the "induction ceremony," another mom squeezed into the room and asked me what she missed. She had just come from Annapolis. Wow. She had just fought the DC beltway rush-hour traffic AND the Baltimore beltway traffic? I hated, hated, hated to tell her, but I said, "It's over. The guy said a few words and now is handing out their certificates." The look on her face was a mix of shock , disgust, and disappointment. "I chose this one over my younger daughter's awards ceremony tonight, and I missed this?" I said, "Yeah, I know. It took us longer to find a parking space than it took for the "ceremony." She wanted to know what the emcee HAD said in five minutes. I told her, "He said they're the cream of the crop."

We had to get "real" pictures at home. Mind you, it was 6:40 and Sarah was in a rush to get to care group, Paul and Joel to a coin show, and I to the Recitatio at the new school of some of my former students. The shots below? Well, I have Joel in a half-Nelson saying, "I'm not gonna bribe you to smile. Just do it." Loving mother that I am. Paul is saying, "Dumb dog!" to Reilly who hasn't learned the command, "Smile pretty for camera" while I say, "Joel, don't worry about the dog. Just shoot from the waist up."

And a picture of Sarah's certificate which proclaims she is hereby "duly initiated" on this day in May. Yeah, okay. If you say so. Sarah and I got a couple mother-daughter close-ups, which I'm glad for, but all in all the evening left me saying, "Colleges don't care about the students. They just want money." Why am I dwelling on this when what I should be dwelling on is how proud I am of Sarah for this achievement. She studies till wee hours of the morning, making lesson plans, writing papers, studying for tests. She has interned once a week this semester in an elementary school. Sarah works as a church secretary part-time, and doesn't neglect her friends, and takes on extra babysitting jobs for money. (She chooses the better-paying ones at this point in her career. When gas costs 4 bucks a gallon, you don't take $5 an hour when some people offer you $10 for fewer kids.) All that to say, this girl doesn't sit around waiting for life to happen. She is a doer and a sweet, godly doer at that. We love her to death and were glad to be part of her seven-minute hooplah yesterday. I'm still licking the grease off my face from those symbolic-of-the-evening "hors d'oeuvres."

A Rant about How Students are (dis)Honored by Colleges

The University of Baltimore is the school from which our oldest son, Ben, has earned his Bachelors of Science in Accounting. We are so proud of his achievement. It's a tough school, and he has studied very hard for his degree. But we're angry--"we" being namely me. Let me explain why.

Yesterday was the graduation ceremony, but we weren't there and neither was he. Why? Because the school ran out of tickets. Originally they posted on their website that each graduate would be allotted "only five" due to the unusually high number of seniors this year. We figured our five would be there in a school office, on reserved for Ben who could waltz in during business hours and pick them up. Simple, right?

Well, fast forward to six days prior to graduation. Ben's taking a breather on the deck while studying for finals. He came to me and said, "Mom, if I can get tickets, it'll only be two. And you might end up being put into an overflow room to watch the service on a big screen.The lady at the office said kind of rudely that there are no more tickets. You can email fellow students to see if they have any they're not going to use."

What? Let me recompute. Only two? What kind of college only gives out two tickets to each grad for graduation? Don't they think that by the time you reach that point in your life that you might have several people who might want to be there? Don't they see that they've squeezed and squeezed our collective wallets for tuition, book money, parking fees, honor society dues, not to mention the gas and tolls it takes to show up on campus?

University of Baltimore is mainly a business and law school. Translation: they specialize in handing out degrees in business administration, in accounting, in criminal justice. How ironic, then, that the powers that be cannot see in September that X number of seniors are enrolled, therefore X number (or close to) will be graduating in May? So let's book a venue that will hold (X times 5) to accommodate all five guests per grad. Granted, I majored in English, so math isn't always easy, but in this case, I find it rather elementary, my dear Watson.

Colleges are businesses, first and foremost. They exist to make money, and perhaps, to educate. I am convinced of it. Students are the "customers" keeping them in business. We have spent thousands of dollars to help put Ben through UB. And now he has to fight for two stinkin' tickets because they ran out. Why could they not plan for the end back at the beginning? I'm sorry, but as a parent, I feel that's an injustice. I really do. I am not a person to just shrug it off and say, "Oh, well, what are you gonna do about it?" I am angry. This past weekend I was boiling over with anger. I love ceremony, love to see my kids receive their well-deserved diplomas as they take the stage in cap and gown and special "robe thingeys," as Sarah calls them. And I even bought a dress for the occasion. (Okay, so it was doing double-duty for a wedding, but still!)

Isn't it the LEAST you can do, then, U Balt? Can't you honor your graduates and their parents by providing either a larger venue or having two ceremonies broken down by the various schools ( e.g. School of Business at 1 pm, School of Law at 5 pm, or on two different days)? Can't you plan for the "unusual volume" of grads with an equally high volume of tickets? There will always be people who don't want to go to their own ceremony, let alone invite others to the "boring event," but let those be the extra tickets after the ample five have been claimed, say in the last 48 hours before the ceremony. Don't tell students who are studying for finals to scrounge for two tickets like rats in a concentration camp.

Make no mistake: earning their good grades takes a lot of hard work and sacrifice. Late nights, saying "no" to a lot of fun things, fighting for points to keep their GPA up there. And for their parents who have saved since they were born, can you not honor us as well with two reserved tickets and a seat that's not in the overflow room?

No, you planned so poorly that your mistake has resulted in countless let-downs. No cap and gown for our son. No ceremony pictures. No tassle to hang on the rear-view mirror. No corporate feelings of pride and elation with other "cheerleaders" in a crowded arena. Nope. Nothing. Oh, yeah, and how about the money he paid to apply for graduation? Shouldn't that at least come with a handshake from the Dean?

------
Next up, "How Sarah was 'Honored" Tonight"

P is for PIt

This will be short. A pit stop, really.

He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. Psalm 40:2 (NLT)

I was recalling in my journal today how many times the Lord has brought me out of "the pit." Six years ago today was one of the hardest days of my entire life. A figurative bombing of my own life's federal building. I won't go into detail, but something that I had feared six months prior happened almost as I had predicted. Whenever information is withheld from me, I go into panic mode if I feel the least bit unloved. If I feel disposable or replaceable, the feelings of foreboding bite into my very core, their sharp teeth bearing down into my soul and gripping me like a ... dare I say...a pit bull?

Although I have forgiven my offenders,I have clearly not forgotten. But I have learned lessons about myself and about other people, namely not to align too closely with humans I don't trust.

But more than that I learned that Jesus defeats the Enemy and can be trusted to lift me out of the pit. The night that that incident took place, April of 2005, I was so filled with anger and hatred that I was visited by creatures I can only describe as gremlins. They hovered near the family room ceiling, crossing swords like x's in front of themselves, mocking and jeering, telling me I had no right to call myself a Christian and that I deserved what I got, and look what God had done to me now! Still, in the midst of the lies, in the midst of shaking in fetal position on the couch, I cried out, "Help me, Jesus. Tell them to get out of here! Help me, Jesus." And within moments, the voices and the gremlin faces vanished. I eventually calmed down, and was "spent" from agony and crying; the evil left the room. The name of Jesus, though I hated what had been done IN His name (supposedly), was my strong tower. Jesus rescued me. He had rescued me many times before, and many times since, but this day every year reminds me of His saving grace. It's not a one-time deal to "get saved." It's daily a saving from myself and the lies of the Enemy and the evil in the world if I get too close to it.

I don't like to talk about the experience, and honestly it took me two years and a lot of hard counsel to get to the point of forgiving those who had offended me, and to confess my part in the ordeal as well. After that, the ground was "more steady as I walked along."

In some ways I feel I am almost there again, almost at the bottom of yet another pit. I am in a fight right now to believe Truth, and to love my Passover Lamb, Jesus. He will deliver me out of this pit. I am sure of it.

M is for Mailboxes

In high school I was homogeneous. Not a homo. Homogeneous. I blended in with whomever I was with at any given moment. You wouldn't vote me Most Likely to Know What She Values, but you probably would have liked me because I'd go along with your adventure.

For ill or for good.

One night I was hanging out with my friend Carla (not her real name). She and I were a year apart in school (I was older--and should have been wiser). Both of us were wholesome looking over-achievers. Some students in public school even teased me for knowing all the biblical allusions in literature class. Carla's work ethic impressed almost everyone. (She was one of the few students who held a part-time job while going to school.)

No one would have suspected that we were capable of vandalism.

And I don't mean toilet-papering a Ford truck on Halloween. I mean vandalism.

I still remember the night it happened. I was spending a Friday night at Carla's and we were listening to music and thinking about baking brownies, doing our nails, and watching TV to fill our evening. It was just the two of us upstairs, and her brother and his friend were in the basement. Carla's dad was often away on business trips, and I don't know where her mom was this particular night, but she wasn't home. (There is a theme to my "when-parents-aren't-home stories," huh?)

Carla and I made a pan of brownies and ate half of them ourselves. We shared a couple with her brother Connor and his friend Ricky, and then ate the rest, for what reason I don't know, other than that we could.

Friday Night. No Parents Home. Keys to the Car. The boys decided that this would be a good time to go for a ride. And take some baseball bats with us.

I was so naive I thought we were going to go find a lighted field somewhere at 11 p.m. and play baseball. Seriously, I was so dumb I should've been blonde.

"Hop in the back, girls!" and we did. Connor got behind the wheel and Ricky rode shotgun.

We drove through the neighborhood, Connor zig-zagging between parked cars. Windows rolled down all the way, Connor shouted, "That one, man! Get that one!"

Ricky stuck the bat out the window and started swinging. He clobbered six or eight mailboxes in a row before Connor changed streets and sped off to find other metal to mash. At one house that was completely dark, the boys got out and took turns bludgeoning the mailbox to a mangled heap on the ground. Their laughter creeped me out.

I sat in the back shivering with fear. I had never taken part in a crime before. All I could think about was those poor people would wake up to find their mailboxes destroyed on their front lawns.

Ricky handed the bat to Carla. She laughed nervously and said, "Nah...I'm not strong enough."
But they coaxed her into taking a slug at a plastic newspaper box. She cracked it wide apart with one blow. Then she handed the bat to me.

I shook my head.

"No, that's okay. Haven't we all had enough fun and destruction for one night? We'd better quit before we get caught."

"Aw, you scared, Zoey?" I hated being called Zoey, and they knew it. It made me mad enough to swing.

"No, I'm not scared. I just don't want to do this."

They shrugged and kept driving and smashing mailboxes, cackling all the while. After twenty minutes or so, I think I got numb to the destruction part and started seeing it as fun. Rick turned to me and said, "You know you want to. Take just one swing. That's all. Just one."

So I took the bat, held it out the window and purposefully just grazed the next mailbox.

"Took some paint off that one!" I bragged, probably lying.

By this time Carla was egging me on. "Hey, Zo. Let's show 'em what we're made of." And then, I took the bait. The competitor in me had to win, or die trying.

I don't remember doing any damage personally, but I remember cheering Carla while she smashed the boxes to smithereens.

And I remember the terrible stomach ache I had as I tried to fall asleep back at Carla's house. The guilt over my actions gave me crippling pains inside. It wasn't worth the so-called fun to realize I had taken part in ruining property. We never confessed. Never apologized. I never did that again, but the memory haunts me still. I have asked, and received, God's forgiveness for my foolishness, but there is no way of going back to make amends to those people. That happened thirty-two years ago and I have no clue where we were exactly in the darkness of that night.

I learned something about my friend Carla and myself that night. We were capable of destroying far more than a pan of brownies.

H is for Horrible Hairstyle

Hair is important to me. If you're a woman reading this, you're probably saying, "It's important to me, too! Isn't it important to every woman?" My husband says it's way too important to me. Our youngest son says, "Yeah, anyway, it's just dead cells, Mom!" (This from the child whose idea of brushing his hair means slapping water on it and pasting it down with his hands.)

I've been scrolling through my mind, trying to remember all the hairstyles I've had, for better or for worse. I will share the worst haircut ever. I wish I could say it when I was a kid ,but it wasn't. I was 23 years old. I had a 13-month old son, and a 3-week-old daughter. That's right. Two babies in 13 months. I felt homely, haggard, and housebound, and desperate for change. Post-partum depression was starting to take a deep hold on me. There was not much I felt in control of--not my anger, not my tears, not my children's digestion.

Only two things could I change easily--diapers and my hair. With a friend's graduation-from-law-school party coming up on Memorial Day weekend, I went for my cut on payday--May 15th. Money was tight, but I knew if I went to the Hair Cuttery, they'd ask me what I wanted and I'd walk out with the same-old, same-old. I wanted someone with professional and creative experience to tell me what would look good, not me plop down and tell them what I thought.

So I went to a "real" salon (read: expensive). The receptionist asked who I wanted, and I said it didn't matter, I was new here. So I got assigned one. It was the first time I'd ever had a male stylist.

He ran his fingers through my wavy, brown, shapeless hair, lifting and tossing and massaging and all those things that make you say, "I don't care what else you do, just more of that, please!" He said all the right things in his exuberant, flamboyant way to the hermit housewife in his chair. "You've got great texture and color. I just think if I do this, this, and this, it'll give you more volume, accent your eyes, and really make people take notice!" Then he proceeded to snip. And snip. And snip.

He cut out every last semblance of curl and femininity I possessed on my head. He parted the hair on the side, tapered it in back, cut out the ears, and then spun me around to look in the mirror.

"What do you think?" he asked, obviously proud of his art. I took one look and gulped. I ran my fingers through the top--the only place with much hair left--and gasped to myself I was too polite to tell him how I really felt. How could I have given him carte blanche! It's horrible! I look so....butch! What will Paul say? Nauseated and fighting back tears, I handed over precious money in a sum I had never forked over for a cut. It felt like a double whammy, having paid with hair first!

Well, Paul's reaction was worse than I expected. He really didn't get verbal about it. He did say, "Kind of short, isn't it?" For the next five weeks, he didn't touch my head. Before that, I had grown so accustomed to his gentle stroking of it at night that the abrupt absence of "hair affection" made me pick up his hand and place it behind my head. He quickly pulled back. I asked what was wrong. He then answered in words I only remember in staccato, "'sorry...can't...touch...stubble." I rolled over and just let the tears flow. And flow. And flow. He felt horrible, but it was an honest moment that I've never forgotten. I had let a total stranger have his way with my hair, and now my own soulmate couldn't even touch it.

Never again, I vowed. Never again will I give free rein to someone with scissors.

Fighting Feelings of Failure

I can easily see how cleaning, decluttering, and decorating can become an obsession. But for the wrong reasons. This week I have felt like a failure as a wife, mother, teacher, sister, friend, and follower of Christ, but a success as a dejunker, yard sale preparer, and pet owner. Big deal. So what?

None of the conversations I've had lately have encouraged me. Not one. I feel like I might as well hang a sign around my neck that says, "Ultimate Failure." Across my back I should velcro a tag that says, "Kick me. I deserve it."

And now, back to doing what I've learned to do after failing miserably so many times before--getting rid of stuff. Everywhere I turn I just want to pitch and throw, and I think now that I'm a roll emotionally, I'll capitalize on it. I already got rid of 27 things this morning. That was the result of a conversation that was about the fifth rotten one I've had this week.

Strangling a Roaring Lion: Paper Clutter

Prepare to be depressed. This week's challenge will either kill me or make me stronger. The challenge: deal with the paper clutter in your desk/office area. Hmph! I don't have just one of those.

Paul told me to go ahead and take pictures of all my messes while I was at it, and maybe put them on my blog. Show the world how I really live. Well, okay. I will!

But brace yourself. Put on a dust mask or maybe strap on an oxygen tank. Some of these places where I hide clutter are simply breathtaking. And I don't mean that in a Grand Canyon/Niagara Falls/Great Barrier Reef kind of way.

In the coming post, you will see sights only reserved for people I love. Or whose love I'm really testing.

If you dare, come back later...

Taking a Blog Break to Wrestle with God

I am in that place again where I feel like a hermit, a talkative hermit with all this stuff to say and all these feelings to process, most of which lately have not been positive. Basically I realize I've accepted the invitation to my own pity party, and as you know, those are not well-attended by other folks. Misery may love company, but company does not love misery!

Like Jacob of the Old Testament, I am wrestling with God over a few things. Things too private for the blog. Hurts, disappointments, breakdowns. I know I won't "win" when I take God to the mat, nor do I want to. Could I trust a God I could beat with my angry words? Could I rest securely in His love if I thought He would leave me if I screamed at Him or if I begged him one more time to please take this thorn from my side? No, I could not, but like Jacob, I'm a wrestler at heart. I want to wrestle some hard questions with God until my strength is gone, my tears soak the pillows, my will is broken, and my heart is rightly aligned again. I want to come to that place of sweet surrender where I say, "Father, I see the good now. I see Your glory on display, not mine. And that's how it should be."

That said, I'm taking a blog break (I'll still be reading others' blogs, but not writing on my own or leaving comments) for an indefinite amount of time. If you're the praying kind, I would appreciate prayers, prayers not for strength, but for surrender of my foolish and false sense of strength.



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For some better company, how about reading what other Company Girls are up to?

Disappointed, but at Peace

What a saga. As of Friday night, we got word that we were going to have Riley. We couldn't have been happier. The rescue people had deliberated over three "great families wanting him" (their words) and in the end, chose us because of my plan to get into Therapy Dog work with Riley.

We put our good faith deposit on him Saturday. We rejoiced all weekend.

But then something happened. At dinner last night, Paul said to the kids and me, "You better hope my dream doesn't come true. I dreamed that we couldn't get Riley."

We chided him, the jokester ."Yeah, right. You never dream. You just don't want more vet bills."
He agreed that vet bills are a downside, but I could tell he was serious about the dream, and it kind of took me aback. Like, "Is this prophetic?" Not creepy-beepy prophetic, but more like, "Is this a hint to keep my heart from settling on less than God's best? Coming from someone who doesn't dream, this is worth noting.

I kid you not. Less than ten minutes later, the phone rang. I recognized the number as the foster mom's cell number. First thought? Riley died, ran away, something happened to him!

The woman said in a crackling voice, "Zoanna, I don't know how to tell you this...but...we can't let you adopt Riley. " And I began, "oh, no! Why? What happened?"

Then she told me, in explicit detail ,that when she had gone to pick up his bowl after feeding him that afternoon, he grabbed her arm and bit it. She said she was holding the bowl with one hand and had to punch his face with the other. He released and backed up. But she said the look in his eyes afterwards was not "sorry, I made a mistake" but "I meant to do that."

So, with tears as controlled as possible, she told me they couldn't let this fantastic dog , who had never shown food aggression in her 3 months of fostering him, go to a home with children. She was so disappointed in him, so sad for us. I told her I was glad she wasn't seriously hurt, and I was sorry she'd experienced that, and that I respected her for telling us right away. I assured her that we have always prayed that if the dog wasn't right, God would make it clear. He sure did make it clear. Better now that later. Better a trained foster parent get bitten on the arm than my little boy in the face.

Disappointed as I am, I feel very much at peace. I am thankful for Paul's dream and that he mentioned it and not withheld it. If I've learned one thing through the soul-searching and asking God "where to in this season of my life and at the same time getting a dog?" it's that I'm certain the next dog must be Therapy material. Loving, smart, trainable, no bite history, patient, easy on the eyes (some dogs are scary looking even though they're sweet as all get-out) and ABOVE all, trustworthy in all circumstances (including great pain) to be self-controlled. Basically, a clone of Molly:). I regret now not pursuing Therapy with her, but for most of her life, I had a house full of kids and for half of it, we were homeschooling and had extracurricular activities vying for our "spare" time. I couldn't commit back then to the regular monthly visits than residents come to look forward to. The timing wasn't right.

As for my heart in this saga today: I trust that this disappointment is part of a larger picture. I am confident God has heard us and is hand-picking The Dog for us.

Dayenu for Today: Of Humor, Hospitals, and Habitats

Some time ago I wrote my own version of Dayenu (a Hebrew term meaning "it would have been enough.") Thought it high time to recount 15 more blessings today.

1. If God had only give me the dream of having children, it would have been enough.
2. If God had given me only one song to sing, it would have been enough.
3. If His Word was the only reading material I had, it would have been enough.
4. If chicken alfredo were the only meal we'd had to eat for the past week, it would have been enough.
5. If there was only one laugh in the whole world, it would have been enough.
6. If only one sweet girl had given me a bouquet of flowers, it would have been enough.
7. If my children had no friends except the Lord, it would have been enough.
8. If no one came to visit me in my time of need except my Heavenly Father, it would have been enough.
9. If the house had but one lamp and one source of heat, it would have been enough.
10. If my husband had just a passing interest in coins as a shared hobby with our youngest son, rather than an obsession that leaves him hunched over a magnifying glass for 7 hours, it would have been enough.
11. If I had only a bullet to bite instead of modern anesthesia when my belly was cut open...um...I don't know if that would've been enough...actually I would rewrite this one . Tee hee.
12. If only I could limit my corniness to things that would be appropriate to crack up about, it would have been enough. But I thought today of a euphemism for my latest surgery: "The Destruction of Habitat for New Humanity."
13, If I had just shampoo and no conditioner, it would have been enough.
14. If I had seen just one stinkbug this week, it would have been enough/too much.
15. If Garrison Keillor had told just one hilarious joke on Prairie Home Companion, it would have been enough. But he gave us almost two hours of eye-rollers, side-splitters, and in-betweeners last night.

Jealous

Can I just admit it? Okay, I will. I'm jealous. And discouraged.

Yesterday my friend reminded me she's going to the Bahamas with her husband next week. When she told me a couple months ago, I was thrilled for her. Today I'm jealous.

A few months ago my sister mentioned she was thinking about going to Italy with a co-worker for a week. I was excited for her then. Today when I called her in response to a text about "praying for you at 30,000 feet," which I didn't understand (had forgotten the conversation and we hadn't talked since my birthday) she said she's leaving for Rome this afternoon. I felt jealous.

Another friend is leaving for Africa in a few weeks to minister to orphans for an indefinite amount of time, maybe the rest of her life. While I am not chomping at the bit to do that, I am jealous about the world travel and the chance to make a difference in the life of someone who might actually appreciate it.

This is an ugly feeling. My body is falling apart and I'm letting it dictate my responses. I need help to look up and speak truth to my soul. I am feeling very tired of life right now, eager for change in my body, in my relationships, in the scenery, in the world. I know it's self-pity, not just jealousy. I admit it. I'm just not "on board" with truth right now. I want to be well. I want to be flying. I want to be seeing Rome and the Bahamas. I want to see something besides what I lack. Help me, Jesus. Help me. I can't do it on my own.

Blog Break Again

My real life is not in order and hasn't been for awhile. So farewell for a time, blog friends.

I'm also pulling away from Facebook, too, for a bit. If you want to communicate, then use email or the phone,

See you when me and my surrounds are more stable.

But first, let me leave you with a link to another blog I found that is hilarious, poignant, transparent, and well-written: It's Almost Naptime!

Let Them Be Little (a repost)

In this video, Joel was a baby (2002), the answer to ten years of longing and praying. Stephen was 10, Sarah was 12, and Ben was 13. Joel did this thing with his mouth where he'd hold it open--wide--for a long time. Uncomfortably long. Note that halfway into the video, he does it, and that someone flicks his cheek, but he still keeps his mouth open. (It should have been a major hint that I'd have perennial problems getting him to close his mouth. Like mother, like son?)

Anyway, I get choked up watching this. The green and white striped shirt is the one I wore constantly while practically immobile on bedrest. When you see me tickling him on the changing table, it was one of the few times I was on my feet, and so I get teary-eyed remembering how God met me at the lowest of the lowest time in my life--with comfort from others, comfort from the moon, and most importantly, comfort from God alone.

A Simple Woman's Daybook 8.13.10

Another entry in A Simple Woman's Daybook.

Outside my window...
The temperature has finally fallen to a comfortable 74 degrees. The night is black, like one huge pupil in the cosmos. From the woods behind us comes the familiar strains of a symphony of God's
critters. If you listen closely, it sure sounds like the woodpecker tapping on drums, frogs croaking on the tuba, insects shaking maracas, and some other unidentified musician whistling on the piccolos. Every night I get free admission to their concert under the stars, but they aren't playing for me. They are playing for God alone.

I am thinking...
about the brevity of life. The incredible sadness I felt when talking to my neighbor who lost his wife back in May. He stopped by to return a lasagna pan from mid-June and was telling us that he and his boys just got back from a cruise, trying to make new memories doing things Mom would not have done. She got seasick looking at boats. "Do you know how hard it is to find a way to tell people on the cruise, when they bring it up, "So what are you folks doing here?" and you stammer to explain, '"We're taking this cruise because my wife just died.'" But then he said, "The next day, one of the ladies from dinner said, in a most sensitive, caring way, 'Tell me about your wife'--and that was a God moment."

I am thankful for...
the young lady in Ben's life. Her name is Deirdra. She is a godly, sweet person, and easy to love.

From the kitchen...
I hear Stephen's keys jingling. He just came home from a jam session, carrying his djembe and cajone. I keep wanting to call him Al. Al Cajone.


I am wearing...
brown pants and a brown shirt with swirls on it. I look like a King-size Snickers bar.

I am creating...
nothing, really. Quite uncreative at the moment.

I am going...
to learn to love being a football mom if it kills me. And it very well could.

I am reading...
a Psalm a day
a Proverb a day
a chapter from Ezekiel a day (arduous reading, in my opinion)
a couple chapters of Hebrews every day, and
a missionary bio of Wm. Carey.

I am hoping...
to have walked 26 miles between Aug 6 and 26.

I am hearing...
Joel say (over and over) "Better not lay a finger on my Butterfinger."

Around the house...
scream projects I've meant to get to this summer.

One of my favorite things...
is flying. I get to fly to Kansas to celebrate my and my friend Barb's week-apart birthdays!!!! We've been friends for (achoo!) 38 years. Also I get to meet Laurie of Tulip in the Thicket in Kansas for the first time (though she already feels like a sister to me through bloggyville). I also get to meet Rachel from Home Sanctuary at the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. She's going to bring me Texas BBQ during my lunchtime layover on the way back.

A few plans for the rest of the week...
Saturday is unplanned. Yay!! Sunday we are celebrating my nephew Danny's master's degree in Special Ed/Severe Disabilities. He got a perfect score on his exam! Nearly the whole Zubrowski clan is descending on Danny and Lisa for a cookout.

A picture thought I am sharing...

for the sole purpose of self-abasement is this one...because how tempting to post only the ones that might elicit "what a great picture of you!" You can imagine who is cracking up while I'm in the middle of telling him to put the camera away now, that's enough pictures, don't you think? He was twisting the lens in his little hand like a true professional , just for the fun of it, while gathering a host of stares at PF Chang's.

Could I be any more photogenic if I tried?

Parallel Paths

Like many people, I used to think that one's life was a single path marked by a series of ups and downs in succession. That is, first a person covers rugged terrain uphill, hits the summit and experiences the mountaintop feelings, followed by a slope onto a plateau,and then perhaps into a valley or ravine, and then back up again.

Not so, I have come to believe, as my pastor reminded the teachers upon the school's closing, something he had heard and come to believe. Rather than this mountain/valley/climb up/ slide down on one path, our lives are lived on parallel paths--railroad tracks. (Since I have a writhing aversion to railroad tracks ever since two people I know were killed there, I choose to visualize a foot path through the hills.)

I guess I think walking this path as right foot, left foot, ("feet, feet, feet") where the right foot experiences joy, and the left foot experiences sorrow. They happen pretty much concurrently.



Examples of late, from my life:



Right foot: Sarah and Stephen just left for two monthsto be camp counselors-- three hours from home where their only internet connection happens on weekends. For them it's the opportunity to serve the Lord by ministering to youth, some of whom come from very rough homes. These now-grown children are the arrows we prayed for: aimed in the direction of God, propelled by God . They are also learning to live their lives independent from their parents (a big yay from them!) with freedoms not known at home.



Left foot: I miss them terribly. I cried more than twice as hard and as long (rather, I'm still crying, and the end is not in sight) while they were packing the Jeep. I would interrupt Stephen to ask if he had extra shoes in case the one pair got wet. He'd say, "Got it." Then I'd head for the corner of the living room and bawl. When I stood with my arm around him at the kitchen sink, and he said, "What, Mom? It's just two months," I felt salty tears drip into my mouth. "I know. And I'm so proud of you. This is what every Christian mom hopes for her children--that they will love Him and share His love with the next generation." I watched as Sarah folded her bright, happy, neon-striped sheets and remembered how we had shopped for them last year for her first bunkbed at camp. Then I slipped away into my bathroom, closed the door, and wept again. My right-hand girl, Joel's best friend, my confidante, Daddy's little girl, is leaving. My son, the one I go to for a laugh, for counsel from scripture, the peacemaker, the one who taps on keyboards and drums and can fix computers and help mend a broken heart--he ,too, is being ripped away from me.

Right foot: The school closed and God has plans for a different form of education for each child there. New plans for faculty and staff. I am confident ,based on God's character and past grace, that what lies ahead will be glorious. Some of the high schoolers who have been raised on the gospel under the shelter of our four walls will be tested in their love for Christ. Wheat and chaff will be separated. Younger students will expand their friendships at other schools, or --as in my case--get to know and be known better by their parents and siblings 40 more hours a week.

Left foot: My school closed. It hit me harder than I expected. Even though God had already been nudging me to homeschool next year anyway, and though I thought that my short two-year stint as a teacher of 5th and 6th graders wouldn't produce an overflow of tears , I was wrong. I knew I loved those kids and co-workers; I just didn't know how much.

When I went to rip the laminated sign "Mrs. Zubrowski" off my mailbox on the desk, my fellow teacher (who teaches the morning subjects) said, "Do it fast, Zo, like a Band-aid." I did. Ouch! That hurt. Good thing I didn't have a hairy mailbox. As I took down my last bulletin board about Greece, I wondered if I had taught my kiddoes enough geography for one year. No, I hadn't. But we had learned a lot together . At least they can tell a peninsula from a peen-cil . (They teased me about the way I pronounce "pencil.") And they will remember the faith of one Amy Carmichael, missionary to India, and Pastor Joel's presentation of his trip there, and our field trip lunch to Sizzling Bombay, and I hope they remember that Amy ("Amma")'s God who loved India is the same God who loves the owners of the Indian restaurant where they tried chicken tandoori for the first time--and liked it! As I packed away unused squares of colored felt from my "ugly cabinet," I felt guilty that I hadn't gotten around to teaching them about Africa. We were going to make a Faith Ringgold quilt. And I thought of my friend and 3rd/4th grade teacher, Bonnie, who is heading that way next week. I might not see her again for a very long time if she goes longterm to Zambia .

There are certainly more parallel life experiences going on in my corner of the globe, as in yours.

I am just not handling the "left foot" on the path very well emotionally. The hormones are out of whack big time, but I know I'm held. I can't see His hands anymore than I can see gravity, but I know they both exist. Even when, like yesterday, I felt like an old jalope at the junkyard looking up at the 21-ton concrete crusher headed for my roof, I know I am held.

I can cry while being held .It's okay.

Right foot, left foot, feet ,feet, feet. Oh, how many feet you meet!