Coffee Talk

Change of Address!

2009-07-06T18:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, friends! Sorry I haven't been around much lately. I've moved. You can find my Coffee Talk articles at this address: www.FunnyCoffeeGirl.com

And if you have a few minutes, stop by my new author site - still in the works. But I think you'll like what we're doing over there: www.RenaeBrumbaugh.com

Or if you've a hankerin' for some down-to-earth, plain-talkin' Bible Study, come on over and join me for coffee at www.MorningCoffeeWithRenae.com

I look forward to seeing each of you around the web!

Love,

--renae

Just Like Daddy

2009-06-19T11:38:00.000-07:00

I have a new yardman. He is blonde, tan, strong and handsome. The other day, as he mowed my lawn, I snapped pictures of him.

Did I mention he is seven years old?

From the time he could walk, Foster has “helped” his daddy mow our lawn. He faithfully pushed his Little Tykes mower behind Mark, trying to follow in his father’s footsteps. For years now, he has dreamt of the day when he could do his daddy’s work. And now, with supervision, he can.

And he does a great job, too! Mark has patiently taken the time to teach him how to start the mower, how to mow in a straight line, and how to overlap the edges so stray pieces of grass aren’t missed. Foster is proud to be doing a man’s work. And Mark is proud to have a son who wants to be like his daddy. As he watched Foster mow our lawn the other day, he smiled and said, “That’s my boy!”

But the Daddy imitation doesn’t stop with the lawn. Foster wants to hunt like his daddy, fish like his daddy. We’ve even caught him preaching sermons like his daddy on more than one occasion. He admires his daddy, and he wants to be just like him. I think that’s probably about the biggest compliment a child can give a parent, don’t you?

It’s natural for a child to want to be like the parent. I can remember longing for the day I could wear lipstick and high-heeled shoes, like my mama. I can remember wanting to touch the sky like my daddy. (Yes, in my mind, he could touch the sky.) I hope I turned out with some of their wonderful qualities.

As much as it brings joy to my heart to see Foster imitating his daddy, it also brings a question.

Am I imitating my Father?

Oh, I say I want to be godly and compassionate and merciful and kind. But all too often, I find I am just the opposite. I find I am ungodly. I gossip. I judge people. I respond harshly, instead of with patience and compassion. Though I want to imitate my heavenly Father, I often fail.

But then, I remember the years when Foster followed Mark with that Little Tykes mower. I remember he often lost interest after a few minutes. Sometimes, he would trip and fall. Though he wanted to imitate his daddy, he didn’t do it perfectly. It took him a while to learn. He’s still learning. And though Foster wasn’t a perfect replica of his daddy, it still brought joy to Mark’s heart, just to know that Foster was trying, just to know that he wanted to be like his dad. Mark has patiently taught him what he needs to know, and now Foster shows great promise as a lawn boy.

I think God must be that way, too. He knows we aren’t perfect. He knows we are going to get distracted and make mistakes and fall down sometimes. But He sees our hearts, and when He sees that we truly want to be like Him, it makes Him smile. He patiently picks us up, sets us back on the right path, and continues to teach us. And somehow, miracle of all miracles, He looks at a heart that longs to imitate Him and He sees promise. He sees potential.

I want to be like my Father. I really do. And I hope that someday, somehow, I will be able to make Him proud as He says, “That’s my girl!”

“And He said to them, ‘Why did you seek Me? Did you not know that I must be about My Father’s business?’” Luke 2:49

Deadly Weapon

2009-06-16T06:13:00.000-07:00

Today, I experienced one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I survived, but just barely. And I am certain that the moment will live on in my memory for decades to come.

As I write this, I am sitting in a dorm room at a camp for girls. Just in case you are considering becoming a camp counselor, I must warn you. It isn’t a job for the faint of heart. Or for anyone over the age of forty. The hours are long. The noise level, at times, will break the sound barrier. And sleep?

What’s that?

But honestly, I think I could live with the long hours and the noise and the lack of sleep. After all, I knew what I was getting into when I agreed to serve as a counselor. But then, this afternoon came, and I am almost afraid to tell you what I saw, what I took part in.

But I’m going to tell you anyway.

Today, I watched a bunch of eight to twelve year-old girls practice their rifling skills. Yes, you read correctly. A bunch of rosey-cheeked, pigtailed little girls with BB guns in their hands, target shooting. And more than once, I had to do some fancy footwork as one of those girls accidentally swung her gun barrel in my direction like a quail-hunting vice president. It’s the stuff nightmares are made of, I’m telling you.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I think it’s great that an expert in the rifling field took the time to teach these girls gun safety, and how to handle guns correctly. It is a life skill every true Texan needs to have, after all. You never know when the bad guys are gonna ride up on their black horses with bandanas tied around their faces. If that happens, I won’t need to fear. I feel safe. My twelve-year-old daughter can protect me.

I’ve heard it said that guns are the most dangerous of all weapons. After all, they are easily accessible, and they can greatly injure or kill a person. And while I agree that guns are extremely dangerous, I know of one weapon that is even more accessible. In fact, everyone I know has one.

The weapon I’m thinking of has the potential to destroy lives. And yes, it has even killed people, or at least caused their deaths. To me, this weapon is more frightening than any gun, for I’ve been the victim of its power more than once. You probably have, too.

I’m talking about the tongue.

Our words have the power to give life, or to destroy lives. All too often, we use that power for evil instead of good. And while most of us would never dream of handling a gun without using the proper safety precautions, many of us aim our words carelessly, leaving a bleeding, broken path of victims in our wake.

Remember that saying, Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me? That’s wrong. Words hurt a lot worse than sticks or stones. And they take longer to heal, too.

But the great news is that the same power that can be used for evil can also be used for good. Words have the power to destroy, but they also have the power to build up, to encourage, to give life. We just have to learn to exercise a little “tongue safety.”

Easier said than done, I know. But if we try, we can all control our tongues better. We just need to remember that we carry a dangerous weapon. Before we speak, we need to ask ourselves a few questions. Is what I’m going to say positive or negative? Do my words have the power to hurt someone? Am I building others up, or am I tearing them down?

If we can’t think of something kind and loving and encouraging to say, we really do need to put our tongues into safety mode, and remain silent. And though this is difficult at first, we’ll find that before long, our words are more positive. More loving. And before we know it, those lovely words will become a lovely habit.

Pretty soon, everyone around us will feel safe. And that’s a pretty good feeling.

James 3:5 – 6 “Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire . . .”

The Green Machine

2009-06-13T07:40:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or does it seem that everyone is becoming obsessed with being “green”? You know what I mean. Everyone recycles. Everyone uses chemical-free pesticides. Everyone eats tofu. Save our planet and all that.

And though I’m all in favor of saving our planet, I’m often the last one to jump on any wagon. Call it my stubborn nature, or laziness, or whatever you want. The truth is, I’m just forgetful.

I want to remember to throw my soda cans into the special blue plastic box. But I forget and put them in the regular trash, and by the time I remember, the can is beneath yesterday’s leftover peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and this morning’s coffee grounds. And sometimes, praying for forgiveness is just easier than digging to the bottom of the trashbag. And a whole lot cleaner, too.

So, my friends, now you know the truth. I’m not always as “green” as I should be. The earth is going to pot, and it’s probably my fault.

That’s why I was so thrilled when I recently had a great recycling opportunity. It seems that my daughter’s camp will have theme days. As in, dress up to fit the theme. And one day the theme is, “Finding Your Place in the Past.” Yep. That means dressing in really old fashions.

And it just so happens that I have a poodle skirt. Now stop trying to figure out my age! I’m not that old. But in 1980, I was in a musical. And the musical was set in the 1950’s.

I knew that thing was in the attic somewhere, so Mark and I went poking around up there, trying to find it. Of course, after opening nearly every box and hefting every overstuffed suitcase, we found it. Along with my teal prom dress and a pink southern-belle Scarlett O’Hara creation that is comical now, but that made me feel like a princess back when I actually wore it.

We hauled the loot out of the attic, and my daughter tried on every item, modeling them for us. Amazingly, they fit her. Man, I forgot how skinny I was.

All this to tell you that, yes, I am a recycler. I recycled a poodle skirt from 1980, which was made from a recycled fashion from the 1950’s. And the recycling doesn’t stop there.

She needed a petticoat. I went to Goodwill to buy an old prom dress and rip the petticoat out of it. (You didn’t think I’d actually rip the one from my own Scarlett O’Hara dress, did you?) But there was nothing floofy enough. (Is floofy a word?)

So instead, I bought a little slip for $1.99. Then I went to Wal-Mart and spent another $1.68 on netting. And with a little snipping and sewing, she had herself a petticoat. A really, really floofy one. Now that, my friends, is what recycling is all about.

You can just call me the Green Machine.

As I was working on that petticoat, I recalled some other things that have been recycled through the years. Things that have been passed on to me from my parents, and their parents before them, and back and back to long before I can trace my family lineage. And I had to smile.

You see, I am blessed to have parents who taught me good things, things like honesty and integrity and the value of hard work. Things like kindness and generosity and compassion. Things like faith in a God who loves me more than life itself.

Some may think those values are old, recycled ideals from yesteryear. But I’ve learned that the value of such lessons never decreases. Each time they are passed on to another generation, they become new again, like a breath of fresh air. And isn’t that what recycling is all about? Bringing the value of something old, and creating something new and fresh?

I’m so grateful to have had lessons of love and faith passed onto me. And I pray that, as my daughter wears her recycled poodle skirt, she’ll carry those lessons with her, too.

Deuteronomy 4:9 “Be very careful. Don't forget the things your eyes have seen. As long as you live, don't let them slip from your mind. Teach them to your children and their children after them.”

Breakthrough Discovery

2009-06-02T13:08:00.000-07:00

I have made a breakthrough discovery, which, if marketed correctly, could earn me countless millions. I have discovered why men and women don’t understand each other.

If I were smart, I’d hang onto this information and sell it only to those who are willing to pay an obscene amount of money. But have I ever claimed to be smart?

No comments, please.

Because I am more concerned about the common good of mankind (and womankind) than I am about becoming wealthy, I’m going to share my little secret. You might want to make sure you have a pen and paper handy, so you can take notes. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

Are you ready? Here goes.

Many people feel that the reason men and women don’t communicate well is because they speak different languages. You know, men speak Martian. Women speak Venution. But actually, that’s not the cause of our miscommunications. The reason that men and women don’t understand one another isn’t because we speak different languages. It’s because we use different dictionaries.

Take, for example, the question, “How do you feel?”

Any woman will answer that question with an emotion. Happy. Sad. Frustrated. Peaceful. Content.

A man, on the other hand, will reply, “I feel hungry. Let’s eat.”

When a woman says, “Let’s talk,” she means, “Let’s reveal our innermost thoughts, discuss our loftiest dreams, share our deepest fears.”

When a man says, “Let’s talk,” he means, “What’s for dinner?”

Her definition of entertainment includes anything that requires her to wear her prettiest dress.

His definition of entertainment includes anything that allows him to watch other men clobber each other.

Like I said. Different dictionaries.

It is my belief that these dictionaries are somehow implanted into the male and female brains at conception. Little girls get the amplified, expanded, unabridged variety. Little boys? Well . . . they get the trimline version.

The good news is, if we can learn each others’ definitions, we’ll have a lot less male/female conflict. So, in an effort to test my theory, I have been studying manspeak, and comparing it with womanspeak. And I think I’ve become pretty fluent. Here are just a few examples:

Make-up (female): the stuff you wear on your face, so you’ll look pretty.
Make-up (male): the thing you have to do before she’ll let you kiss her.

Tight (female): an adjective used to describe last year’s clothes.
Tight (male): an adjective used to describe a really small parking space. Seen by most men as a challenge.

Sale (female): An excuse to buy new shoes.
Sale (male): An excuse to buy ten boxes of powdered sugar donuts.

I’m telling you, the more I learn, the more excited I get. I recently shared my excitement with Mark. I went on and on, recalling various disagreements we’ve had in the past, and revealing the why’s and how’s and what-if’s which would prevent such disagreements in the future. I explained the subtle differences in our languages, and how to interpret various words and phrases. He listened intently, and I knew. I knew this was a breakthrough moment in our relationship. I was close to tears, I was so thrilled with the possibilities of our future. No more misunderstandings. No more hurt feelings. No more arguments.

Nearly choked with emotion, I asked him, “Honey, how do you feel about all of this?”

His reply?

“I feel hungry. Wanna stop for a burger?”

Genesis 1:27 “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.”

Bounced

2009-05-27T12:27:00.000-07:00

Last week, I attended a writer’s retreat in the beautiful Colorado Rockies. I didn’t say much while I was there. After all, I’m not a real writer, and I didn’t want to give away my secret. I don’t think humor columnists count, do they?

As I sat around listening to the real writers discuss things like characterization and dangling participles and POV (what in the world is POV, anyway?) I gazed longingly at the snow-capped mountains, and wondered if I could rent some skis and sneak away for a day.

But then, I thought better of it. I could just see Mark, picking me up from the airport in my wheelchair. Casts on both arms. And both legs.

Mark: Honey, what happened?

Me: Oh, those writers are a rough bunch. I got bounced.

Mark: What are you talking about?

Me: They had bouncers and everything. To make sure we didn’t break any grammar rules. I accidentally broke four, and this is what they did to me.

Needless to say, I stayed at the retreat. And I’m glad I did, because I met some really nice people there. It was a little intimidating at first, hob-knobbing with all of those published authors. People like Stephen King.

No, Stephen King wasn’t there. I said people like Stephen King.

But as I talked with other writers, I learned that we all have our own special gifts and talents. We all have a unique perspective, and that perspective, when used well, can bring encouragement and joy and hope to someone who needs it. I learned that I don’t have to try to be like anybody else. I just need to be the best little humor columnist that I can be.

And try not to break any grammar rules in the process.

Isn’t it silly that we compare ourselves to others? After all, if we were all the same, this would be a pretty dull place. So what if someone else can do something better than I can? I’ll bet that I have something to contribute that no one else can. And if we’d all stop worrying about trying to be like everybody else, and just concentrate on offering the very best of ourselves to those around us, the world would be a much better place, don’t you think?

The truth is, nobody is really keeping score. In real life, nobody cares if you’re a multiply published author, or if you won the blue ribbon at the county fair for the past twelve years, or if you can sing better than anyone else. There are no bouncers waiting to pounce on you as soon as you make a mistake, proving that you’re not as qualified as those around you. What people really want to know is whether or not you care about them. And you can quickly become the most popular person around, simply by using your gifts to bless others.

So, my friend, what do you do well? Are you a great cook? Perhaps you can garden, or play the piano, or hot-wire a car. (If it’s the latter, please don’t tell the police that I’m the one who encouraged you to use your gifts . . .) Find what you do well, and do your best at it. Then use that gift to bless somebody else.

Even if it’s as silly as writing a little humor column for your local paper.

Romans 12:6, 8 “We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. . . if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully.”

Keep Going

2009-05-20T14:33:00.000-07:00

Don’t you just love to watch people run? Whether they’re running a race, or a marathon, or just trying to get into shape, there’s something inspiring about seeing a person running. Every time I see a runner, I just want to cheer and encourage him or her to keep going.

Well, with one possible exception. If the person is wearing a ski mask and carrying a gun, I probably won’t cheer.

Just saying.

But any other kind of runner inspires me. The sight tends to stir up memories of the theme song from “Chariots of Fire.” It makes me want to go lace up my own running shoes, and give it a go.

As a matter of fact, I have started running recently. Now, don’t be too impressed. I can run about .2 miles without stopping. That’s point two. Then, I walk a few steps, catch my breath, and run about .2 more. And on it continues, until I reach my goal.

Or until I collapse in the grass. Whichever comes first.

But here’s the good news: When I keep going, I eventually reach my goal. It may take a while, but I get there. As a matter of fact, last week I racked up a whopping 3.6 miles a day! Jog a little. Walk a little. Jog a little. Walk a little.

I may not win any races except my own. But in the end, isn’t that the only race that matters?

My little jogging victories remind me of the importance of continuing on in the pursuit of other goals. Like the twenty pounds I want to lose. Sure, I’d like to lose it all in a week. But even if I lose a half pound a week . . . I’ll get there. So what if it takes nearly a year? That year will pass by, anyway. If I give up, I won’t be any better off then than I am now. So I’ll just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Most of us have goals. Hard goals, or they wouldn’t be worth having as a goal in the first place. And often, we are tempted to just collapse in the grass before we get there.

Goals like finishing that college degree. One class at a time. Or getting that garage cleaned out. One square foot at a time. It may take a while. But if we just keep taking tiny little steps, we’ll get there.

Our journeys of faith can seem that way, too. Sometimes, having faith in God is hard. When things happen that we don’t understand, or things don’t go our way, we often want to just quit. We want to say, “Never mind, God. This is too hard. I’ll do this on my own, without you.”

And then we collapse in the grass. And we stay there. And a day passes, then a week, then a year, then a decade passes . . . and we’re not any further along in our journeys toward becoming who He created us to be than we were when we first gave up.

Oh, the failure doesn’t come in collapsing. We all want to give up now and again. The failure comes when we refuse to get back up, when we refuse to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I don’t know about you, but I plan to keep moving forward. One little step at a time. Point two miles at a time. Half a pound at a time. And eventually, I’ll be stronger, and healthier and skinnier. And then, it really won’t matter how long it took me to get there.

1 John 2:28 “And now, dear children, continue in Him . . .”

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-09T08:52:00.000-07:00

Has anyone out there ever really calculated all the things that a mother does? Oh, I’m sure they’ve tried. But I’m not sure it’s possible to come up with a complete job description. Just when you think you have recorded every possible thing a mother is required to do, something new will inevitably make its way onto the list.

Things like, “Teach older child not to turn on the dryer when younger child is inside.” And, “Teach younger child not to climb into the dryer.”

Not that anything like that has ever happened in my family.

Ahem.

The more experience I get as a mother, the more in awe I am of my own mother. She is awesome. Terrific. There are no words to describe how amazing she is.

So here, in black and white, I’d just like to take a moment to say thank you to her, and to all the other mothers out there who make their children feel loved and important, who make sure their children are warm and well-fed and clean and safe and happy.

Mom, thank you.

Thank you for clean underwear in my drawer. I never really knew how it got there. Never thought about it, really. All I knew was, when I opened my drawer, I always had clean undies and socks. Thanks.

Thank you for making sure I ate breakfast every morning before I went to school. Even when I refused to get out of bed on time, and made you and everyone else in the house late, you always made sure that I at least had a banana or a piece of toast in my hand, as we rushed out the door.

Thanks for wearing panty hose with runs in them, so that I could have that new pair of shoes.

Thanks for saying, “No, I don’t really care for apple pie, and I’m not hungry anyway,” when there was only one piece left. (That’s going above and beyond the call of duty, in my opinion.)

Thank you for teaching me to stand up straight, and look people in the eye, and smile.

Thank you for telling me, over and over again, that I could do anything I set my mind to. I believed you.

Thank you for not letting me get by with average grades, when you knew I was capable of more.

Thank you for teaching me that being kind is more important than being popular.

Thank you for teaching me that the girl who doesn’t date much in high school is often the girl all the boys want to marry, once they’re out of college.

Thank you for waiting up for me, when I was on a date, and acting excited to hear all the details. I knew you’d be waiting, and believe it or not, I looked forward to those girl-talks. They were fun.

Thank you for forcing me to run for freshman office, my first year of college. I thought you were being pushy at the time. But when I won the election, I was glad. I wouldn’t have had the courage to try if you hadn’t told me I didn’t have a choice. So, thanks for being pushy when you needed to be.

Thank you for teaching me to believe in myself.

I guess, Mom, what I’m trying to say is, thank you for being my best friend. I love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

Proverbs 31:28 “Her children arise and call her blessed . . ."

A Pretty Package

2009-05-07T19:37:00.000-07:00

In my bathroom drawer, I have about every type of cosmetic product you can imagine. There is lipstick, lip liner, eyeshadow, eyeliner, blush, mascara . . . even some sparkly, glittery stuff to give me that fairy-talish quality. Then, there is the stuff that removes all the aforementioned stuff: cold cream, cleanser, astringent . . . Finally, there are lotions and creams and moisturizers to put back what the cleansers and astringents took away.

And that’s just for my face! I also have hair products galore. Hairspray. Gel. Mousse. Shiny spray stuff to give my hair that fairy-talish quality, so my hair will match my face. Of course, with all that, I need an assortment of shampoos and conditioners to remove the hairspray, gel, mousse, and shiny stuff.

The sad thing is, much of it only gets used a few times. Then, I discover that it doesn’t do what it promises to do. No matter how much stuff I put on my face and hair, I still look like me. Not Julia Roberts. Not Cinderella.

The word “cosmetic” actually comes from the Greek word, “cosmos,” meaning worldly. It refers to a skin-deep beauty. It’s all about the packaging. Funny, if we spent more time working on what’s inside our packages, instead of spending thousands of dollars and hours trying to make the wrapping look great, we’d sure get a lot more from our investment.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love a pretty package as much as anybody. I like a pretty house. But if there isn’t love in that house, it’s no more than a box. I like a pretty face. But if there’s not a kind, generous, loving spirit behind that face, well . . . I’d rather move on to another face. It’s kind of like getting a gigantic, sparkly, beautifully wrapped bag of fertilizer. It may be pretty on the outside. But after a while, it’s gonna stink. It’s not worth any more than a pile of rubbish.

In the end, this package – my body, is going to be discarded like wrapping paper and ribbons. I don’t want that to be all there is – just a big ol’ box of nothing special. When all the glitter and sparkles and packaging are removed, I want what’s inside to be so lovely that the packaging looks like what it is – worthless. I want the real value to be inside the box, not outside.

God’s Word, His wisdom shows us how to increase the value inside our package. He teaches us to be kind and generous. He teaches us to be humble and compassionate. He shows us how to really love others, and to make every single person feel important. And when we spend time learning His ways, it’s kind of like He takes a cosmetic brush and makes our spirits more lovely, more valuable. Only His changes are the kind that last and last, and can’t be washed away – no matter what kind of astringent life throws at us.

I John 2:17 “The world and its desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever.”

To Kill a Mockingbird

2009-04-28T04:22:00.000-07:00

An unlikely star has risen out of a village in Scotland. Her name is Susan Boyle, and she is a forty-seven year old, unemployed woman who lived with and cared for her ailing mother until the woman’s death, a couple of years ago. She’s never been married. Never been kissed.

She recently walked onto a stage in Glasgow as a contestant in “Britain’s Got Talent.” The winner of the show, which is similar to our own “American Idol,” will perform for the queen.

The packed audience mocked Susan, laughing and pointing at her unruly hair and her less-than-svelte appearance. Even the judges rolled their eyes when she revealed her age. When asked who she would like to be as famous as, she replied, “Elaine Paige,” a British actress and performer. The audience roared with laughter.

When asked why she hasn’t become famous before now, she smiled and said, “I’ve never been given the chance before. But here’s hoping that’ll change.”

The music began, and the three judges tried to look sympathetic. But their cynicism clearly reflected the mood of the entire audience. They were expecting to sit through several minutes of torturous, off-key singing. Everyone was.

And then, Susan opened her mouth to reveal the voice of a trained professional. Her performance was stellar. Within seconds, she had turned the audience in her favor. The judges, too. By mid-song, everyone was on their feet, whooping and hollering and cheering. Honestly, I don’t know how she stayed on key – she must have had trouble hearing the music with all the cheers. But with a smile on her face, with every note exactly on pitch, she finished the song and brought the house down.

Then, the unassuming little woman brought more laughter as she blew a kiss and began to exit the stage – even before the judges had their say. Only this time, the laughter wasn’t mocking. It was delighted laughter at a beloved, adorable woman who had, in one fell swoop, captured the hearts of millions. She was shooed back onstage to receive the best reviews in the history of the show, and was given the thumbs up from all three judges to proceed to the next round of the competition.

Along with the delight of the judges and the audience, however, was a bit of shame. They – we – had judged her too quickly. We had mocked her.

She showed us, didn’t she?

She silenced our mocking, jeering sneers with her pure, sweet voice. And like one of the judges said, “No one is laughing now.”

Sometimes, we’re a little too quick to judge, aren’t we?

Susan’s story reminds me of another story I’ve heard. It’s the story of One who has been mocked. His words have been scorned. His ways have been called “outdated.”

He doesn’t look like the world wants Him to look. He doesn’t try to be fashionable, or cover up who He really is. He doesn’t change His appearance or His standards to please the crowd. He’s very up-front about His identity. What you see is what you get.

Yet, we often don’t give Him the credit He deserves. We laugh and accuse Him of being weak, when He is all-powerful. We accuse Him of being a relic, when He is timeless. We assume He is cruel and judgemental, when He is actually loving, compassionate and merciful.

We have been known to laugh at Him and thumb our noses at His wisdom.

But rest assured, my friends. God will not be mocked.

One day, He will show us.

One day, the King of Kings will make His presence known to all the world, and we will be stunned. Many of us, I’m afraid, will be shamed.

On that day, our eyes will be opened, and we will see once and for all just how awesome, how brilliant, how incredibly amazing God is.

Only then, instead of bringing us to our feet, He will bring us all to our knees as every tongue confesses that He is Lord.

Galatians 6:7 “Do not be deceived: God cannot be mocked.”

Love Letters

2009-04-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

My family is into racing. No, not the Nascar kind of racing. Actual running. Every single day.

Well, except for Sundays.

Aren't you impressed? I'll bet you had no idea we were such a fit family.

We would probably be more fit if the race were a little longer. But our racetrack is only the distance between our front door and our mailbox.

Every day, when the mail truck comes, every person in my household - who happens to be present - races to the mailbox to retrieve the mail. Sometimes, out of gracious generosity, I let the kids win. But most days, I don't have to let them. They just beat me.

That is why I have, on occasion, resorted to cheating. If I spy the mail truck coming up the road, I have been known to send the kids to their rooms with some command. "Clean your room!" "Read a book!"

The truth is, I just want to get the mail.

I have no idea why we have such a fascination with those little envelopes that land in our mailbox. Ninety percent of the time, it is just bills or advertisements. Every once in a while, we'll get a catalogue, which is worth about ten minutes of entertainment. Sometimes, there will be a check, which always brings a smile.

But once in a blue moon, there will be a treasure of great price. A pearl.

An actual, honest-to-goodness letter.

On those days, there is dancing and great rejoicing in the Brumbaugh household. "Who is it for?" We all ask. "Is it for me?"

Usually, it's a card from Nana, addressed to one of the kids. Sometimes, it's a thank-you note or a family newsletter from some distant relative. And rarely - Oh Happy Day! - rarely it is a personal letter from a friend.

It's funny, really. I don't know why we get so excited about the mail. After all, it comes six days a week. And usually it's nothing to get excited about.

Yet, we all hope and pray for that moment when there will be an actual card or letter with our name on it. That small rectangular envelope is a reminder that, to someone, somewhere, we matter. We are important. Someone sees us, knows us, and cares enough to spend a stamp on us.

We all want to be noticed, don't we? We all want to be important to someone. And a simple letter in the mailbox assures us that no, we are not invisible. Someone knows we exist. Someone cares.

But whether or not we ever get an actual letter in our mailbox, there is One who notices us. We are important to Him. He sees us, and He cares.

Though He has been known, on occasion, to use the U.S. Postal System, He usually sends His love notes in the forms of blooming flowers and singing birds and unexpected smiles from our friends and loved ones. He gives us reminders, every single day, of how much He loves us.

And we don't have to scramble or race for His attention, either. He sends individual, personalized messages to each and every one of us. Messages of love and comfort and encouragement, each one tailor-made and specially delivered just for you. Just for me.

So from now on, I think I'll make it a point to watch as diligently for the delivery of His blessings as I do for the mail truck. And I'll even encourage the kids to watch with me.

Gen. 16:13 “You are the God who sees me.”

Pick Me!

2009-04-09T17:59:00.000-07:00

Do you remember that feeling, in third grade, when the teacher lined everyone up against the wall, appointed two team captains, and told them to choose teams? Man, I hated those times. My palms would get all sweaty, and I could barely breathe. Pick me, pick me, please pick me. If the teams were athletic, I was often the last picked. But I just loved it when they were choosing for the spelling bee, because then, I was the first choice!

It feels good to be chosen. It doesn’t matter if it is for a sports team, a spelling bee, or a job, we all want to be picked. We all want to feel wanted, needed, loved. And it doesn’t matter how old we get, or how successful we are, deep down, we all still get that sweaty-palm feeling any time we are thrust into a new situation. We all fear rejection. We all want to be chosen.

Today is Good Friday. Now, I know some of you who are reading this may not give any thought to this day, other than the fact that many of you get a day off. But whether you give any thought to the reason for this day or not, the fact remains. This day, nearly 2,000 years ago, is the day that changed the world.

This is the day that God chose us.

Now, I’m not a theologian. I don’t hold a fancy degree in biblical studies, and I certainly don’t claim to have all the answers. But honestly, folks. The idea that God chose me just blows my mind.

Why would He do that?

I wouldn’t have done that. If I were God, and the very same people who had waved palm branches and shouted my praises just a few days earlier had suddenly turned on me, if they were spitting on me when I had done nothing wrong, if they were shouting my curses and calling for my death, even though they knew I was innocent – I would have zapped them all. Seriously, I would have. I guess that’s why I’m not God.

Today, we remember that He chose us. Instead of condemning us, He loved us. Instead of leaving us to our own godless ways, He chose to show us a better way.

He let us kill Him.

And then, to show that His love and His power were stronger than death, He rose again.

And it gets even better.

Now, the God of the Universe has put Himself on the wall, so to speak, and He wants us to choose Him. He sits on His throne in heaven, and says, pick Me, pick Me, please pick Me . . .

If He had wanted to, God could have created a bunch of robots who have no choice but to love Him. But He didn’t. He chose us, and now He stretches out His arm in a divine invitation to choose Him back. And when we do, when we accept His love, all of heaven rejoices! He lifts us up, cleans us off, and adopts us right into His family! Then, He begins His work in us, making us more like Him, creating in us a family resemblance so that all the world can see - we have been chosen.

Ephesians 1:4 “For he chose us in him before the creation of the world to be holy and blameless in his sight.”

April Fools!

2009-04-07T05:21:00.001-07:00

I (drum roll please . . .) am the reigning April Fool’s Champion! Perhaps I shouldn’t be quite so proud of this accomplishment, but I am. It is a title I wear proudly, along with my crown, scepter and cape. I’ve even been known to hum, “We are the Champions” every year on April 1. For I, my friends, am the champion, and everyone in my family knows it.

I originally won the title several years ago. We were trying to sell our house, and you all know what that’s like. The idea of keeping one’s home spotless, twenty-four hours a day, just in case a potential buyer drops by is a noble one. The execution of that idea is a different story.

On that particular April 1, our house was a mess. Nothing unusual about that. But as I walked around the house, knowing that I was the one who was going to have to clean the mess, I had a momentary stroke of genius! I sneaked into the bedroom and made a stealth phone call to my mom.

“Mom!” I whispered.

“Renae, is that you?”

“Yes. Hang up and call me back!”

“Renae, are you okay?”

“Yes. Just call me back, please.”

After a moment, Mom laughed, and honored my request. There’s nothing more valuable than a good partner in crime. As far as crimes go. And April Fools’ pranks.

The phone rang. This time, I answered it in the living room, in front of everyone. “Very interested, you say? And you will be here in . . . 20 minutes? Oh, yes. Come on. We’ll be ready for you!”

I hung up the phone and feigned a look of terror. (I knew that semester of Speech and Drama would come in handy for something.) “The realtor will be here in 20 minutes. Move!”

(I was especially brilliant with the “Move!” It’s those extra touches that make an April Fools’ prank especially believable. Just in case you’re taking notes.)

Well, the speed with which my little family put away, threw away, and hid the mess in that house was unmatched. We looked like a fast-forward scene in a movie. Only it was real time.

After 23 minutes, the house was spit-polished and shiny. “We’d better get out of here. They were supposed to be here already,” Mark said.

Let me tell you, friends, I relished that moment. A slow, cat-ate-the-canary smile spread across my face, and I said softly, “April Fools!”

Since that day, each member of my family has tried to one-up me. Each year, on April 1, I am the recipient of every prank attempt in the book. But I am unmatched. I am, and always will be, the champion.

Oh, I’ve had my coffee creamer replaced with salt. I’ve had my car moved, so I’d think it had been stolen. There have been fake illnesses and fake insects and all sorts of other amateurish attempts. But no one has even come close to matching my skill.

It’s fun to pull pranks on April Fool’s Day, as long as no one gets hurt. But being a fool in real life isn’t fun at all. I’m so glad that God makes foolish people wise. He’s given us everything we need, right there in His Word, to make good choices and live prosperous, successful lives. And when we follow Him, we will all be champions!

No fooling.

Psalm 19:7 “The statutes of the Lord are trustworthy, making wise the simple.”

Graduation

2009-03-31T10:14:00.000-07:00

Mark and I have officially graduated. And to be perfectly honest, we feel a little cheated. We didn’t get a ceremony. We didn’t get the cap and gown, or even the little rolled up piece of paper with the ribbon tied around it.

There were no parties. No big sheet cake with, “Congratulations, Graduate!” There were no gifts. And – this is the worst – there were no cards with money inside them.

And what, pray tell, did we graduate from?

(Heavy sigh.)

We are now, officially, “Mom and Dad.”

To be perfectly honest, our daughter has been calling me “Mom” for a while now. But there was still the occasional “Mama,” and every once in a while, “Mommy” would slip in. Mark, on the other hand, has always been “Daddy.” Now, he’s just plain “Dad.”

And it’s killing him.

When did this come about? When did our little girl become a . . . big girl? She’s lived with us her whole life. How could this happen right before our eyes? When did we blink?

It’s more than just the name thing. She has suddenly developed a new hobby. Talking on the phone. And just a short while ago, we could say, “We’re going to Wal-Mart!” and we would actually leave our driveway within a reasonable amount of time. Now, we say, “We’re going to Wal-Mart,” and then we wait. And wait. And wait some more while she changes her clothes three times and fixes her hair and reapplies her tinted lip balm.

But even though the transition is breaking our hearts, we are proud. We are so proud of the young lady who is kind and thoughtful, who is funny and witty and helpful, who makes friends easily and reads everything she can get her hands on, and who, someday, wants to be a missionary to China.

Yes, we are proud. But that doesn’t mean we like it.

Not one bit.

You’d think proud and happy would go together. But that’s not always the case. I can’t help but think of the parents of our military men and women. I know that none of them are happy about having their children shipped off to fight in a foreign country. Proud, yes. Happy, no.

I wish that we could have our cake and eat it too, don’t you? I wish I could keep that little girl who rode around on my hip. But I wouldn’t trade my big girl for anything. I wish we didn’t have to send anybody to fight anywhere. But I’m so grateful that we have young men and women who are willing to step up to the plate and protect our homeland.

There are some transitions in life that we just have to go through. And though we may not be happy about each and every change, we have a choice. We can fight them, kicking and screaming like children, or we can accept those changes with dignity and grace. We can learn and grow and become better people. Or we can continue on without learning a thing. But that doesn’t leave much to be proud of.

So, all in all, I suppose I could learn to like being a graduate. I could learn to like being called “Mom” instead of “Mommy.” After all, I now have a shopping buddy. I have someone to give me fashion advice. I have a friend.

And that makes me both happy and proud.

1 Corinthians 13:11 “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.”

Standardized Tests

2009-03-22T20:30:00.001-07:00

My children – and about a zillion others – are preparing to take their yearly standardized tests. Call me strange, but I used to love those test days when I was a kid. After all, on those days, the teachers were extra nice to us. They didn’t want us to be stressed out. And on those days, we didn’t have to do our regular “work.” At the end of test days, we were rewarded with special snacks and treats.

I’ve been working with both of my children to get them ready for their tests. My son is in the first grade, and I’m happy to say he’s passed all of his practice tests with flying colors. So have I.

My daughter is in the sixth grade. She’s done well on her practice tests, too. I wish I could say the same. My word, I don’t remember ever learning some of the things she’s expected to know!

Which size box should be used to mail a package that is more than 130 cubic inches but smaller than 160 cubic inches? Why are they asking me this? Hand me the package. Hand me the box. I’ll see if it fits. That’s my answer.

And why do I need to divide 3.192 by 0.42? I thought that’s what calculators were for.

And where in the world is Kampuchea? I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I seem to do well in the language sections of the tests, though. After all, I was an English major.

You do the math.

It makes me wonder how I’d score if there were a standardized test for adults. Life version. I have no doubt that I’ve been taught, in lesson after lesson, how to get along in this life. Still, there are some sections that I always pass with flying colors, and other sections I fail miserably. Time and again.

For example, give me a deadline, and I’ll meet it. I’m pretty good about owning up to my responsibilities. (Pass.) But then again . . . if I don’t have a deadline, I’ll probably never get it done. (Fail.)

I also do well when I have to meet new people. I know how to smile, shake hands, ask about the other person’s interests . . . (pass). But I have this annoying little need for everyone – and I mean everyone – to like me. When someone doesn’t like me, I tend to spend hours trying to figure out what I did wrong (fail). I can’t seem to learn the lesson that when people don’t like us, quite often it has more to do with them than it does with us. Maybe we look like someone who was unkind to them. Maybe they don’t care for blondes, or women, or humor columnists. Maybe they really do like us, they just don’t know how to express themselves.

Why can’t I just learn to say, “Oh, well,” and move on? That’s a life lesson I’m still learning.

We all succeed at some life lessons, and struggle with others. The good news is that we have a Teacher who is patient and kind. He believes in us, and He will never give up on us. When we have difficulty, all we have to do is go to Him, and He will give us all the help we need.

And with His help, we will always pass with flying colors.

2 Peter 1:3 “His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him . . .”

Mercy Me

2009-03-16T18:33:00.001-07:00

I looked in the rearview mirror at the police car pulling into the street behind me. Oh, please God, don’t let him be coming after me.

I turned.

He turned.

I pulled into the parking lot.

He pulled into the parking lot.

I parked.

He pulled up behind me and turned on his lights.

Oh, dear God, what have I done now? There’s nothing like a police officer approaching your driver’s window to get your prayer life in order.

I rolled down my window, knowing that within a few short moments, he’d be hauling me off to the slammer.

“Ma’am, may I please see your driver’s license?”

“Well, officer, I . . . uhm . . . I don’t actually have my license with me.”

“Really? Why is that?”

“Last night, I went to visit my parents. They live about fifteen minutes from here. And, well, you see . . . it’s the funniest thing. I left my purse at their house.”

He didn’t seem amused. “May I see your proof of insurance?”

Oh God, please let it be in there, I prayed while digging through my glove compartment. Bingo!

I triumphantly pulled out the card and handed it to the man.

“Ma’am, this expired over a year ago.”

“Oh! I’m sorry. Let me see . . . I know the current one is here somewhere . . . Aha! Here it is!” I handed him the new card.

“Ma’am, this one expired last week.”

I picked up my cell phone and began dialing.

“Ma’am, who are you calling?”

“My husband. I’m hoping he can tell me where the current insurance card is.”

“Put the phone down, ma’am.”

I obeyed. A picture of myself in bold, black and white horizontal stripes flashed through my mind. I look terrible in horizontal stripes.

“I’m so sorry, sir. Could you please tell me what I did wrong?” I couldn’t believe my own ears. What did I do wrong? What didn’t I do wrong? “I mean . . . why did you pull me over?”

The man shifted from his right foot to his left. I’m not sure he knew exactly what to do with me. “Ma’am, you were going several miles over the speed limit. Right in front of the police station, I might add.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. Why do I keep apologizing?

I knew my life was in his hands. He had every right to throw the book at me.

But then, he did something amazing. “Ma’am, I can verify your insurance with this card. I can also verify whether or not your license is current. If your license isn’t current, I’ll have to give you a ticket. Same with your insurance. If they’re both current, I’ll give you a written warning. Please stay in the car.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Had he really just said what I thought he said? I knew my license was current. I knew my insurance was current. And yes, I knew I had probably been speeding. Was he really going to show mercy?

He was gone a loooooooooong time. Finally, he approached my window and handed me the expired card. “Everything checked out. I’m going to let you off with a warning.”

A warning? A warning?!?

I wanted to leap from the car and hug the officer. But I was afraid he might change his mind. Or charge me with assault.

“Thank you so, so much, officer,” I gushed.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked. He really was nice. It reminded me, once again, that our police officers are the good guys.

They protect us from the bad guys, and they protect us from ourselves. Their job is to keep us safe. And most of them really do care about the people they protect.

He had no reason to show mercy that day, but he did.

And it reminded me of another Good Guy. God knows everything I’ve ever done. He has every right to throw the book at me, to lock me up and throw away the key. But He doesn’t want to do that.

Oh, He loves justice. He doesn’t look kindly on evil. But He also knows that sometimes, we just mess up. We forget our purses, or we forget to put our current insurance cards in the car. We accidentally say the wrong things. We break His laws.

He also sees our hearts. And when He sees that we’re genuinely sorry for our mistakes, He forgives us. Though we don’t deserve forgiveness, He gives it. He shows mercy.

And I, for one, am really glad He does.

Joel 2:13 “Return to the LORD your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love, and he relents from sending calamity.”

Getting Laid Off

2009-03-09T18:14:00.001-07:00

My dear husband is doing what a lot of people are doing these days. He’s praying he doesn’t lose his job. Over the past several weeks, he has watched many of his dear friends and colleagues become victims of a poor economy. Our hearts break for them, even as we pray it doesn’t happen to our family.

Believe it or not, though, there are some good things about getting laid off. Sure, they may take a little while to notice. When faced with mountains of bills and no money to pay them, our first response will nearly always be panic. But after we take a few moments to breathe into a paper bag or scream at an empty room or worse, we may just find a few things to be thankful for:

1. These days, everyone is getting laid off. We can find camaraderie with people from all walks of life – doctors, lawyers and Indian chiefs find common ground. It’s like an exclusive club.

2. When we get laid off, we get to be cheap, and no one thinks any less of us. We can buy discount gifts, clip coupons, and take advantage of the Kids Eat Free nights at restaurants. Everyone will think we are thrifty and wise.

3. We don’t have to go to work for a while! Many people have been trudging along at a job they hate, just so they can pay the bills. A lay-off gives a perfect opportunity to pursue that dream job. Why not? What have we got to lose?

4. We get to tap into our creative sides. Instead of going to the movies, try filming a home movie. Instead of going out to eat, try to cook like Emeril or Paula Deen.

5. We’ll have time to pursue that hobby we’ve secretly wanted to pursue. Write a novel. Paint a mural. Set a new weight-lifting record. Go on. You know you wanna.

6. Quite possibly for the first time in a long time, we’ll be forced to focus on relationships, not stuff. And that’s always a good thing. Go to the park with your honey. Fly a kite with your kids. Take time to sip tea with your grandma.

7. Our money will stretch further than it did before. When we have plenty of money, we tend to toss it around on any old thing that catches our eyes. When we have less money, we become pickier about what we buy. We tend to look for more bang for our bucks, and spend our money on things that will last.

8. We are forced to examine ourselves. Without jobs and extra money, we learn to define ourselves by our character, instead of by our titles and the size of our bank accounts. Good character is more valuable than silver and gold, and will take us a lot further in life.

9. We get to become better people. Let’s face it. A little competition is always a good thing. Rather than settling for mediocrity, the fierce job market forces us to hone our skills. We must learn to offer the best products and the most prompt, reliable service. We must have the best people skills. We are required to speak better, dress better, and be more pleasant. And those are all good things.

10. We become more grateful. Despite how grim things may seem, most of us still have more than many in this world. Most of us have clothes to wear and food to eat. We live in a country that allows us to speak freely, that holds compassion as a high ideal, and that always tries to take care of its own. And we have a God who loves us and who will never forsake us. That’s a lot to be thankful for.

Getting laid off might seem like the pits. But if you look hard enough, you may find a few cherries in the bowl.

Romans 8:28 “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

Bubbling Over

2009-02-28T20:14:00.000-08:00

Have you ever done something really dumb, even though you knew it was dumb when you did it? Well, I did.

Last week, I had a dishwasher full of dirty dishes and an empty dish cabinet. The reason? I was out of my little dishwasher tablets. And I kept forgetting to go to the store to get some.

And the dishwasher was really, really full. I thought about taking them all out and washing them by hand, but who wants to do that? So finally, and this brings me to the really dumb part . . . I put liquid dish soap in the dishwasher.

Just a tiny bit, mind you. I knew that too much would cause a bubbly, sudsy mess all over my kitchen. But I was desperate. And I thought, surely, just a little bit won’t hurt.

So I turned on the dishwasher and went my merry way, relieved that in about an hour, I would have clean dishes. But I got more than I bargained for. I got a really clean floor, as well.

A few minutes later, I returned to find bubbles spewing out of the bottom of my dishwasher. I guess even a tiny bit was too much. I turned the dishwasher off, grabbed a towel, and got to work. Then I grabbed a plastic cup and began baling out the suds that were piling up in the bottom of the dishwasher. Cup after cup after cup of the sudsy mess . . . and I finally got to the bottom of it. But then, I had to bale out the water, because that water was contaminated. I knew if I left it, I was just have more suds on my floor.

Half an hour and one aching back later, I had emptied the mess. I finished the dish cycle with plain water, and there were no more mishaps. But honestly. It would have been easier to do the dishes by hand.

The whole experience kind of reminded me of the “garbage in, garbage out” lecture my mother used to give me. You put the wrong stuff in the dishwasher, you can’t expect it to operate properly. You put the wrong stuff in your mind, you can’t expect your life to run smoothly.

Just saying.

But the good news is, I went to the store that very day and got some dishwasher tablets. And my dishwasher hasn’t spewed bubbles since. The same is true for our minds.

Sometimes we do dumb things. We contaminate ourselves, thinking that surely, just a little bit won’t hurt. And before we know it, we end up with a big ol’ spewy mess.

But if we take the time to clean it up, and to bale out the bad stuff, we can always start fresh. Then, if we fill our minds with good things, things that are healthy and positive and gracious, well . . . things start to operate more smoothly.

And hopefully, we’ll remember next time not to put the wrong stuff into our minds and hearts. Even a little bit of it is too much.

Just saying.
Philippians 4:8 “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.”

Sick Days

2009-02-24T07:37:00.000-08:00

During the last few weeks, we’ve had a lot of sick days around our house. As a matter of fact, we’ve had more sick days than well days. And because we are a loving family, and we like to share with each other, we just keep passing things back and forth.

We’ve had it all. We’ve had the coughy-sneezy-sniffly thing. We’ve had the headache-fever-achey thing. We’ve even had the yucky stomach thing. We’ve had so many bugs at our house, I’ve been tempted to call the exterminator.

We run the gamut at our house of types of sick people, too. My daughter is ready to call 9-1-1 when she stubs her toe, but she doesn’t want to actually be sick. She runs from the thermometer, and insists that she (cough) is (achoo!) fine.

My dear husband refuses to acknowledge sickness of any kind. He just gets grumpy and keeps going like the Energizer Bunny. And heaven help the person who tries to baby him. He is a tough guy.

So he just keeps going and going until he finally falls over, and the rest of us stand around at a distance and watch to make sure his chest is still moving.

“Is he dead?”

“No, I think I saw a little movement there.”

“Maybe you’d better check his pulse.”

“I’m not gonna do it! You do it.”

“I’m not gonna do it!”

Then, about an hour into his coma-like sleep, he starts snoring. Loudly. And we all breathe a deep sigh of relief.

My son tells it like it is. He would much rather be out climbing trees than sick in bed. So, when he says he doesn’t feel well, he means it.

One such time, he complained of a stomach ache.

“Mom, do I have to eat dinner? My tummy really hurts.”

“Are you sure you can’t eat just a few more bites?”

“Okay, I’ll try. But it really hurts.”

A few minutes later . . . well, I won’t go into the gory details. One of these days I will learn to listen to my son when he tells me his tummy hurts.

Later that evening, the poor guy was holding his stomach. “Mommy, it hurts! It really hurts. Mommy . . . I think I’m having birth!”

(Please remind me to have “the talk” with my son.)

But, within a couple of days, he was out climbing trees again. It did my mother-heart good to see him back to normal. Now, if I can only keep him from falling out of a tree and breaking his arm . . .

As for me, well, I’m the biggest baby in the house. The only problem is, I’m the mom. And the mom isn’t allowed to get sick. So I usually end up pretending I’m not sick. But then I feel sorry for myself and I get caught up in the whole “poor little me” game, which is worse by far than just admitting that I’m sick and staying in bed. When will I learn?

But I shouldn’t complain. Truly, I have the greatest kids and the sweetest husband in the world. When I am sick, they fix me hot tea and plump my pillows and stroke my hair and tell me how they wish I felt better. Sometimes this outpouring of mercy and compassion lasts for the better side of fifteen minutes.

Have you noticed that we don’t appreciate our health until it is taken from us? As I type this, I am taking a deep breath. With my mouth closed, even! And I am so grateful for a nose that works. Right now, for the first time in a month, we are all healthy. I feel very blessed.

So I suppose that even in sickness, there is good. For it is in sickness that we learn to value our health. It is in sickness that we learn to be grateful for the little things, like clear sinuses and clean toilets. And it is in sickness that we are given extra opportunities to show our love for one another.

3 John 2 “Dear friend, I pray that you may enjoy good health and that all may go well with you, even as your soul is getting along well.”

Be Mine

2009-02-13T12:14:00.001-08:00

“Mom, can I have some chocolate? Pleeeeeeease?” I’ve been hearing this for weeks, now.

“No. It’s not Valentine’s Day yet.”

“Pretty please, Mom? I’ll share with you!”

“Well . . . okay. Maybe just one box.”

We have now completed three heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. And it’s not even Valentine’s Day yet.

My favorite thing about Valentine’s Day is the chocolate. Did you know that in 2006, there were exactly 1,170 U.S. locations which produced chocolate and cocoa products? And 39,457 people were employed at these establishments. The total value of shipments for these chocolate-producing firms was 13.9 billion dollars. In 2007, the average American consumed 24.5 pounds of the stuff. It is quite possible that in 2009, chocolate may save our economy.

The thing I really love about Valentine’s Day is those little candy hearts. You know the ones – with the little sayings on them? I like to string them together and see what kinds of sentences I can make. BE MINE – HOT STUFF – WANNA KISS? Of course, you have to be careful about who is looking over your shoulder while you’re making sentences. The results could be wonderful – or disastrous.

But the thing I love the best about Valentine’s Day is the flowers. Pink roses. Yellow daisies. Purple chrysanthemums. You name it, I love them! And the absolute best is when they get delivered to your place of work while all your friends are watching. Then you can smile and read the card, flutter your eyelashes and blush a little, then replace the card in the envelope and tuck it discreetly into your purse. Hey! Nobody really has to know they are from your Aunt Emma.

In 2007, an estimated $416 million was spent in the U.S. on cut flowers, ordered from 20,227 florists. My word. Come on over to my house. For the right price, I’ll give you some real fresh ones. I’ll even tie them up with a pretty bow. Then again, you probably better go to a real florist. Those flowers could very well kick our economy back into action.

My absolute favorite thing about Valentine’s Day is the diamonds. Or rubies. Or small, shiny, sparkly things of any type. Did you know that in 2006, there were 28,300 jewelry stores nationwide? And you’ll never guess how much money was spent on jewelry in February, 2008: $2.6 billion.

Two. Point. Six.

I think the jewelry business may save our economy this month.

But truly, the thing I love more than anything else about Valentine’s Day is less costly than any of the sweets and treats listed above. As a matter of fact, it’s downright cheap. My all-time favorite thing about Valentine’s Day is the mushy, sticky, gluey home-made Valentines that my kids will make for me. You know the ones – they tout witty and original sayings such as, “MOM spelled upside-down is WOW!” and “To the best mom in the universe!”

Priceless, I tell you.

1 John 4:7 “Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God.”

Hanging Up

2009-02-09T18:24:00.000-08:00

I really admire telemarketers. After all, they put up with a lot. They are hard-working people, just trying to make a living, and what do they get for their efforts?

People like me. Or worse, people like my dear husband.

A typical evening at my house has at least one episode like this:

RRRRRRRiiiiiiiing!

Me: “Hello?”

Telemarketer: “Hello. May I please speak with Mr. or Mrs. Brooooom-bug?”

Me: “I’m sorry. There is no one here by that name.” Click.

Hey, I was telling the truth. There is no “bug” in my name.

I know I should be more patient, more forgiving of mispronounced names. But they always call right in the middle of something important. Like Wheel of Fortune.

So, if you are a telemarketer, I apologize. You are a much more patient person than I am. I should take a few minutes and listen to what you have to say.

But I make no promises.

Honestly, I’m not as bad as my dear husband. Nobody, and I mean nobody deserves what he dishes out. Telemarketers, please accept my humble apologies on his behalf. He really is a good guy.

But he likes to toy with the sales people. He makes up stories using strange accents. Don’t ask me why he does it. I’ve been married to the man for nearly twenty years, and I’m still trying to figure him out.

One such time, the phone rang.

“Hello?” answered Mark.

“May I speak with Dr. Mark . . . Brooooom . . . bug?”

Well, Mark was in an especially feisty mood that evening. In a deep southern drawl, he said, “No, he don’t live here no more. He’s serving twenty to life at the state penitentiary.”

I wanted to die right then and there.

But then, from the other end of the line, came a tentative voice. “Oh, I see. Well, this is the Baylor University Alumni Association. I was just wondering if Dr. Brooom . . . bug is still the pastor of Central Cities Church.”

I have never seen my husband turn so white. “Uhh, yes. He is.”

“Okay, thank you.” Click.

What goes around comes around, wouldn’t you say?

Often when I answer the phone, it is a recording. Now that drives me crazy. When that happens, I just hang up. I don’t even try to listen to the message. Maybe that’s not the good, kind, loving thing to do. But I have to tell the truth. I’ll probably keep doing it.

I’m so glad God never hangs up on me. He always answers, every time I call. He’s never too busy or too distracted to hear what’s on my mind and in my heart. Not only that, but He’s always glad to hear from me! He is delighted to listen to every word I say, no matter how small or petty.

And He always responds with patience, wisdom and love.

Zechariah 13:9 “They will call on my name and I will answer them; I will say, ‘They are my people,’ and they will say, ‘The Lord is our God.’”

Under the Rainbow

2009-02-02T17:10:00.000-08:00

I am so embarrassed.

I’m not talking just a little bit of a blush, here. I may have to move to another town. Seriously.

You see, I got a new vacuum cleaner a couple of weeks ago. Not just any vacuum cleaner, either. I got a Rainbow vacuum cleaner. Top of the line.

Well, actually, it’s a twenty-year-old model that has been rebuilt, but still. Any Rainbow is better than the old bag of wind I had been using.

I filled the canister up with water and went to work. I even moved my furniture around, so I could vacuum up underneath. I had vacuumed one and a half rooms, and I did something I probably shouldn’t have done. I decided to take a peek at that water.

Ugh!

One and a half rooms, and you would not believe the mud and the gunk that was in that canister. It was quite possibly the nastiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Well, I emptied it out, filled it up with clean water, and continued.

Three times, people! Three times I emptied black, gooey mud out of that canister.

And to think, I have had guests in my home. With all that stuff hiding down in my carpets. And my poor children have been living here in the midst of it! I am unfit, I tell you.

I finally decided to call it quits. I hauled the vacuum into its hiding place, then walked around my house and admired my handiwork. It was almost like getting new carpet. Everything just looked and smelled fresh and clean.

But then, a few days later, it was time to vacuum again. This time, I did half the house before checking the canister. Sure enough, when I emptied it out, it was mud. But I noticed something.
It wasn’t quite as thick and black as it had been the first time. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It was still nasty. But there was a slight improvement.

I called my mother, who is a long-time Rainbow owner, and told her the good news. She assured me that each time I vacuumed, I’d see an improvement. Over time, the Rainbow will do its job.

I have to tell you, friends, that aside from being totally embarrassed by the filth I was living in, I feel great! The air in my house smells pure and clean, and my carpet seems to be turning a lighter color.

I don’t know what my previous vacuum did. It certainly didn’t clean my carpets. I think it must have just moved the dirt around some, so it wouldn’t be so noticeable.

I wonder how often I’ve done that in my own life. I know there is stuff I need to clean up, issues I need to deal with, but try as I may, I just can’t seem to accomplish much. So I just keep moving those things around, spreading them out so they aren’t quite so noticeable. And all the while, my life just keeps getting muddier and muddier.

Sometimes, I just have to face the cold, hard truth. There are some problems I’m not qualified to deal with. Thankfully, I know Someone who is. You know Who I’m talking about, don’t you?

Yep. He’s the original creator of the rainbow, which is a symbol of God’s promise to mankind. And God always keeps His promises. Just like my Rainbow vacuum has the power to pull all the dirt out of my carpets, God has the power to pull the dirt out of my life. And He’s promised to do exactly that, if I let Him.

Oh, it doesn’t always happen immediately. With God, it’s often more of a process. But I’ve found when I consistently depend on Him day after day, week after week, He does His job. Gradually, my life feels fresher, more peaceful. Gradually, I notice the mud seems . . . not quite so muddy.

And eventually, I find my life has completely changed colors.

Psalm 51:10 “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.”

Transfer of Power

2009-01-26T17:47:00.000-08:00

In my lifetime, there have been nine presidents. (Stop trying to figure out my age. I was born at the end of a presidential term.) Nine presidents means eight transfers of power, from one president to the next.

Some of those transfers have been frosty, others warm. But all have been peaceful. I’m so grateful to live in a nation where people can agree to disagree, and be civil about it.

With each new presidency has come a great hope among the American people. Hope for change. For prosperity. For peace and the protection of our homeland, our way of life.

Sometimes those hopes have been fulfilled. Other times, they haven’t. But I honestly believe, from the bottom of my heart, that each president has done his best. Each one has tried to live up to the responsibilities placed on his shoulders. Each one has tried to make wise choices, and to provide the best possible leadership he can offer.

There’s just one teensy little problem.

Each president has been human.

Only human.

No matter what his credentials, no matter what experience his cabinet offers, the president is still just a man. He’s not a miracle worker.

No matter how many of the right people he knows, or how well he can present a speech, or how good he looks in a tux, there’s only so much he can do.

So as we place our hope in one man or another, as we watch the transfer of presidential power from one leader to the next, we need to remember to criticize gently and pray fiercely.

I’m reminded time and again that there is one transfer of power which will never fail. It is the transfer of my own will, my own faulty reasoning over to the One who is all-wise, all-knowing, and all-powerful. God is loving, gracious and compassionate. And because He knows the future and I don’t, He is much better qualified than I am to direct my steps.

But God is a gentleman. He will never force Himself on anyone. He has given each of us the power to choose for ourselves, along with an offer to show us the way. He stands ready and waiting to help us experience the best lives possible. But we must offer Him the control panel of our lives. He won’t take it by force.

The choice is ours. We can maintain control of our lives, working and preparing and crossing our fingers that everything will work out okay. But we will always know that there are some things we can’t control.

Or, we can give our lives over to the One who controls the wind and the rain, who influences the decisions of world leaders, and who longs to lovingly lead each one of us. And because He is a good and loving and compassionate God, we can know that His choices for us will always be for our best.

It’s a tough decision. I like to be in control. But honestly, I don’t have such a great track record on my own. When I call the shots, things usually end up in disaster. It has only been when I’ve allowed God to guide my steps that I’ve ended up with the peace and joy I desire.

When I find myself at the steering wheel of my own life, lost without a road map, I have to remind myself of the crash and burn experiences I’ve led myself into in the past. Then, hard as it is, I offer the control back to God. Again.

Fortunately, He is patient with me. He is always there, ready to take over when I ask for help.
And I know He’ll never steer me wrong.

Proverbs 3:5 – 6 “Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.”

Spice Girl

2009-01-19T18:16:00.000-08:00

I cleaned out my spice cabinet this week.

(Heavy sigh.)

Every time I clean out a cabinet, I promise myself I will not, under any circumstances, let things get that bad again.

But you and I both know the truth.

Let me just tell you what I found. Two cans of baking powder, one dating back to the year 2000. Two full jars of lemon pepper, two jars of thyme, two varieties of allspice, four different flavors of meat rub, two large pepper cans, two round boxes of salt, three containers of corn starch, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree.

Or something like that. From now on, you can call me the spice girl.

As I lugged my full-to-overflowing Hefty cinch bag to the trash can, I lamented the waste and wondered how many trips to Hawaii I could have taken with the money I spent on items I already had, but couldn’t find.

Okay, probably not many. But you get the point.

Now I have a sparkling, gleaming spice cabinet. Each time I open the door, I expect a bright light to shine down from above and an angelic chorus to sing heavenly harmony.

We’ll see how long it lasts.

It’s funny, isn’t it? All those times I sent poor Mark to the store to buy things, and I had them right here under my nose. Well, maybe not the pepper. I would have sneezed.

But all the other stuff . . . I went out looking for what I thought I needed, when the exact item I needed was right in front of me. All I had to do was look.

I’ve actually done that for more important things, too. I’ve gone looking in the wrong places for my peace, my happiness, my self-esteem. I’ve tried to find worth in my job, in the way I look or the size of my bank account. I’ve tried to find my value based on what other people think of me.

But the whole time, I had the keys to all of those things right in front of my nose. And His name is God.

You see, God created me, and He thinks I’m great. He doesn’t always like everything I do, but His love for me will never change. He tells me that if I depend on Him, He will give me peace and joy and an inner happiness that cannot be found anywhere else.

I am so valuable to Him that He gave His life for me. He promised never to leave me or forsake me. He is always right there, and He’s given me everything I need.

Still, I go looking in all the wrong places for the things that only He can give. And I end up with a cluttered mess.

The good news is that His love for me is unending. And when I’m ready, He will help me clean out the clutter of my life. Then He’ll replace the old, outdated junk with shiny new life. He’ll replace the chaos with peace.

I can almost hear the angels singing.

2 Peter 1:3 “His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of Him . . .”

Changes

2009-01-09T09:24:00.001-08:00

My grocery store has recently done some remodeling. It looks great, but honestly! I can’t find anything. It took me years to learn my way around that particular store, and now, right when I was on the brink of knowing exactly where everything was, they went and changed everything.

And I don’t like change.

The aisles, which once ran parallel to one another, are all golly-gonkers. Some run north and south. Others run east and west.

The kitchen utensils, which were once smack-dab in the middle of the store are now in the front. And the school supplies? Next to automotive.

Of course. Isn’t that where you would put the school supplies?

But there is one thing they haven’t changed.

The eggs.

Have you ever wondered why, in the grocery store, eggs are stored in the dairy section?

Think about it. A dairy product is a product that is made from milk.

There is no milk in an egg. An egg is liquid chicken. And chickens don’t even produce milk. Shouldn’t eggs be stored with the poultry?

But it never fails. Every time I go to the grocery store, there are the eggs. Right in the middle of the dairy section.

I’m thinking of writing up a petition, urging the grocery store people to store things in more sensible categories. School supplies near the office supplies. Eggs with poultry. Milk with beef.

But then, would the leather products need to be stored near the beef as well? And would that mean pencils – made from wood - would be sold in the plant section?

Hmmmm . . . maybe we’d better leave the eggs where they are.

It’s funny how we often resist change. After all, isn’t life just a series of one change after another? We grow. We learn. We move. You’d think we’d be used to change. But many people would rather stay in their same old routines, even if those routines aren’t good for them. Even if change brings improvements.

I should know. I’m one of those people.

Though change can be uncomfortable for a season, it is often necessary to make our lives better. Richer. More productive. And let’s face it. Most things in life are going to change anyway, whether we like it or not. We might as well make the most of the changes we face, and enjoy the ride. Fighting and resisting usually results in nothing more than a bad mood.

Though this world is filled with transitions and replacements, there are a few things we can count on. In the midst of changing grocery stores and changing lives, we can take comfort in knowing that some things will always stay the same. Things like the beauty of a sunrise, and the peace of a snow-capped mountain, and God’s love for us.

And even the eggs being stored in the dairy department.

Psalm 52:8 “I trust in God’s unfailing love forever and ever.”

Choices

2009-01-02T18:58:00.000-08:00

Last week, my family and I visited the San Antonio Riverwalk. It was all decorated with twinkling Christmas lights and glittery trees, and mariachi bands played festive holiday music.

We were expecting the Riverwalk to be crowded this time of year. What we weren’t expecting, however, was the great sea of college football fans.

Our visit just happened to fall on the weekend before the Alamo Bowl game. Everywhere we looked, there were face-painted fans wearing purple and white for Northwestern or yellow and black for the University of Missouri. And you couldn’t even get a ticket for a riverboat ride. The boats were sold out. Entire college bands floated down the river playing their school’s fight songs, followed by entire boatloads of football players.

We figured since we couldn’t actually ride the boats, we’d just enjoy from the sidelines. So when the Northwestern band floated past followed by the Northwestern football players, we yelled, “Go Northwestern!” We became quite popular as the players waved and cheered back at us.

Then, when the University of Missouri band floated by, followed by the University of Missouri players, guess what we did?

My mama didn’t raise no fool.

We yelled and cheered at the top of our lungs for the University of Missouri.

They loved us, I tell you. Our little family was, quite possibly, the most popular family on the Riverwalk that evening.

I love that we didn’t have to make a choice. If I had to choose my favorite college team right now, I couldn’t. Ask me again in a few years. My favorite school, I’m sure, will be the one that offers the best scholarships to our children. Money talks, you know.

But while my choice of college football teams doesn’t really matter, there are many choices I make each and every day that do matter. A lot.

As I think about my new resolutions for my new year, I’m reminded that my goals are pretty meaningless if I don’t back them up with my choices.

Those extra pounds I want to lose? My choice. No one forces me to eat potato chips and chocolate truffles. I make the choices about what I eat; therefore, to some extent, I make the choice about what I weigh.

And what about that book I want to write? That garage I want cleaned out? Those friendships I want to build?

They can become reality, if I make the choices, day by day, step by step to achieve my goals. Otherwise, they will remain exactly what they are – lofty dreams.

(And yes, a clean garage is a lofty dream for me. Have you seen my garage?)

I don’t know about you, but this year, I want to stop talking about my goals, and actually achieve some of them. In order to do that, I’m going to try to make better choices. I know that my goals won’t be met in one fell swoop, but in small steps. Over time. One small choice after another.

Joshua 24:15 “Choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods your forefathers served beyond the River, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you are living. But as for me and my household, we will serve the LORD."

New Spark

2008-12-26T06:18:00.000-08:00

Our kids got an early Christmas present. A go-cart. Yellow and black, with two large headlights.

It looks like a bumblebee.

Mark and I took turns test driving it. For safety purposes, you know. And let me tell you, that little baby has some get up and go! I am considering a new profession.

Where does one go to try out for a Nascar race?

Actually, the thing tops out at about 10 mph. But it sure felt a lot faster when the wind was whipping through my hair and the cedar bushes were scraping against my elbows. The fact that my chin rested on my knees didn’t make a bit of difference. One vroom of the engine, and I was hooked. I had the need for speed.

After Mark and I declared it safe for our children to operate, we finally let them have turns at the wheel. One at a time, they placed their helmets on, fastened their seatbelts, and off they went like a speeding bullet! There was whooping and hollering and giggles and even a few close calls. That was one fun toy.

Notice I said was.

For hours, it purred like a kitten. But then, it just stopped purring. The motor wouldn’t even turn over! We did everything we could think of to try and fix it. We gave it gas, we changed the spark plug, but it was no use. There was just no life.

So, into the back of the truck it went, back to the dealer. The mechanic took one look at the gocart and determined it was a problem with the spark. Not the actual plug, but something deeper. They were going to have to take the motor apart to fix it.

Man!

Just a few hours of speed, and we were addicted. Now, for a few days, we’d have to make do with our bicycles to fulfill our speed cravings.

Somehow, a bicycle just isn’t the same.

I can relate to that little go-cart. Some days, I have no spark. At times, there just seems to be something missing, and my get-up-and-go has got-up-and-gone. I wonder where my joy is, where my energy went. I feel lifeless.

At those times, I have to do exactly what the go-cart did. I have to go to the Mechanic, who will look deep inside my heart. He is the One who can take things apart, find the problem, and make things right.

However, I don’t always want to take the time to go to Him. So I try to ignore the problem, or fix it myself. Then, the problem only gets worse. One of these days, I will learn to go to my Mechanic at the first sign of spark trouble. That will save me a lot of problems in the long run.

And when I have regular tune-ups with Him, I stay zooming through life. Wind whipping through my hair. Whooping and hollering with joy.
Ezekiel 36:26 “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you.”

The Perfect Gift

2008-12-19T06:15:00.000-08:00

Don’t you just love this time of year? I do. I love the lights and the bright colors and the holiday music playing over loudspeakers and the smell of pine and cinnamon. I love sneaking around, keeping wonderful secrets and trying to please the people I care about with the perfect gifts.

But there is one thing I don’t like as much, and that is having to make up my mind. I’ve never been very good at that.

It never fails. I’ll be standing in Wal-Mart, trying to decide whether to get my niece the pink lava lamp or the purple one, and my head nearly explodes. Honestly, if I were a ten-year-old girl, I would like either color. But I have to decide on one. Pink? Purple? Pink? Purple?

And have you ever looked at Hot Wheels? There are like, a zillion different varieties. Race cars. Spy cars. Police cars. Fire trucks. How in the world am I supposed to know which ones my nephew would prefer? Which ones does he have? What is his favorite color?

I don’t know. I just don’t know.

And it’s no use calling and asking, because then I get the tables turned on me. “Renae, what do you want for Christmas?”

More questions, to which I don’t know the answers. Honestly, I like everything. I like things that smell nice. I like cute little pot-holders and kitchen gadgets. I like music and movies and books and things to wear and things to play with. I like everything.

Just please don’t force me to make up my mind. I don’t like that.

Wouldn’t it be great if there were a Perfect Gift store? We could just march in, submit the names and ages of our loved ones, along with our budget needs, and the all-knowing store clerk could run the information through some kind of scanner. Then, voila! The perfect gift would appear, all shiny and gift-wrapped with a big, fat bow. No more decisions. No more splitting headaches, from the stress of it all.

Then again, I suppose that would detract from the meaning of the gift. After all, it’s the thought that counts, right? And if we don’t put any thought into a gift, I suppose it doesn’t really count for much.

The perfect gift, I suppose, is simply a gift that reflects the love of the giver. It doesn’t need to be fancy or expensive, though it should come with some sacrifice. After all, if there is no sacrifice involved, what’s the point? Where is the value in such a gift?

God knows that. He loves us more than anything, and He has given us the perfect gift. He knows most of us don’t need another potholder or a scented soap-on-a-rope. What we need is to feel loved. To feel wanted. To feel cherished.

That’s why He gave us the greatest gift of all time. He wanted to have a relationship with each and every one of us so that He could show us how important we are to Him. But that wasn’t possible without a great sacrifice. He gave the most expensive gift of all time – His Son – so that we could know how much He wants us, how He cherishes us. He wanted us to know how very much He loves us.

So He paid the ultimate price. He sent us His Son, born in a stable in Bethlehem. He sent His Son to live the life of a carpenter, to travel dusty roads on foot, to teach and heal and preach and reveal that very love to us. He sent His Son to take the punishment for our sins, because He knew we could never afford to pay that price without Him.

He gave us the perfect gift – His love. He holds it out to us on Christmas day and every day. All we have to do is take it.

“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life,” John 3:16.

Moving On

2008-12-14T10:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my coffee maker died.

It just quit working. No warning. No sputtering or strange noises.

It just died.

My first reaction was one of those deer-caught-in-the-headlights panic moments. No coffee? How will I ever make it through the day with no coffee?

Then, after a few deep breaths, I remembered that I could do what the pioneer women did. They boiled their coffee.

Just call me Dr. Renae, Coffee Woman.

So, I placed a few scoops of the wonderful, black powder into a filter, wrapped it up and stapled it like a teabag. Then, I dropped it into a pot of boiling water, and voila! A few minutes later, I had delicious, life-enhancing coffee. I think it was even faster than my coffee pot.

Okay, I admit the pioneer women probably didn’t have paper filters or staplers, but I’m still pretty proud of my ingenuity.

Then, as I was sipping on that first, glorious cup of the morning, I realized . . . I get to pick out a brand new coffee pot!

A fleeting moment of guilt passed through my mind. After all, my dear coffee pot had just died. It wasn’t even in its grave yet – it was still sitting on my kitchen counter. It had seen me through years of good times and bad times. It had entertained guests and helped me through long nights. And it had gently, faithfully given me something to look forward to, each and every morning.

What kind of woman am I? How can I be smiling about a replacement pot so soon?

But I knew I had to let go. After all, have you seen some of those new-fangled, high-fallutin’ coffee makers they have on the market these days? My old one was just a plain old, low-end coffee maker. Now, they have the kinds that actually grind the beans for you. The kinds that store the coffee within the actual maker, and only release a cup at a time, when you hold your mug under the little spout.

And they have colors! My old one was just plain white plastic. With years of coffee stains, so it wasn’t actually white any more.

It didn’t take me long to move past my sorrow. After all, what’s done is done. Nothing short of a miracle will bring that pot back to life. It’s time to move on.

Does that make me a shallow person?

Perhaps.

Then again, I have been guilty of hanging on to things for too long. I’ve been known to carry a grudge, and to nurse my wounds, and to wear my feelings on my sleeve for extended periods of time. Those habits have not done much to enrich my life. Instead, they have kept me from pressing forward. They have weighed me down like a ball and chain. And to be perfectly honest, I’m tired of clinging to the past.

So, starting today, I’m going to let go. I’m going to move on. I will remember the good, but I won’t let sadness or anger or guilt or anything else keep me from experiencing the great things that wait for me, somewhere out there in the future.

Wonderful things. Like a cute little $800 cappuccino/espresso/coffee maker/grinder. In red.

Or one of those nifty one-cup-at-a-time doo-dads. In a sleek stainless steel.

Or maybe I’ll just get another basic white coffee pot for $20 at Wal-Mart. The possibilities are endless.

Philippians 3: 13 – 14 “ . . . Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

Extra Garbage

2008-12-05T01:30:00.000-08:00

I got two tickets this week.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I almost got two tickets this week. The first one was when my daughter and I were on our way to Blockbuster Video. I didn’t think I was speeding. I honestly had no idea why I was being pulled over.

The officer approached my window, and I handed him my driver’s license. “What did I do wrong?” I asked.

“There is no inspection sticker on your car,” the man said.

“Oh, officer, I am so sorry! My husband usually takes care of that for me,” I told him. Hey, Mark wasn’t anywhere around. Why not blame him?

The man laughed. “Oh, so it’s your husband’s fault, is it?”

“Why, yes, sir. I’m so sorry it hasn’t been done.”

“May I see your proof of insurance, please?” he asked.

Oh, where is that insurance? Dear God, please let it be current! I found the paper, and it was current. Whew!

Then, he took my license and insurance information, went back to his car, and stayed for what seemed an eternity, while the most ridiculous thoughts raged through my mind.

What if I match the description of one of America’s Most Wanted?

What if my car matches the description of some other car that was involved in some . . . terrible crime?

What if I forgot to turn the oven off?

Finally, the man approached my window. “Mrs. Brumbaugh, how are we going to fix this problem?” he asked.

I didn’t miss a beat. “You’re going to give me a warning, and I’m going to get my car inspected first thing tomorrow!”

The officer laughed. I liked this guy. I think.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s what I’m going to do,” he said. “But next time, you’ll get a ticket.”

Yes. I definitely liked this guy.

The next day, I drove right down and got my car inspected. After all, I want to be a good citizen, and good citizens always try very hard not to get tickets.

So you can imagine my dismay when, two days later, I got a real ticket. But this time, it wasn’t issued by a police officer. It was issued by the sanitation department.

It was trash day, and when I went to fetch my empty trash can from the side of the road, there it was. A little yellow-green ticket, flapping in the wind.

Apparently, my trash can was too full. And they were charging me an extra $4.50.

Well, technically, it wasn’t a ticket. More of a notice.

But it sure felt like a ticket.

I mean, what am I supposed to do with my extra garbage? Put it down my garbage disposal? No, I’d better not. Then I’d probably get a ticket from the water department.

So, from now on, I will try to contain my trash within my trash can, so that the lid will close completely. If you drive by my house and see my dear husband jumping up and down in our trash can, just wave. You’ll know we’re simply trying to be good citizens.

I’m sure glad God doesn’t have a limit on what we can bring to Him. Can you imagine if He said, “Whoa, there, your pile of heartache and worry is getting a little too high. I’ll take care of only this much, and you’ll have to handle the rest yourself.”

Boy, would I be in a heap o’ trouble.

But God is gracious, and His love and mercy are limitless. Any time I have a problem or a need, I can bring it to Him. He doesn’t even keep track! He just says, “Oh, I see you’re having a little trouble there. Let me take that for you.”

He doesn’t make me jump up and down on my troubles to make them appear smaller. He takes them just as they are. He doesn’t give me a ticket, or charge extra.

And He even replaces all my garbage with His peace.

Don’t we have a great God?

1 Peter 5:7 “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.”

Black Friday

2008-11-28T19:46:00.000-08:00

Hello friends! No new post for today. But check out my Black Friday experience here.

Blessings to you!

--r

Giving Thanks

2008-11-21T06:15:00.001-08:00

It is my year to do Thanksgiving. My sister-in-law, Debbie, and I switch off every year, and it is my turn.

(Note to self: Be thankful for doing Thanksgiving at my house.)

The thing is, I was really hoping to have a new kitchen by Thanksgiving. I have one of those old, Brady-Bunch style double ovens. Which would be great, if both of the ovens worked. But the door on the bottom one doesn’t actually close, so you can’t really cook anything in there. So now, the bottom oven is used for storage.

I have to be careful about what I store in there, though, since the door doesn’t close. If I store anything heavy and breakable, well . . . you figure it out. But, at least I have an oven, right? I mean, think of all the pioneer women who had to cook over an open fire. (Note to self: Be thankful for oven. And for being born in the twentieth century, instead of the nineteenth.)

Not only that, but my house still has its original 1977 yellow gold countertop and sink. (Note to self: Be thankful that the retro look is in right now.) But new kitchen or no new kitchen, the fact remains. Next Thursday, I’m going to have a house full of people.

So, as I prepare myself and my refrigerator for more food than we will ever possibly consume, I have decided to make a list of things I am thankful for. And lucky for you, I’m going to share it.

I am thankful for:

1. My husband. He offered to buy a pre-cooked turkey this year, so I wouldn’t have to bother with it.

2. Pre-cooked turkeys.

3. Instant mashed potatoes. Is it cheating if I stand over a bowl with a potato masher and pretend to work the lumps out of them?

4. Candles. If I light candles, they make the house smell like I’ve been baking, and my guests will never know I bought the apple pie at Wal-Mart. Also, I can dim the lights, and my guests will be impressed with the mood lighting. They’ll never know I’m trying to hide the stains in my carpet.

5. Paper plates. If I put a pretty tablecloth and centerpiece on my table, maybe no one will notice the Chinette. Then, I won’t have to do dishes.

Alright, already. I can hear you saying, “Doesn’t this woman do anything? She doesn’t want to cook a turkey or bake or do dishes. What does she do all day long?” The truth is, I will cook for Thanksgiving. I will bake pies and make desserts and casseroles and cute little veggie trays. But I have to leave a little time so that I can sit here and type these words to you.

Thus, the pre-cooked turkey and the Chinette.

But in all seriousness, I have more to be thankful for than I could ever hope to fit into this space. I am thankful beyond measure for my wonderful family, who loves me. I am thankful that, at present, we all are healthy and happy and strong. I am thankful for my children, who fill my heart with joy, bubbling over.

I am thankful for my husband, who makes me feel loved and special. I am thankful for my parents, who, even though I am forty years old, still think I am young. I am thankful for my wonderful, curmudgeonly older brother who still treats me like I am a child. Some things never change.

I am thankful for a roof over my head, a car to drive, food on the table, and money to pay the bills. I am thankful that I live in a land of possibility and promise, a land where, with a little integrity and a lot of hard work, any of us can reach our full potential.

I am thankful for the men and women who will be spending the holidays in a far-away land, separated from those they love the most, so that I can enjoy the holidays in peace. I am thankful for their families, who sacrifice so that the rest of us don’t have to.

Most of all, I am thankful for a God who loves me, even when I’m not lovable. I’m thankful that He wants to be my friend, and spend time with me. His is a love that will never end. It just keeps going and going.

Yep, I have much to be thankful for. My cup overflows.

1 Chronicles 16:34 “Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.”

Living Like Goldie

2008-11-14T04:25:00.000-08:00

This has been a difficult week for our family. It has been a time of great weeping and wailing and mourning. This week, dear readers, we lost our beloved pet fish, Goldie.

Goldie has been with our family ever since . . . last month. He was a good fish, full of personality. He swam with such grace and vigor, and his long, flowing fins turned his movements into an art form. He was an inspiration to us all. He will be sorely missed, and his absence in our lives will leave a hole that will not easily be filled. (Actually, it can be filled for $2.50 at the local pet shop, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Services were held in our bathroom. My pastor/husband, the Right Reverend Dr. Mark F. Brumbaugh, o-fish-iated. Loving words were spoken, followed by a hymn: “I’ll swim away, oh, glory, I’ll swim away (down the toilet).” And then, we said goodbye to Goldie, and watched him swirl away to that beautiful home in the sea. (Well, sewer. But let’s just overlook that little detail for the sake of posterity, shall we?)

Goldie had a short life, but it was a good one. He had a nice, big fish bowl to swim in. He had his meals brought to him, and he had lots of little fishy things in his bowl to play with and swim around. And he brought joy to us, his family. He didn’t waste his life longing for the ocean, longing for some dream that would never develop. Nope. He happily swam around his bowl, waving his fins for us, coming up to greet us when we brought him food. He seemed to enjoy his life. I guess you could say he lived well. He had learned the secret of being content.

Our lives are pretty short, when you think about it. Whether we live 20 years or 80, our existence is really no more than a blink, in the grand scheme of things. Isn’t it a shame that we waste so much of it, wishing for things we can never have? Instead of enjoying the houses we live in, we want bigger houses. Instead of appreciating our jobs, we long for better jobs. Before we are married, we want to find that special person. After we are married, we want children. We wish for financial freedom, retirement . . . and before we know it, we have wished our lives away, wanting what isn’t ours. We would be so much better off, don’t you think, if we could learn from Goldie, and be happy with what life has handed us. Right here, right now.

From now on, I intend to look at my life through Goldie’s eyes. I will try to remember that life is short, and not a moment should be wasted. I will do my best to appreciate what I have, instead of squandering my time longing for what I don’t have. And someday, when I go on to glory, I want people to say, “She lived well.”

Philippians 4:12 “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation . . .”

Our New President

2008-11-07T05:26:00.000-08:00

Congratulations, United States! You have a new president. And while he may or may not be the person you voted for, he does represent some positive change in our country. He is a good man with a lovely family, and his election, in many ways, represents the ideals here in the United States – ideals which have long been awaiting reality.

Barack Obama is a living, breathing example of the term, “The Melting Pot”. A white mother. A father of mixed race, including African and Arabic. Obama’s very existence is a picture of who we are in this country. His election to the highest office in our land will certainly add a more balanced view to the portraits hanging in the hallowed halls of the White House.

As a white American, I admit that I will never understand what it is like, not to be white. I admit that things have probably been easier for me, that doors have perhaps been opened more freely for me, simply because of the color of my skin. I have many dear friends of many different races, and I believe I have judged people by their character, and not their color.

But I understand that not everyone does that. And because of the folks who have judged others based on color alone, many of our citizens have suffered. Some have been denied jobs. Some have been wrongly accused.

I hope, that by putting a man of mixed race in the White House, a man who is married to a black woman, a man who has two beautiful biracial daughters . . . I hope that will bring healing to our land. I hope Barack Obama’s position will bring unity, rather than division. God knows, we need some unity.

I pledge to you today, dear readers, that I will pray for Barack Obama. I will not slander him as a person, but rather, I will choose to give him the benefit of the doubt. I will choose to believe that he will do his very best to lead our nation, and that his decisions, though they may not be my preferences, will be made from a pure heart.

I will pray that the Almighty God will shower His wisdom and guidance on this man. I will pray that God will surround him with wise, righteous advisors, people who love our country and who will help him to serve this country to the very best of his ability.

Mr. Obama, you ran your election on a platform of hope and positive change. Hope for all Americans, for a brighter tomorrow. Change which will tear down the walls that have so divided our country. I will pray God Himself will help you deliver on those promises. May God bless you, and may God bless America.

Romans 13:1 “Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God.”

Campaigning

2008-10-31T08:03:00.000-07:00

What would you say if you asked a presidential candidate, “Sir, what makes you think you’re the best man for this job?”

And he said, “Well, I’m not sure that I am the best man. But I’ll give it my best shot.”

Now, that’s something you rarely hear, during a presidential campaign. There are a lot of promises made, and many lofty ideals thrown around. Frankly, there is a lot of bragging, by each candidate.

“If you elect me, the world will be a better place . . .”

“Elect me, and you will sleep better at night . . .”

“Vote for me, and your children will be safer . . .”

“Put me in the White House, and I’ll solve all your money problems, and all your health insurance problems, and all your education problems . . .”

And by making such promises, each candidate is actually insulting his or her opponent. “Don’t vote for so-and-so, or you’ll be sorry. So-and-so will never run this country as well as I will.”

I know that is part of the job, to brag, and to put the opposition down. To show self confidence, and to convince voters to place their confidence in you. But honestly, I don’t know if I could make such promises, under any circumstances. It kind of embarrasses me, just to think about it. There is no doubt in my mind that, if I promised to make everyone’s lives better, I would fall flat on my face. I guess that’s one of the many reasons I’ll never run for president.

But once upon a time, presidential campaigns in this country were very different than they are today. Once, in a long ago world, presidential candidates were expected to be modest. Humble. Gentlemen.

Prior to 1860, if a candidate campaigned for himself, it was considered the height of egotistical rudeness. The candidate was expected to remain quiet, and to let others do his campaigning for him. I kind of like that idea.

In the election of 1860, a man named Stephen Douglas was the Democratic candidate for president. Though small in stature, he was considered to be a political giant. He had served in the Senate, and had been around all the big wigs for years. Some might have considered him to be unbeatable.

But he ran against a quiet, humble man by the name of Abraham Lincoln. Lincoln had gained some serious attention during a series of seven debates against Douglas, a couple of years prior to the election. I guess Douglas got a little nervous, and felt he needed to secure some votes. He wasn’t supposed to campaign for himself – that would have been improper. So instead, he scheduled a trip to see his mother. And he went the long way around the country, on his way to her home. He scheduled many stops along the way, and made speeches and visited political rallies at every stop. But of course, when asked about his actions, he said he was merely on a trip to visit his mother.

Well, you can just imagine what the Republicans thought about his little trip. Before long, they printed a flyer. A missing persons notice, actually. It read: “A Boy Lost! Left Washington, D.C. some time in July to go home to his mother. He has not yet reached his mother, who is very anxious about him. He has been seen in Philadelphia, New York City, Hartford, and at a clambake in Rhode Island. …He is about five feet nothing in height and about the same in diameter the other way. He has a red face, short legs, and a large belly. Answers to the name of Little Giant, talks a great deal, very loud, always about himself…”

I don’t have to tell you the rest of the story. Votes were cast on Election Day, and The Pony Express delivered election results around the country. The humble Abe Lincoln had won the election. His modest, gentle nature served him well, and he went on to be one of the greatest presidents our country has ever known.

I don’t know when we began to value Hollywood star power over simple, honest-to-goodness character. But I do know that, no matter which party we are rooting for, we want our candidate to look good on camera. We want him or her to wear a sparkly smile and offer shiny promises. There’s really no way anybody can make it all the way to the White House if they aren’t willing to brag a little.

But I think I like the old way of doing things. I like the idea of finding a simple, humble, wise man or woman, and letting him or her continue about his or her simple, wise way of doing things, while the rest of us convince each other which guy or gal would serve us best. I like the idea of letting the candidate’s actions speak louder than his promises.

Honest. Meek. Wise. Humble. That’s the kind of person I want to be my president. I honestly don’t know if that person even exists in our world anymore. And if he does, I’m not sure any of us would even notice him.

Proverbs 27:2 “Let another praise you, and not your own mouth; someone else, and not your own lips.”

Freedom of Speech

2008-10-24T05:59:00.000-07:00

Did you know that in some parts of the world, people are thrown in jail, or even executed, for speaking against their leaders? Yes, of course you knew that. Silly question. And I am so glad that I live in a country where freedom of speech is encouraged.

Sometimes.

But honestly, I think we cross the line, way too often.

I get tired of people complaining about, and speaking against our president. We think that any time is open season on whoever holds that office, and we bad mouth and we slander and we call him a fool, and we say he is the worst president ever.

If a Republican holds the office, many Democrats do everything possible to make him look foolish.

If a Democrat holds the office, many Republicans do the same.

Then, our words are broadcast all over the world.

And we have the audacity to say that our president has made us look bad, in the world’s eyes. Now, I don’t often get up on a political soapbox. But come on, people. Our president doesn’t make us look bad. We do a pretty good job of that, all by ourselves.

The reason many countries take it so seriously when citizens speak against their leaders is because it shows a lack of patriotism, a lack of pride in one’s country. It undermines what that particular leader is trying to do, and it makes the entire country look bad.

I don’t think that we should be a bunch of mindless, fear-driven robots spouting the praises of our leaders. But I do think that, out of love for our country, out of patriotism, and out of a respect for the highest office in our land, we should be required to exercise some self control. We ought not be allowed to undermine our president’s credibility in the eyes of the world. In my humble opinion, that is downright treason.

With a little self-control coupled with a little pride in our nation’s heritage, we can learn to express our opinions in respectful ways. We can show support for our president, and pray for him, and honor his office, even if we don’t agree with all of his policies.

For example, there is nothing disrespectful about saying, “I disagree with so-and-so’s economic plan, or his foreign policies, or his views about Roe vs. Wade.” But it is just plain wrong to call our leader names and accuse him of being a rotten leader. After all, we’re the ones who put him there. And even if he isn’t our preferred candidate, I refuse to believe that anyone who makes it to that office is unqualified. To the contrary. If he had the fortitude and the perseverance and the desire to be president, and he rallied enough support to put him in the oval office, I think that journey alone separates him from the rest of the yahoos out there who do little but sit on their sofas and criticize.

Yes, I called them yahoos. But they are not my president.

So here, in black and white, for the whole world to read, I’d like to get one thing straight. I think George W. Bush has served his country well during one of the most difficult periods our country has seen. He has made difficult choices, choices that I would not have been able to make, for I would have buckled under the pressure. Every choice he made, every direction he took has been out of the greatest sense of duty and love for country. I am proud to have had him as my president for the last eight years. Mr. President, thank you for the sacrifices you have made, the stresses you have endured, and the criticisms you have ignored. May God bless you.

And no matter who wins this next election, I will be a proud American. I will respect the office of president, and I will pray for and support the office, even if I disagree with the person. I will show that person the honor that is deserving of the title.

Thank you, dear readers, for allowing me to exercise my freedom of speech here. May God bless America.

1 Timothy 2:1 – 3 “I urge then, first of all, that requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for everyone – for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful lives in all godliness and holiness. This is good, and pleases God our Savior.”

Extravagance

2008-10-17T06:35:00.001-07:00

Last week, my friend Maryann had a garage sale. Now, Maryann’s garage sale isn’t your typical garage sale. No-sir-ee, Bob. You see, Maryann is a decorator. As in, people actually pay her money to come and decorate their homes. And trust me, I’ve seen her work. This woman has beautiful taste.

So, when I found out Maryann was having a garage sale, I must confess. My blood started pumping, my heart started racing, and I nearly hyperventilated, right then and there. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But you get the idea.

And then, I went into panic mode, worrying that other people would get to the garage sale before me, and get all the good stuff! Not that Maryann would run out of good stuff, because all of her stuff is good stuff. Still, I felt the entirely selfish need to look out for number one.

I’m not too proud to beg. Okay, I am usually too proud to beg. But in this case, I made an exception. I asked her if I could come a day early and shop.

And she said yes!

So there I went, on a Thursday afternoon, over to Maryann’s garage sale. I was not disappointed.

I got an elegant picture for over my fireplace – a painting of a magnolia - at a fraction of the original cost! I got plush throw pillows, an original oil painting (in a gorgeous frame), curtains, a lamp, and many other goodies which are too numerous to list here. And now, my house has had a bargain makeover.

You know, my budget requires me to be thrifty. I love nice things, but I can’t afford to be extravagant in my spending. I’m pretty much of a Wal-Mart and garage sale kind of girl, though I’d love to be a Neiman Marcus kind of girl.

But even though my budget is limited, God’s budget is limitless. He loves me extravagantly, every second of every minute of every hour of every day. He showers me with rare and precious treasures, to show His love for me. And He does it because I have great value, in His eyes.

Instead of a bargain-basement lamp, He gives me the sun each morning. Instead of second-hand throw pillows, he gives me a plush carpet of grass in the spring and leaves in the fall. And as for the elegant picture over my fireplace, well, He gave me a real, honest-to-goodness magnolia tree. He has given me a wonderful family to love, loyal friends, and good health. His gifts are never counterfeit knock-offs, and they are never second hand. He only offers the real deal.

On top of all that, He adds to my joy by leading me to garage sales with wonderful items that fit both my taste and my budget. Just because He likes to see me smile.

I’m so glad we have an extravagant God, aren’t you?

James 1:17 “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights.”

The Zipper

2008-10-10T06:18:00.001-07:00

“Does your father have a razor?” The nurse poked her head around the corner of the hospital room.

“I don’t know. I’ll look in his suitcase,” I said.

“He wants to shave,” she continued.

“Shave? It’s midnight. He just had three feet of his small intestines removed, and he wants to shave?”

“Yes,” she replied.

So there, in the hospital room, at midnight, two days after having a very serious, very major surgery, Dad shaved. Put on Stetson cologne. Brushed his teeth and combed his hair.

In our family, vanity dies hard.

By the next morning, Dad was walking up and down the hospital hallways, cracking jokes and campaigning for the “Most Popular Patient” Award. He won, hands down.

I think it was the Stetson that pushed him over the top.

But a couple of days later, he lost some points with one particular voter. He decided to show his grandchildren his “zipper.” Yep, that would be his incision. Staples still in. Healing nicely. And yes, it looked exactly like a zipper.

“Look here,” he said. “This is where the doctors unzipped me to do the surgery. Then, they zipped me back up.”

Everyone laughed at the analogy. Everyone, that is, except my six year old son, Foster. He stared at the zipper with concern and dismay, but didn’t say much.

A little while later, when it was time for the kids to leave, Foster stayed behind. “Poppy,” he said. “Next time I spend the night with you, I’m not going to sleep in the bed with you.”

Poppy smiled at him. “Are you afraid of my zipper?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” Foster told him. “What if it comes unzipped? I might fall in, and then I’ll be your dinner!”

Now, Dad wasn’t supposed to laugh. It wasn’t good for his wounds, apparently. Needless to say, his recovery suffered a minor setback.

I’ve found that most of the things I’m afraid of are kind of like Dad’s zipper. They look scary. They look like they may swallow me alive. But my fear often gets in the way of reality and reason. Most things aren’t nearly as scary as they seem. And if I just face my fears head on, if I do my homework and educate myself about whatever is frightening me, the fear seems to disappear.

But some things really are scary. Period. Things like war, and reckless drivers, and cancer. But even when the scary things really do offer a threat, we can still face them with faith and confidence. Those things may be out of our control, but nothing is impossible for God. And with Him, even the scary things seem to shrink. With Him, they become do-able. Sometimes, they disappear altogether.

I wonder if God has a zipper. I think He must, because during the worst times of my life so far, during those times when I truly thought I would be dinner for some scary circumstance, I have suddenly found myself surrounded by His love, His peace, His compassion, and His strength. Often, that zipper has taken the form of friends and family, who have formed a protective barrier around me, who have prayed for me and held me up. Other times, it has just been a feeling that everything was going to be okay.

Yes, the more I think of it, the more I’m convinced that God must have a zipper. When we find ourselves in freefall, we needn’t be afraid, for if we call out to Him, we will simply fall straight into His “pouch” of strength and love.

And that’s not scary at all.

Psalm 31:19 – 20 “How great is Your goodness, which You have stored up for those who fear You . . . You hide them in the secret place of Your presence from the conspiracies of man; You keep them secretly in a shelter.”

Addicted

2008-10-06T13:40:00.001-07:00

Hello. My name is Renae, and I am an e-mail addict.

It all started innocently enough about ten years ago. My best friend was moving to Germany. “You have to have e-mail,” she said, “so we can stay in touch.”

I was hesitant at first. The thought of connecting myself to nearly every known location on the earth was a little scary. And exciting.

“Come on,” she coaxed. “I can set you up for free.”

Isn’t that the way it always happens? They give you freebies. Pull you in, and then you’re hooked.

At least that’s the way it happened for me.

At first, it didn’t seem to affect me much. Just a little bit of e-mail, here and there. Usually, after everyone was asleep. Just for thrills.

And thrilling it was. Every time I saw that little red flag pop up on my screen, my heart raced. It was like a Christmas gift. I had an e-mail! Someone out there saw me, knew I existed, and wanted to communicate with me.

Still, I managed to keep my addiction hidden for years. But finally, I was discovered. My poor children found me, staring at my computer, eyes glazed over. Apparently, I was hitting the Refresh button again and again, waiting for a new e-mail to pop up. I was out of control.

That was when I hit rock bottom. I knew I needed help. They say the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.

So now, I have entered a ten-step program for e-mail addicts.

I turn off the computer, take ten steps away from it, and shut the door behind me. Then, I try not to think about it.

At first, it was really hard. I mean, the idea that there were unread e-mails in my inbox was almost too much to handle. I was nervous and jumpy. I needed my fix.

But gradually, my need for e-mail seemed to decrease. I learned that there are more important, more exciting things in life – things that will actually add to the quality of my life rather than take away from it.

Things like going to the park with my children, or watching their original puppet shows with balloons as the puppets. Things like writing actual pen-and-ink letters to old friends, or calling that cousin I’ve lost touch with.

It’s funny how we spend so much of our time doing things that, in the end, won’t amount to a hill of beans. We work, work, work, or we spend hours watching television or surfing the internet or watching for new e-mails to roll in. But really, when all is said and done, it’s the real flesh-and-blood relationships we built – or didn’t build – that will give our lives meaning.

So that’s my story. I am still in the recovery process. But each day, it gets a little easier. Life is good. Now I am committed to helping others with the same problem. If you have a problem with e-mail addiction, you can e-mail me at . . . wait. Never mind.

Isaiah 61:1 “He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners.”

Hiding Place

2008-09-25T20:59:00.001-07:00

The conversation in our car went something like this:

Me: Foster, are you excited about getting a pet fish?

Foster: Yes.

Me: What are you going to name your pet fish?

Foster: Jimmy.

Me: Oh, that’s nice. Isn’t that what you named your special duck at the city park?

Foster: Oh, yeah. I guess the fish can’t be named Jimmy. Instead, I think I’ll name him . . . Sportsy.

Me: Sportsy?

Foster: No, Sporty.

We had to go to three different places to find a Betta fish. The first store only sold reptiles. Lots of slithery ones. Needless to say, we didn’t stay long.

Foster: Can I have a pet snake instead of a fish?

Me: Get in the car. You’re getting a fish.

The second store had everything we needed. Fish tanks, supplies, food, even a nice little bridge for the fish to play on. But no Betta fish. Apparently, we could come back in two weeks. Or, we could try one more place.

I bought the supplies, and we headed for the third place on our list. Bingo! Right when we walked in the door, we saw a row of Betta fish, all lined up in their little cups. There were red ones and blue ones and black ones and rainbow-colored ones.

Foster: I want a boy. It has to be a boy fish. No girl fish.

The lady at the fish store: They’re all boys, so you’re in good shape.

Foster: Can I have two?

The lady at the fish store: You can’t put two of them together in the same tank. They’ll kill each other.

Foster: Cool! Can I have three?

I paid for one fish. Yellow and white, with blue fins. Foster held the cup carefully as we got into the car.

Me: Be careful with Sporty. We don’t want him to slosh too much on the way home.

Foster: Mom, his name isn’t Sporty. It’s Goldie.

Me: I thought it was Sporty.

Foster: That was before I saw him.

Made sense to me. We arrived home and placed Goldie on the kitchen counter, where he could watch us prepare his new home. Foster lovingly poured the blue and green rocks in the bottom of the bowl, then gently positioned the bridge so it wouldn’t tip over. I went into the back yard and snipped some ivy to place in the bowl.

Foster: What are you doing?

Me: I’ve heard Betta fish tend to jump out of their bowls. If you put an ivy in there, it blocks their path so they can’t jump out.

Foster: You’re crowding him.

Me: Nonsense. He’s got a lot more room in here than he has in that little cup.

Foster: (Heavy sigh.)

Finally, without much fanfare, we placed the cup in the bowl and set Goldie free. Sort of.

For the better part of the day, Foster kept his face pressed against the glass, watching Goldie’s every move. Poor little guy. Must be pretty scary to have a six-year-old giant watching your every move. Before long, Goldie discovered that the ivy leaves made great hiding places.

Foster was both thrilled and frustrated with the hide-and-seek game. Finally, he gave up and gave Goldie a break.

I can relate. Some days, I need a place to hide. Sometimes, it feels like the giants are after me. But during those times, I remember that I do have a Hiding Place. I have someone I can run to, who has promised to hide me in the shadow of His wings. There, I feel safe.

Before bed, I asked Foster, “Did you feed Goldie?”

Foster: Mom, his name is Jimmy.

Psalm 32:7 “You are my hiding place. You will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.”

Shameless Begging

2008-09-22T19:05:00.001-07:00

Hi Friends! As many of you know, most of the posts here are actually copies of my weekly inspirational humor newspaper column, "Coffee Talk". I'm trying to peddle my little column to some more newspapers. I am creating a brochure and a website specifically for editors, and I'd like to include a "What Readers are Saying" section.

Do you have something nice to say about Coffee Talk? Leave a comment here, or contact me at: contact@renaebrumbaugh.com . I will be eternally grateful, friends!

Love to all -
--renae

Carrie

2008-09-19T02:07:00.001-07:00

“Mimi! Come quick! There’s a baby bird on the ground, and it needs our help!” Charis called out as she ran into her grandparents’ house.

“What? Well, don’t touch it. Let’s look and see if we can find its nest,” my mom told her. But alas, the bird was in the middle of a field, with only one small tree. Charis looked for a nest, even climbed the tree. There were no birds or nests in sight.

Finally, as gently as possible, Charis used a stick to scoop the tiny, helpless creature into a Dixie cup, and brought it to the house. And that, my friends, is how Carrie came into our lives.

It was more than two years ago. Mark and I were on an overnight trip, and the kids were staying with my parents. Charis was playing in the forty-acre yard, singing and skipping and chasing butterflies in the way that only a nine-year-old girl can do, when she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. She took a closer look, and found the baby hummingbird, far from its nest. Barely alive.

Ever-so-tenderly, Charis and Mimi made a nest for the little bird, inside that cup. Holding her finger over the end of a straw, Mimi showed Charis how to feed it. Orange Fanta. The drink of champions.

Mark and I were greeted with this scene, when we arrived to pick up our children. “Meet Carrie,” Charis told us, and we watched with fascination as the tiny bit of fuzz gulped down the orange drink as if it were manna from heaven.

“Why did you name her ‘Carrie’?” I asked.

“Because I just studied about the carrier pigeons,” Charis said.

“You mean the passenger pigeons?” I clarified.

“Oh . . . yeah. I guess I should call her Passi. But that’s not nearly as nice a name as Carrie.”

So, Carrie officially became a part of our family that day. She made her home on Mimi and Poppy’s porch – first in that Dixie cup, and later in a cardboard box. We made sure she was free to leave anytime she wanted. But she never did.

She never even flew, except for a few feet at a time, and only once or twice.

We did our homework, and learned that hummingbirds need the protein that comes from eating small bugs. We couldn’t get her to eat bugs. So we mixed a bit of dog food in with her orange soda.

Hey, you make do.

Then, Poppy did some research, and found some special, protein-infused hummingbird food. Fifty-something dollars a box!

Yep. He ordered the food. My dad may seem like a tough guy, but he’s really an old softie.

For the next several weeks, Carrie was treated like royalty. Her meals were prepared for her. She was hand-fed. Foster and Charis decorated the inside of her box with pictures of trees, and placed leaves and branches there, so she’d feel at home. They entertained her with puppet shows, which she watched without blinking. Charis even jumped up and down, in an attempt to teach her to fly.

Believe it or not, the bird jumped when Charis did!

Once, two other hummingbirds came and perched on the side of her box. If we had known she was planning to host a party, we would have prepared the orange dog food.

The lifespan of a hummingbird is believed to be around three years. But Carrie only lived for a few weeks. It was a sad day for our family, the day our Carrie died.

Charis took it the hardest. “It’s not fair. Why did she have to die? She never even got to fly.”

I didn’t have an answer for her. Why do things like that happen to anybody? She was right. It wasn’t fair.

But then, I thought about that tiny little bird, abandoned, alone in a field. She was doomed for starvation, or perhaps destined to be the dinner of some predator. Either of those would have been a horrible way to die.

Instead, Carrie was rescued. She was fed. She was loved. She got to experience what few birds do – a puppet show put on for her enjoyment. All things considered, I’d say she had a pretty good life.

It makes me wonder about my own life. Sometimes, things aren’t fair. Sometimes, it seems like things should be better. But perhaps I need to take a closer look at all the blessings God sends my way. Only God knows what my life might have been like, without His intervention.

He has fed me, and given me a place to live. He has sent me people to love, and to laugh with, people with whom I can celebrate life. He has loved me.

All things considered, I’d say I’ve had it pretty good.

Luke 12:6 – 7 “Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.”

Smear Campaign

2008-09-05T07:28:00.000-07:00

My children are often involved in smear campaigns. As a matter of fact, at least one of them is, at least once a day. Sometimes, both of them. They smear grape jelly on the counter. They smear peanut butter on their clothing. They smear dirt from the garden all over my carpets.

As you can imagine, this frustrates me. Many days, I feel more like the maid than the mom. At times, I have even considered going on strike. But then I remember – they are just children. Of course they are going to make mistakes, and leave behind messes. That is what children do.

And I also must remind myself of the clothes I have had to get rid of because I have spilled things or smeared things on them, leaving permanent stains. Yes, I am clumsy. I spill things. Please forgive me.

It is the knowledge that I, too, make mistakes and leave messes that keeps me from quitting my job as a stay-at-home mom. When I mess up, I don’t want or need anyone to judge me, or remind me of my failures. I just need someone to help me clean up my mess, or support me while I clean it up myself.

As we gear up for our next presidential election, it seems there is a lot of smearing going on. But this kind of thing isn’t unique to politics. At water coolers across the country and around the world, there is gossip and slander, judgment and criticism. We criticize our bosses for the way they lead. We criticize the stylish woman for spending too much money on clothes, and the frumpy woman for not spending enough on clothes. We criticize the mayor and the city council members and the school board and the teachers and . . . well, you get the picture. We are all quick to point fingers. We are all quick to find fault. It is our nature.

But can you imagine with me a better, more perfect world? Can you imagine what a great place this would be, if we all felt safe? I am so grateful for our military men and women who work to keep us safe from terrorists. But honestly, I don’t always feel safe, right here in our homeland. And it’s not the terrorists I fear. It’s the gossip, the slander, the judgment that we sling at one another.

I am far from perfect. You don’t even need a magnifying glass to find my faults – they are right out in the open for everyone to see. I make mistakes, just as we all do. But I really think it’s my flaws, my weaknesses that make me a stronger, more compassionate person. The mistakes I’ve made in the past have made me more tolerant, more loving toward others who make those same mistakes.

I want to be the kind of person who makes others feel safe. I don’t want anyone to ever fear me, or worry that I will judge them or hurt them with my words. I don’t want others to wonder if I will criticize them and slander them behind their backs. I want them to know that, no matter what their weaknesses, I will support them and love them and try to help them in any way I can. I want to be always gentle, never harsh, always uplifting, never degrading, always loving, never hateful.

Those are lofty goals. But why shouldn’t we aim for the very best? Why should we settle for being mean, judgmental, haughty, hateful people, when we can aspire to being good and loving and kind and . . . safe?

All it will take is a little self control. After all, we all have those unkind thoughts. But we don’t have to act on them. Just because something shows up in our brains doesn’t mean we have to let it tumble out of our mouths. It is our actions, not our thoughts, which show the depth of our character. And amazingly, once we train ourselves to act in the right way, our thoughts will often follow.

So next time my little ones smear chocolate on their brand new church clothes, I’m going to take a deep breath, smile, and say, “Oops! It’s okay. We all make mistakes.”

And I’ll remember that my response to others’ mistakes will last a lot longer than a stain.

John 8:7 "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her."

Try, Try Again

2008-08-29T06:31:00.000-07:00

Did I ever tell you about my first attempt at gardening? I actually decided to grow cherry tomatoes. From seeds. I bought some big clay pots, along with the expensive dirt. I carefully opened up my little seed packet and sprinkled the seeds around. Then I gently, carefully covered them with the soil, and trickled some water over them.

Day after day, I nurtured those little plants. Before long, I saw sprouts! There were far too many sprouts for one pot. So when they were big enough, I separated them. I had to buy more pots – 52 in all!

The plants grew and grew. Eventually, they got so tall they started leaning, so I bought the nifty little garden stakes. I carefully tied each tomato plant to its stake. My deck looked like a tomato jungle. But I was excited, because I love cherry tomatoes! I eat them like candy. I kept working and working, because I could envision the end results. I knew that eventually, I would have a glorious cherry tomato paradise, and could eat to my heart’s content.

But it didn’t exactly turn out that way. I’m embarrassed to tell you the results, but I will anyway. Out of all those 52 pots, all those 52 green bushy plants all neatly tied to 52 stakes, I got one little bitty cherry tomato! Only ONE! All that work, all those hours of loving labor, and I only got one teeny tomato.

Life just isn’t fair sometimes.

I was proud of my one tomato, though. Mark had helped some with the gardening project, so I offered to split it with him. But he laughed at me! So I popped the whole thing in my mouth and ate it, right in front of him. That’ll teach him to laugh at my misfortune!

That was ten years ago. I haven’t attempted to grow tomatoes, or any other vegetable, since then. Until this year, that is. This year, I decided to get back on the proverbial horse, and try again. I tried full-sized tomatoes this time.

No seeds. I bought established plants. Two of them.

No pots. I put them in the ground.

No stakes, either – I decided to let them roam.

Like before, I watered them and nurtured them, and before long, I saw tiny yellow flowers! A few weeks later, the little green balls appeared. Each day, they’ve grown bigger and bigger, until a few days ago – some of them started turning red!

I must have a dozen or more tomatoes out there on my two tomato bushes, with lots of yellow flowers still forming!

Boy, am I glad I tried again. And I’m so glad I have tomatoes! It took me ten long years to recover from the trauma of my first tomato failure. No telling how long it would have taken this time.

But just think, if I hadn’t worked up the courage to try again, I wouldn’t be experiencing the pride and sense of accomplishment I’m now feeling. The cherry tomatoes would have gotten the better of me. They would have won.

It makes me wonder what other things in my life I’ve let beat me. What kinds of things do I shy away from, because I’ve had one bad experience? Am I afraid of reaching out for new friendships because of one or two rejections? Do I hesitate to apply for that promotion because I’ve been turned down in the past?

Perhaps I should re-think things a little. Perhaps I should take more chances, and not wait a year or ten years or the rest of my life, for fear of failure. I wasted ten years without fresh tomatoes. I don’t want to waste another minute.

I plan to give the little guys a few more days to turn nice and red, and then, I’m going to pick them. I will enjoy a big, juicy tomato salad.

And I might even let Mark have a bite.

1 Timothy 4:15 “Be diligent in these matters; give yourself wholly to them, so that everyone may see your progress.”

Taping the Edges

2008-08-22T06:16:00.000-07:00

This week, I painted my bathroom. I have paint under my fingernails, which won’t come off. I fell off the ladder, spilled paint everywhere, and now I officially own “painters” clothing. And I even have some bruises to commemorate the experience. I finished the project at around 2:00 this morning, and now I’m exhausted. But at least it’s done.

I really don’t mind painting. The actual painting part, that is. What I hate is the stuff that comes before you can actually put the brush to the wall. You know what I’m talking about – all your flat surfaces have to be covered. All the edges have to be taped off. The walls have to be clean and ready.

The painting is actually fun – like a kindergarten art project. As long as the walls have been properly prepared, it’s really kind of hard to mess up. I like to take the roller and make zig-zag pictures before I cover them up. I even let my kids paint the corners and the low surfaces. After all, one swipe of the roller will cover up any mistakes.

But have you ever gotten in a hurry, been lazy, and tried to paint a room without doing all the work that comes beforehand? I have. And trust me, it turns into a big ol’ mess. And it is hard to fix that kind of mess.

It doesn’t really seem fair that ninety percent of the work goes into what you can’t see. No one will ever go into my bathroom and say, “Hmmmm . . . she did a nice job of taping off those edges.” But if I hadn’t taped the edges, my kindergarten art project would look like . . . a kindergarten art project.

Isn’t that just how life is? Ninety percent of our effort goes into the prep work. Most of our time is spent on the menial, difficult labor that no one ever sees. What we present to the world is just the finished product. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could be polished, wise, educated, interesting people without all the boring, back-breaking work it takes to be polished and wise?

But if we try to skip the behind-the-scenes work, our lives will most likely turn into a big ol’ mess. And those kinds of messes are usually hard to clean up.

The prep work of our lives is important work. This is the time we study for the big tests, gather food for the long drought ahead, make little mistakes so we won’t make the bigger ones. This is the learning time, the growing time, the praying time. And much of this work takes place in our minds and hearts – where no one can see.

But when we take the time to properly prepare ourselves, we will end up with a finished product we can be proud of. And whether we’re showing off a pretty bathroom or a loving and wise heart, we’ll be glad we spent the time, did the work, and taped the edges.

Proverbs 6:6 – 8 “Go to the ant, you sluggard; consider its ways and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provisions in summer and gathers its food at harvest.”

Sarah

2008-08-15T06:14:00.000-07:00

If anyone out there wants one of the sweetest, purdiest, kid-friendliest hound dogs that ever walked the face of the earth, she is available to you over at the Lampasas County Impound. She showed up last weekend out at my parents’ place in Kempner. One look at those gentle brown eyes, and I was in love. And I’m not even a dog person.

My kids spent endless hours romping around with this sweetheart of a beast, whom they named Sarah. She clearly loved the attention, and so did they. She followed them everywhere as they went on Robinhood-style adventures in the deep woods of Mimi and Poppy’s land.

You may be scratching your head and wondering why we didn’t adopt her. Well, it’s like this. We have two dogs already. As I said before, I’m not a dog person. Two dogs is already one over my limit.

And my parents would have kept her. Really, they would have. There was just one problem. Tinker, the cat, didn’t like Sarah. And while Sarah is gentle and sweet-natured, Tinker is a big ol’ mean tomcat bully. Clearly, the relationship was dysfunctional at best and downright violent at worst.

So, in an implementation of the last-hired-first-fired rule, Sarah was let go as a family pet. She is now unemployed, and in need of a position with some wonderful family who will adopt her and bask in all the love she has to offer.

Adoption is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? It evens the playing field. It allows those who could never hope to be a part of a family to become a full-fledged member of that family.

Babe Ruth was adopted. Imagine how proud his parents must have been! And Olympic Gold medallist Scott Hamilton was adopted. Melissa Gilbert, Faith Hill, Marilyn Monroe – all adopted.

Famous blues musician Bo Diddley was adopted, and so was poet Edgar Allen Poe. And one of the people in my own family was adopted as well, though you’d never be able to pick that person out by looking at us.

One of my favorite adoption stories is that of Moses, in the Bible. As an infant, he was plucked out of the river by the daughter of the man who wanted to kill him. She took Moses home to her father, and with a flutter of her eyelashes, she said, “Daddy, I found this little Hebrew baby. Can I keep him? Pretty please, Daddy?”

And of course, what father can say no to his little girl? “Okay. But you have to take care of him,” the Pharaoh told her.

So Moses, who would have been either killed or brought up as a slave, was instead given the finest education and treated like royalty. His circumstances prepared him to be the leader who would help set the Hebrew people free, and to eventually author what we now know as the Ten Commandments.

But the greatest adoption story of all time is my own. I was a nobody, with little hope or prospects for the future. But the King of Kings saw me, and invited me to become His daughter. And He wants to adopt you, as well. All you have to do is accept the invitation.

Ephesians 1:5 “In love he predestined us to be adopted as his sons through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will.”

Walking with Dinosaurs

2008-08-08T04:34:00.001-07:00

Did you hear about the recent discovery of a rock, near Glen Rose, Texas which showed a dinosaur footprint? There have been many authentic dinosaur footprints found in that area. However, this rock is unusual. If proven authentic, this rock will provide the first proof that humans and dinosaurs walked the earth at the same time.

You see, the toes of this particular dinosaur footprint lie smack-dab on top of a human footprint, and they appear to have been made within minutes of one another!

Now, I’m not going to speculate on whether or not this is an authentic discovery. I’m no paleontologist. I don’t even know the proper names for even the most common dinosaurs. I still refer to them as “the one with the long neck” or “the short, fat, scaly one.” And regardless of the outcome of this investigation, my views won’t change about creationism vs. evolution.

But as I looked at the picture of the stone, found online here, I couldn’t help but wonder about the story behind the footprints. I mean, was the dinosaur chasing the person? Did the person know he was being pursued? Maybe he was just walking along, gathering berries and whistling Dixie (did they whistle Dixie back then?) when all of a sudden, WHOMP! He was cordon-bleu.

Or was the dinosaur perhaps a pet of sorts? Anybody who has ever watched The Flintstones knows they had pets back then. Maybe the footprints belonged to Fred and Dino, out for their morning walk.

All kidding aside, I would hate to have been that guy, wouldn’t you? He must have been terrified! I mean, even if the dinosaur was a vegetarian, he was huge! And I don’t know about you, but I have never seen a friendly-looking dinosaur.

The fact that I have never seen any kind of dinosaur is totally beside the point.

There are times in our lives when we feel like we are being chased, and even stepped on, by dinosaurs. Sometimes, we worry about the bills, and they feel like dinosaurs looming over us. At times, people are cruel and unkind, and they seem more like man-eating dinosaurs than fellow humans.

When my husband Mark was told he had leukemia?

Big ol’ stompin’ dinosaur.

But there is good news, my friends! The God who created dinosaurs is bigger than the dinosaurs! And though He loves each of His creations, He loves us the most. We were made in His image, after all. No matter what is looming over us, or chasing us, no matter what threatens to eat us for lunch – God is bigger. He will help us.

He delivered Jonah from the belly of a whale. He delivered Daniel from the lion’s den. And surely, He will deliver you and me from our own beasts.

After all, you haven’t seen any dinosaurs around lately, have you?

Daniel 6:23 “And when Daniel was lifted from the den, no wound was found on him, because he had trusted in his God.”

What Not to Wear

2008-08-01T06:13:00.000-07:00

I am a big fan of education. I love learning, in every shape, form, and fashion. And as a proponent of education, I have become addicted to The Learning Channel.

Well, actually, to one particular show on The Learning Channel. I just can’t get enough of the show, “What Not to Wear.” Now don’t laugh. The show is educational. If it weren’t, it wouldn’t be on The Learning Channel. And I have actually learned a lot from watching that show.

In case you’re not familiar with “What Not to Wear,” I’ll tell you about it. Stacy and Clinton are the all-knowing professors of fashion. Viewers nominate unsuspecting fashion derelicts, and secret cameras hide and film these poor victims for several days. Then, when the person least expects it, Stacy and Clinton show up and publicly tell the person that they are a fashion train wreck.

I know, it sounds harsh. But next comes the great part. Stacy and Clinton then hand the person a credit card with $5,000 on it. The person is then whisked away to New York City for a week of intense fashion instruction and shopping. Oh, yeah, and they have to agree to be publicly ridiculed for their former fashion choices. And they have to let Stacy and Clinton throw all of their current clothing in a large metal trash can, while the entire free world watches.

This show has been life-changing for me. For example, I now understand that faded overalls paired with an equally faded t-shirt are never the best fashion choice. Even for the grocery store. Even if they are accompanied by a cute pink ball cap.

I have also learned, for the first time in my life, how to use eye-shadow to create a “smoky eye”. But apparently, the smoky eye look doesn’t match well with the faded overall look. But hey, I’m the student here, not the teacher. I’m still learning. You’ve gotta give me credit for that.

In spite of the fact that I faithfully watch this show, I still look more like the “before” people than the “after” people. I think I need some extra tutoring. So, if anybody out there would like to nominate me for this show, I’d be eternally grateful. I will not be offended. I will even bring you back a nice Stacy and Clinton mug from New York, as a thank you gift.

Honestly, I don’t know how I ended up being so fashion-challenged. My dear mother always looks like a million bucks, every time she steps out of the house. Her clothes always match, and her lipstick is always in place. She is one classy lady.

But though she may have failed miserably in passing on her fashion sense to me, she did pass on a few very important rules about what and what not to wear. And lucky for you, I’m about to share them.

1. Don’t wear a frown. It makes you ugly. No matter what you look like, a smile will make you more attractive.

2. Don’t wear a haughty attitude. No one likes to be looked down upon.

3. Don’t wear sarcasm. It is a sorry excuse for real humor.

4. Don’t wear gossip and slander. Classy people talk about things, not people.

5. Do wear love. Always make the people around you feel accepted and important.

I’m so glad I have these rules imbedded in my heart. I don’t always follow them
like I should, but they’re there, in the deepest part of my brain. And I know that no matter what I look like on the outside, following these rules will make me attractive to other people.

Now, if I could just get my hands on that $5,000 shopping spree, I’d be all set.

Colossians 3:12, 14 “Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience . . . And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.”

High Speed Chase 2

2008-07-25T05:54:00.000-07:00

Last Friday, I posted the following article, which was supposed to be published in our local paper as well. Then Cheryl left a comment which made me re-think the entire article. It was one of those "I could have had a V-8" moments! I was so disappointed that the article had already been published - or so I thought.

But guess what? Due to a fluke accident (HA! We know better, don't we?) my editor ran an article of mine from several weeks back, instead of this one. So, I rewrote the ending and resubmitted it. Here is the second version of:

High Speed Chase

My husband is in the wrong profession. He may be a pastor on the weekends and a landman during the week, but in my opinion, he totally missed his calling. He should have been a bounty hunter.

Several nights ago, at 11:30 p.m., my phone rang. It was Mark. He said, “First of all, I want you to know that I am okay.”

You know that any middle-of-the-night phone conversation that begins with that statement is loaded. I pulled myself out of a deep sleep and braced myself for the unknown.

He continued. “I got hit by a drunk driver. Or at least I think he was drunk. It was a hit and run.”

Okay. I have now found a tried-and-true substitute for caffeine. I was wide awake in an instant. “A hit and run? Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked him.

“Oh, yeah. I’m standing here at the other guy’s truck. He sustained a lot more damage than I did.”

The other guy’s truck? “I thought you said it was a hit and run,” I said, with a sinking feeling in my stomach. Remember, I’ve lived with this man for seventeen years. I know what he is likely to do in any given situation.

“Oh, yeah. I chased him down,” he said, as if this were the most normal conversation in the world. Why was I not surprised, not even a little?

But of course, I played the part of the delicate Southern Belle, shocked and appalled at such reckless behavior. I know my role in this relationship. “You what? Sweetheart, you could have been killed! What if he had a gun?”

“Aww, I stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t have shot me,” he said. I didn’t know you could hear a swagger. But I promise you, there was a swagger in his voice.

Silence. I honestly didn’t know which question to ask next. “Did you call the police?” I finally asked.

“Yeah, they’re here now. There were two guys in the car, and they got away. They left the truck behind and took off on foot.”

Sheesh! Why can’t my life be a little more boring?

So, long story short, I’m glad we have good insurance. His truck is now fixed. I have no idea what happened with the fugitives. And as long as I live, I will never understand why testosterone forces men to do the things they do. But I have learned to “accept the things I cannot change,” as the serenity prayer says.

But the truth is, Mark chased down those guys for a number of reasons. He was mad. He wanted justice. And he wanted his truck fixed.

Did you know that we have all been involved in a high speed chase, at one time or another? That’s right. You and me. Only we were not the pursuers. We were the ones being chased. Some of you reading this are still being chased!

All of us over the age of, say, twelve, have run from God at one time or another. Foolish as it may seem, we have tried to get away from Him. But you know what?

He chases us. He pursues us, because He loves us. We are important to Him. And though He will not force Himself on anyone, He will never give up the chase. More than anything, He wants us to stop running and let Him catch us.

When we do, He doesn’t offer harsh judgment or cruel punishment, like many believe. He offers forgiveness, mercy, goodness, love, and a place in His family. We get written into the will, to receive an inheritance from our Father.

All we have to do is stop running.

Psalm 23:6 “Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

High Speed Chase

2008-07-18T19:43:00.001-07:00