to blog or not to blog – my decision

August 25th, 2010 3 Comments

Courtesy of Photobucket

Thank you to everyone who responded to my last post. I’ve given it some thought, and I can only do what I think will work the best for everyone involved.

I’m a writer, and writer’s can’t typically set their quills down and back away. Something in them always brings them back. And it’s for that reason that I will keep my blogs open.

Readers are loyal friends who can’t stay away and keep coming back for more. You look for the facebook updates to alert them to new posts, or you faithfully read each post via their Google reader. 

Who am I to rob the writer or the reader? I want to continue, and I don’t care if I ever make a cent. What I do care about is if there are people listening. So as long as I’m getting any feedback, however great or small, I’ll keep on keepin’ on.

Having said that, when school starts next week, my posting frequency will very likely go down. It’s impossible for me to tell how much time I’ll be devoting to school, because we are trying new things this year. But I do commit to doing my best to post at least once a week. If I can do more, you know I will. I will do my best to make it worth your while, and at the same time, I’ll do my best to not overwhelm my little self and burn out. Crash and burn, if you will (I’m a pro).

So again, thank you to everyone who responded, for helping me think through my goals, aspirations, and longings. I appreciate each and every one of my readers (oh yes I do!!), and I’m so happy you are willing to stick around for a nobody like myself. ;)

Amen?

3 Comments

to blog, or not to blog – that is the question

August 20th, 2010 13 Comments

My daughter and son-in-law

Ok, don’t look at me in that tone of voice. I’m aware that we all dread these type of posts.

And I’m sorry. I truly am! But I am struggling with whether to keep pouring my time and mental energy into blogging, and what else is there to do but write about it? I have two blogs (don’t tell me if you didn’t know that, just play along please). This one, and my family blog.  I’ve never tried to monetize either one in any significant way, because I’ve always looked at them both as ministries.

With my family blog, I want to provide family with updated photos, and what’s going on in my life. And I’ve hoped that other stay-at-home mom’s would stop by and be encouraged, inspired, more aware of God’s beauty …. something.

With this blog, I tend to dig deep and really give you something that’s worth reading. Well, except for those ridiculous Pleasantly Disturbed posts. Those are just me trying to make people laugh … because I love to see you smile. Even though I can’t. (I hope you heard the extra dose of sanity ringing loud and clear in that phrase).  

Both blogs serve their purpose, but they can also take a lot of time. And with homeschooling starting in a week, I’m feeling kind of intimidated. I was serious when I wrote this post and I don’t want to preach one thing and do another.

It seems like if I start the day with the computer, we are joined at the hip for the rest of the day. I get involved with other people (I love you guys!), and my focus ends up being on you instead of home. Home may be where the heart is, but my if my mind is absent, my heart tends to follow.

By no means have I decided to shut things down. I guess I’m just wearing my heart on my sleeve here and wondering if all y’all have had similar struggles. Besides, who else do I discuss blogging with other than my readers?

I told Shaun last night that I’m putting all this effort into something that doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. When I work, I want what I do to count for eternity. I don’t post for comments, or flattery, or anything really, other than hoping it blesses the socks off someone out there. Or better yet, moves them closer to God.

Perhaps that’s where the problem lies. In the blogging world, sometimes folks stop by and yet I receive no feedback. That’s only bad in the sense that I’m left to simply hope an impact is being made (insert picture of preacher preaching to a ton of bricks here). Ask my husband … if I don’t know where I stand with someone, I can’t be their friend. If you hate me, I’m ok with that. I just need to know.

This is where the vicious cycle starts. I get bogged down with blogging and think, This is ridiculous. I am not putting myself out there one more time. Not one more! And then BOOM! Someone leaves me a comment that tells me what I’m doing matters. To keep on keepin’ on. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can …

But in the grand scheme of things, does anything I do here or here matter?

Mothering matters. Wifing matters. Making quilts for people matter. I can tell by the looks on their faces when I give it to them.

Perhaps I’m looking for tangible results.

Perhaps tangible results will not be shown until I reach that beautiful shore.

 

13 Comments

pleasantly disturbed. toilets, moms, and church folk.

August 18th, 2010 11 Comments

 

Hey, hey, hey! Time for some pleasantly disturbed thoughts here on The Broken Quill! Yeah, yeah, I know. What else is new?

I think some church folk might be disturbed. At least the church folk in my circles. What’s up with not clapping when someone plays a nice offeratory? Or when we’re serenaded with psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs? Like it’s against the Ten Commandments or something. I mean, heaven forbid we should encourage by tapping our palms together. Oh! Unless it’s children under the age of 15. You can clap for them. Otherwise, a hearty Amen! is the only spiritual thing to do.

Yeah, see … disturbed. Wonder what would happen if next time I went to the movies, I stood up when the credits started rolling and shouted, “Amen!”

Dare me?

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You know what else is disturbing? Toilets.

Some kids just have this knack for knowing when my fanny hits the toilet seat. The very second I feel cool, white porcelain on my hiney, I hear, “Mooooooooommmmmm!”

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Speaking of mom’s … my mom and I were going through the checkout line in my hometown the other day. The clerk got down to business and ran all the groceries through in a jiffy, right? But Mom … she decides to wait ’til aaaallll the groceries are tallied up … and then she brings out her checkbook.  

The clerk stared incredulously as she took her sweet time, writing as carefully as a second grader getting graded on a penmanship paper.

I said, “Say Mom … you know they have these nifty things called bank cards now, right? Like .. right now, you could just whip your card through this here little machine, sign your Jane Hancock, and let this nice man get on to his next customer. It’s really a beautiful, fast thing.”

The clerk shook his head, then busied himself with the bagging.

“Oh, shut up,” Mother yelled.

The clerk threw us a look that said, “Don’t make me call security.”

Mom was horrified. “Oooohh, I wasn’t talking to you!!! I was talking to my daughter!”

“Oh yeah, great, Mom,” I said. “Like that’s a whole lot better, yelling at your daughter to shut up in a public place.”

The clerk continued to stare.

By this point, Mom and I are laughing so hard we’re trying not to pee our pants.

I finally gathered my wits about  me, and Mom followed suit.

“So this is your daughter?” the clerk asked, trying to get his facts straight for when security arrived.

“Yeah,” Mom said, as she scribbled the amount on the check. “And I don’t even like her.”

Again, we laughed so hard we were both hoping we chose to wear feminine protection that morning. It’s a pain getting old.

The clerk sighed and handed us the receipt.

“You saved five dollars and thiry cents today, ma’am.”

“I did?” she asked, pleased as punch. “Look, Brenda! I saved five bucks!”

“Yeah, Mom. Now be a good customer and pay the nice clerk for the emotional trauma you’ve caused.”

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I honestly don’t know what people’s problem is now days. It’s like if you laugh and have a good time, they think you’re crazy. Or disturbed.

I think they’re just jealous.  

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**This post has been part of Duane Scott’s blog carnival. Click here for more!

11 Comments

book review: the same kind of different as me

August 16th, 2010 2 Comments

Courtesy of Google Images

In light of my last post, I know some of you have been waiting for this review. I apologize for the delay (I was on vacation). But without further ado, here is my official impression of the book:

The Same Kind of Different As Me, by Ron Hall and Denver Moore is a true story (told in two voices) of friendship, loyalty, and heartbreak. Denver grew up as a sharecropper, but eventually turned away from it and landed on the streets of Fort Worth. By the time he meets Ron and his wife, Debbie, he’s an angry, unapproachable bear. But Ron (a wealthy art dealer), and his wife, Miss Debbie, are determined to love Denver through the ministry at the homeless shelter. And with time, Denver’s walls of defense come down, and he opens his heart to Mr. Ron and Miss Debbie.

The friendship aspect of this book is quite touching, and for that reason I’m glad I read the book. But approximately two thirds of the way into the book, when Miss Debbie passes away, the author’s took a side street, making the book as a whole seem like one big epic fail.

The manner in which Miss Debbie dies is really quite horrifying. Although her physical pain was very disturbing, the family’s lack of peace through her death was even more disturbing. Miss Debbie fought for life like nobody I had ever read about. In addition, her family couldn’t seem to “let go” in spite of the agony she was enduring. And so she hung on.

And hung on…

And hung on…

It left this reader wondering where the peace of God was in the midst of it all. Why was Miss Debbie hanging on so deseperately for this life, when a much more glorious, peaceful, pain free life awaited her? Why couldn’t her family bear to let her go?

Perhaps that seems really insensitive on my part. Please don’t accuse me of never having lost anyone close to me. It’s not about that. It’s about not understanding why one would keep a desperate grip on this world when it is clear that nothing else can be done. That mindset is not typical of the Christian life, and it left me wondering why Miss Debbie and her family grasped at every straw there was, including extremely painful, expensive, experimental chemo treatments for Debbie that led to nowhere.

I do understand the mentality to fight for life, and I agree that we should – up to a point. But even after it was clear that Miss Debbie was not going to make it much longer … the fight wore on and on. Perhaps she had peace, and the author simply didn’t convey it properly. But as the reader, I am left to only hope that she did. Because it certainly didn’t come through in the words her husband wrote. 

Not long after Debbie is gone, Ron invites Denver to stay permanently at their residence. Denver agrees, reluctantly, because now that Miss Debbie is gone, he’s not feeling as welcome as he once did. So during his first night of permanent residence, Miss Debbie appears to Denver in the night. He claims he never went to sleep (and therefore the ”visitation” is real and not a dream). Miss Debbie trip traps in his bedroom, making lots of footstep noises, and appears to Denver in her beautiful ”heavenly body”. The mission of her “visit” is to assure Denver that he is always welcome in their home.

I agree that the encounter was real. But I don’t agree that is was Miss Debbie. By this point in the book, I was moved to check on the back cover to make sure I read correctly that it was non-fiction.

Later in the book, when Ron and Denver are touring one of Denver’s relative’s house, another ghost appears. They didn’t see it, but the loud footsteps told them it was there. It ultimately chased them out of the house and into their vehicle. Just like a good horror movie, the brand new car wouldn’t start. After much cajoling, sweating, and fear … it finally starts, and they are able to sputter down the street, as though it were an old junk yard truck.

As if that wasn’t enough ghost stories, Denver also tells of seeing a ghost while keeping watch over Miss Debbie’s grave one night.

I was deeply touched by Ron and Denver’s friendship in the first portion of the book. But veering off into the telling of the spirit world and thereby leading others astray theologically was disappointing. Not only was I disappointed in the authors, but in Thomas Nelson. God is not the author of fear. Fear in death and fear of ghosts are not from the Lord, and yet they were both widely accepted throughout the last third of the book as part of the Chirstian life.

Unfortunately, for me, the lack of theological correctness coupled with the absence of Christian peace overrode the joy of Ron and Denver’s friendship and was fatal to the book.

It burst my bubble, if you will.

For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. ~2Tim 1:7

2 Comments

pleasantly disturbed. freaky thursday.

August 5th, 2010 14 Comments

Blog Carnival

The book I’m reading completely freaks me out. I honestly don’t know what to think of it. I’m not finished reading it, but I’m a little more than 3/4 of the way through. The first part of the book is simply a relationship developing between an ex-slave/homeless man and a rich art dealer. The book goes on to tell the story of the art dealer’s wife (Miss Debbie). Miss Debbie instigated the relationship between her husband and the homeless man through volunteering in a homeless shelter. In fact, the homeless shelter became her life’s ministry.

And now Miss Debbie is dying.

I sometimes cry when I watch movies. I think it’s the music along with the story that gets me. But I do not cry when I read. Last night, however, I sobbed. The struggle that Miss Debbie is going through with her digestive cancer is what I thought I was in for years ago when I fell ill. And it brought back fears and memories that I prefer to keep at bay.

So there I was at 11:00 at night, desperately needing to go to sleep, but my thumbs kept turning pages. By 11:14 last night, I turned the page that revealed Miss Debbie was finally gone. And I do mean finally. If she really did die like her husband (the art dealer) claims, I was glad to see her go. I hope that doesn’t make me a bad person, but I suspect it doesn’t, given that her family prayed for her death (after more than a year of clinging to the hope that she would live).

I felt my emotions calm a bit, now that Miss Debbie was at peace, and I thought I would read until the end of the chapter to get settled down completely.

That was a huge mistake.

Because at the end of the chapter, Miss Debbie came back.

You heard me. She came back.

She visited said ex-slave/homeless man in the night, to let him know he was welcome in their home (he was having doubts now that Miss Debbie was gone).

And then I was completely freaked out, and I still am.

Why?

Because this is a non-fiction book!

Only problem is … I don’t believe that dead people roam the earth. So now I’m stuck. Do I believe the writer, who with all of his heart believes that Miss Debbie came back to reassure him he was welcome in her home? Or do I stick with my belief that the dead do not walk and talk with those of us still trapped in time?

I do not appreciate theological ping pong so close to midnight. Nor do I appreciate someone telling me that the dead visted them as I lie in a dark bedroom, with my four dollar night light, unable to see anything in the dark around me.

It’s freaky.

At 11:40, I closed the book and put it on the dresser by my bed. I got up and used the restroom – more to calm my thoughts than anything else. I climbed back in bed, turned out said night light, and closed my eyes.

Sleep would not come quickly. So I prayed.

I prayed that the dead would stay dead and not come visit me. Because I don’t care how beautiful Miss Debbie was after she was dead and gone.

I don’t want her vistin’ me in the middle of the night.

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This post has been part of Duane Scott’s blog carnival, Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays. Click here to link up, or read more posts!

14 Comments

believe it or not

August 4th, 2010 4 Comments

Courtesy of Photobucket

Do you ever feel like Christianity isn’t working for you? Do others seem to flourish spiritually, while you sit idly by, struggling and not feeling the love and security they are obviously in tune to?

I’ve been there for long periods of time in my life. It’s like seeing people sing … without the ability to hear the joyous melody or the soul quenching lyrics. Like watching people eat, while sitting by and only dreaming of how a warm brownie and ice cold vanilla ice cream melt in their mouths. Or being on a ride at the fair. The ride tech does everything in his power to make the little spinny teacup ride as enjoyable as possible, but as I spin around and around, the laughter never spills over. Because I’m so void of joy that the simple pleasures of life are no longer pleasures. They’re annoyances. And it seems as though spiritual life becomes a joy and satisfaction meant for others only.

That’s not how God wants it, of course. He wants us to “taste and see that the Lord is good.” Has he not given us all things richly to enjoy?

In my soul searching, and studying, I’ve come to realize that the missing ingredient to joy is usually belief. Or you might say faith. It’s one thing to read God’ Word and agree with it. It’s another to believe the promises that are clearly laid out.

Does having a double dose of faith mean that all of my life’s circumstances will turn out for the better? Does it mean I’ll never lose a child? Never get sick? That my kids will always make good decisions?

Of course not. But expecting those things (wittingly or unwittingly) will wreak some serious spiritual havoc.

I’m not going to claim that I understand why one person has trials and not another. Or why the jerks of this world seem to get much further than the godly. It truly does not make any sense to me, and it seems as though the evil flourish while the righteous perish at times. But am I going to believe that God is in control, and that all things work together to those that love Him? Will I choose to believe Psalm 1 when it says, “For the LORD knows the way of the righteous, but the way of the ungodly shall perish”?

It’s evident to me that true joy and happiness are determined in which belief I choose.  

I can believe all things work together for my good. Or not.

I can believe He loves me with an everlasting love. Or not.

I can believe  He loves my children more than I do. Or not.

I can believe every hardship placed in my life has a purpose, and He is working. And pruning. And refining my heart. Or not.

I can either be tossed to and fro, like a ship on a stormy sea. Or I can be rooted, grounded, and peaceful …

         like a tree
         Planted by the rivers of water,
         That brings forth its fruit in its season,
         Whose leaf also shall not wither;
         And whatever he does shall prosper. (Ps. 1:3)

It all depends on what I believe.

Or not.

“Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” Mark 9:24

4 Comments

the king’s heart

July 31st, 2010 4 Comments

Courtesy of Photobucket

I opened an email from a friend today with a picture of Obama enclosed. In it, he was walking onto an airplane with a book in his hand. The book was entitled, The Post American World. I went to Amazon and checked it out, because the title freaked me out (the intended goal of the email). It seems to be a book about how countries around us are rising, and America is taking a back seat. What creeped me out further is that the author seems to think this is a grand thing. (Notice I keep saying “seems” – because I have not read the book).

I have heard the author is Muslim. I don’t know if that’s true. The conclusion that folks are drawing is that Obama is Muslim, because he reads a book by a Muslim author.

I also hear that Obama is not an American born citizen, his hero is Hitler, he smokes six packs of cigarettes a day ….

If you’re like me, by this point, you’re inwardly screaming, “Stop the madness!”

So many rumors, so much horror and fear.

You know what? I agree with a lot of the assessments of our President. I’ll refrain from saying exactly what I think out of respect for his position. But here’s the thing I would like to say to American Christians who are opposed to our leader: Get a grip. And focus.

I sympathize with your fear that our country is being taken over by a Muslim leader who is an American hater at heart. But at some point, we all need to put our heads between our knees and take a deep breath …. and remember Who is in control.

Psalm 21:1 says this:

“The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord,
Like the rivers of water;
He turns it wherever He wishes.”

Each time I read that verse, I start to breathe again. It tells me that the king isn’t in as much control as he may believe. And it tells me that God is in control. So it boils down to trust. Do I trust the Lord to guide the king’s heart, like the rivers of water, turning it wherever He wishes?

Yes. Yes I do.

And I hope you do too. Because I know this is causing a lot of anxiety in a lot of Christians hearts. So please … if you’re falling prey to the fear, rest easy, and trust that Lord will turn our President’s heart wherever He wishes.

This is by no means a license to sit idly by and whistle while you whittle.

  • Get out there and do everything you can to speak out against injustice against the unborn
  • Go vote.
  • Take part in the tea parties or anything else that the Lord would lead you to politically
  • Write letters to the editor

But for the sake of sanity, let’s trust the Lord while we work. Perhaps the number of ulcers will be reduced, which will in turn reduce our need for more healthcare.

Because we all know that that’s coming to a screeching hault …

Oh wait … there I go again.

Say it with me. “The king’s heart ….”

4 Comments

pleasantly disturbed. pooh bear and the apostle paul.

July 29th, 2010 4 Comments

 

 

My week has been rather unpleasant. I’m calling it Sanctification Week - Boot Camp For Christians.

Not really. I am nowhere near what the Apostle Paul went through. I have not been flogged, persecuted, or shipwrecked.

However … the thorn in the flesh? I think maybe I can identify. Hard to tell, since Paul was kind of tight lipped about what his thorn exactly was. But I certainly have a thorn, and sometimes I feel like if someone doesn’t remove it, I’m going to scream bloody murder.

Except, I don’t scream. It’s very unlady like. Whining, while nibbling on some cheese is much more attractive and socially acceptable.

So I whine. And I do nibble, because cheese is one out of four things I can nibble on. The other three things? Meat, homemade yogurt, and honey to sweeten the yogurt. That’s it … my diet in a nutshell. Only not, because I can’t have nuts.

After years of eating those four items, I can honestly say it’s getting old. I’m hungry and have no desire to eat the only foods my stomach will accept. I’m getting seriously concerned that if I eat one more drop of honey, I’ll turn into my childhood nickname, and transform into Pooh Bear overnight. With all that honey consumption, is it any wonder that I keep getting massive cavities? I seem to have inhereted Pooh’s name, and dental problems, but I think he is more huggable than I am with that big rumbly tumbly of his. Whatever. I have bigger eyes, and longer eyelashes. So take that, ya’ big fat honey hog. I mean seriously … save some for the skinny folk.

I wonder if the my honey consumption has anything to do with the fact that bumble bees seem to hover around my head like flies on poop. I think they may suspect thievery on my part.

Speaking of Pooh Bear … did you know that my daughter is moving to Florida? While searching for a new place to live, her and her hubby ran across one in their price range … located on 100 Acre Wood Rd. A bit ironic for the daughter of Pooh Bear, wouldn’t you say?

Back to Paul’s experience of being shipwrecked. Do you think maybe he was ever lost? No, no. Not spiritually lost. We all know he was spiritually lost. I mean lost, like … powerful confused as to your geographical whereabouts. If so, then we have yet another thing in common. Because wandering around and around three consecutive neighborhood’s for an hour straight trying to find the family in our church with a new baby definitely qualifies as being lost. I’m going to pretend they didn’t mind that their taco casserole was ice cold, or that their lemon pie was warm. I’m also going to pretend that nursing mothers who just went through an unusually rough delivery do not get hungry just because it’s an hour past dinner time.

I could go into other sanctifying events of the past week, but I’ll save you from it. Suffice it to say that God is really quite interested in refining me. Getting lost, and other quirky trials definitely have their place in this process. But cooking/baking and never being able to partake is particularly sanctifying. And while I don’t let myself get caught up in the pity of all of it very often, working all day on a delighfully smelling meal can be especially trying, whether that meal is for my family or a different family.

 The sanctifying part of it comes when, in spite of all my afflictions, I remain pleasant. Remaining pleasant in all of the circumstances that disturb me (insert picture of Brenda saying, “I”m not a awitch, I’m your wife!”) is the goal. A goal that will only be reached with the help of a Savior.

I’m not tooting my own horn here. I’m simply relaying a very large part of what my life is like. Depending on your reaction, I either need to say “You’re welcome,” or “I’m sorry.”

So … you’re welcome. And I’m sorry.

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*Read more delightfully random, pleasantly disturbed posts here …. if you dare. :-)

4 Comments

pleasantly disturbed. exposing the lies.

July 22nd, 2010 7 Comments

 

Ding! Ding! Time for Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays, so get your silly hat on and hop on over to Duane Scott’s site for more!

But wait! Read this post first!

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Today on PDT, we’re discussing the lies we hear every day. Well …. I’m discussing the lies I hear every day. Feel free to join in at the comment section at the end of this post.

Lie #1: Have it your way.

McDonald’s proudly proclaims that I can have it my way. Sounds good, doesn’t it?

Like a lot of pickles on your “hamburger?” Have as many as you want! Want ice water, as opposed to bottled? No problemo! Onions make you gag? We’ll leave them off!

Uh huh. Sure you will. McDonald’s takes credit cards, right? Wrong. At my McD’s, it’s cash or checks. Okay, so I was impressed with the way they scribbled the word “Sorry” at the bottom of this announcement. Nonetheless, I didn’t have any cash, and who is talented enough to drive thru and write a check at the same time? Not me.

So I have my daughter write the check, and I hurriedly jot my John Hancock as I stop at the window. I hand it to the scowling employee behind the window. She looks at it. Looks at me. Looks back at the check. 

“Uhmm, the total was $12.1o.”

I smile, and think, Really? Wow, it would have been really nice to know that your monitor is totally bogus. Please excuse me while I dig for 20 minutes through my purse to find an extra thirty cents. Oh, and while I’m doing that … could you please dig through your purse to find any sense at all!? Because this Mickey D’s experience is goin’ down in a blog post, bucko. And if you don’t want any bad advertising, you had better shape up.

I hand her the $.30, smile, and drive to the next window, where I see a bag of food with a hand attached sticking out of the window, silently advising me to get a move on. I take the bag from the other scowling employee, she throws a bottled water at me, and we’re on our way. Not that I ordered a bottled water, but it certainly explained the extra two bucks I wasn’t expecting to pay.  

Wait a minute. Something’s wrong.

“Didn’t you get a drink with your meal?” I ask my son, as I drove away.

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to go back in and get it.”

He groans.

“Sorry. Just show them your receipt,” I say, as I whip into what I assume to be a parking spot. Hard to tell since the lines haven’t been painted since 1978.

He tries the main door, which is locked. Makes perfect sense, being that it’s noon and all. He tries the other door. It’s open. He lets said scowling employee know of her mishap. Well, one of her mishaps. She gladly hands him a coke.

A very, very small coke.

He says, “I think I may have ordered a larger coke than that.”

“You got your receipt?” she scowls (shocking, I know).

“Yes. It’s right here.”

She studies it. For five freaking minutes.

“Yep. You get a medium.”

We’re back on the road. I merge onto the highway at the sound of paper crinkling and coke sipping.

My daughter announces, “They didn’t give us any ranch.”

We ordered two packages of the stuff. And the thing you have to realize about my son and ranch is that it’s everything to him. When it comes to eating, ranch dressing is more important than the stuff he’s dipping in it. No ranch is equivalent to no strawberries on a strawberry shortcake.

And that’s just wrong. Dead wrong.

So Mickey D’s … don’t tell me we can have it our way and then slop it up like we’re on some kind of hog farm. And please stop adding insult to injury by making me pay outrageous prices for this stuff you call food.

Oh look! Is that an Arby’s across the street? I hear their meat is actually meat.

Yeah. I’ll do it, Ronald McDonald. You always creeped me out anyway.

Lie #2: One size fits all.

What they mean is …. one size fits all fat people with big hands, big heads, happy beer guts, hippo hips, and thunder thighs.  

Lie #3: It’ll make you poop every day.

Come on, Activia. Am I really supposed to believe Jamie Lee Curtis when she proudly proclaims that eating one of your little yogurts a day will ensure that I have nice, firm (but not too firm!) poops every. single. day of my life?

Hmmm … come to think of it …. she does look kind of relaxed in those commercials.

Okay, okay. I admit it. I don’t know by experience if this is a lie or not. I am lactose intolerant, so I have to take their word for it. I’m just saying that I’m strongly suspicious. Besides, if it were true, wouldn’t plugged up Americans be flocking to the store, only to find empty shelves? I don’t know about your store, but my store is always well stocked.

To Activia’s credit, they do offer a full money back guarantee … and they’re still in business.

So it either makes perfect poops …

Or it tastes better than Yoplait.

7 Comments

blest be the tie

July 19th, 2010 1 Comment

Courtesy of Photobucket

Today I connected with my cousin, Gary, on Facebook. I lurked around on his “wall” a little bit, reading past statuses, and getting a general recap of what it’s like to talk to Gary.

Gary and I were raised in totally different circumstances. We lived in the same town, but had vastly different parents, schools, home life, etc. In fact, polar opposite would be a good way to describe the differences.

When I found him on Facebook, memories of our childhood came flooding back. Granted, we didn’t spend a whole lot of time together. But the time we did spend together, I remember vividly. 

I’ll be honest. I had a crush on him (well!! he was awful cute!), and I was completely freaked out all at the same time.  I was sweet and innocent (really … I was!), and attended a strict fundamental Baptist school. Gary was wild and into things I had only heard about in the form of a “good” hell fire and brimstone preaching fit.   

Maybe I didn’t know Gary that well growing up, but that didn’t lessen the sincere burden I felt for his spiritual condition. I remember praying quite often, that God would save Gary. I often felt it was hopeless … perhaps because I had never witnessed a dramatic conversion … and if Gary was ever converted, it was sure to be dramatic. Because I am confident that true salvation results in true change … and there would be a heap big amount of change that would take place in Gary’s life if he accepted Jesus.  

We each grew up (and I use that term loosely), moved away, got married, did all the things a body does in this lifetime. Just a few years back, he moved close to our hometown, where I visit two or three times per year. During thoses visits, he often comes to a family gathering, and brings his lovely wife and two children.

At the first gathering, I didn’t really know what to expect. Would he have long hair? A mohawk? Colored? Would he even have hair? Does this wife love him, unlike the previous two? Does he love his kids? Is he still wrapped up in the destructive lifestyle that burdened my heart for him years ago?

So many questions, all making me apprehensive.

But my apprehension was put to rest.

Oh, not at first site. Because Gary didn’t have any hair, was dressed in all black (albeit stylishly), and appeared the same ol’ eccentric, reserved, serious, and most peculiar, Gary. But it didn’t take a rocket scientist to come to the conclusion that I was looking at a changed man.

Confusion, unease, and the sense of floundering no longer plagued his facial expressions. They were replaced with understanding, with thankfulness, and yes, with regret. But most of all, peace.

Don’t get me wrong. The path to spiritual healing for Gary hasn’t been an easy one, and it’s a path that he is still on. But that’s ok, because all of us are. The important part is that he’s on the path – the path that I long ago pleaded with Jesus to put him on.

I can’t say that Gary and I will ever like the same music, books, style of clothing, or even church denomination. But the important part is that Jesus saved me, and Jesus saved Gary. It’s not only written on his face, but on the face of his wife, and his two unspeakably precious children.

There are points of Christianity that are undebatable. They’re off limits, because they’re truth, and you can’t mess with the truth. But hairstyles and music preferences appropriately fall dimly into the background when Gary and I visit. Because the main thing … Jesus …  bonds us. Jesus … the missing link that allows two very different people from very different backgrounds to find common ground, a common goal in life, and the shared, precious knowing of what it is to be forgiven.

Blest be the tie that binds
Our hearts in Christian love;
The fellowship of kindred minds
Is like to that above. ~John Fawcett

I’m thankful for the tie that binds us by way of physical blood, but even moreso for the tie that binds us by way of Christ’s blood.

 

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