Passing Notes is Passe

Passing notes in class is one of the joys of being a high school student, or at least, it was. In the olden' days before cell phones, we designed all sorts of not so sly ways to communicate with one another while the teacher(s) droned on and on about Johnny Tremain or longitude and latitude. There was the stretch behind your head to drop the note on the desk behind you. There was the dropping of a pen or pencil to allow lateral reaches across the aisle below the visibility line of the teacher. It was a fairly easy task to pass a note forward by poking the back of the student in front of you, and there was even a "go-long" throw (used for notes in the shape of footballs) when the teacher's back was to the class while he or she wrote on the board.

As a teacher today, notes are the least of my concerns. The most common way students communicate with one another is by texting, which allows them to cross-communicate in class and also to connect with those in other classes with very little movement or effort. It is especially convenient for students who are testing and can't remember the answer to a question. A skilled texter can keep the phone below desk level, and out of view, thereby ensuring a "life-line" for those pop quizzes and trick questions we used to dread as students. My solution thus far has been to insist that all students keep both hands visible and on the desk top while taking tests or quizzes, and to walk around the room while teaching and instructing to minimize the possibility of this distraction during key moments. Despite these adopted policies and techniques, I know that when I sit down to do grading or other work, the phones will come out without my explicit knowledge, and I've learned to accept the reality while not encouraging the activity.

Perhaps the most frustrating of all the texting going on during the school day is the PARENTS who feel it necessary to text their students during class. How can students be held to a standard that their mom refuses to support? Parents, please! How difficult is it to just wait and talk to your student at a later time? Why not leave a message in the office if it's really an emergency, or text after school hours if it isn't? It is a symptom, in my opinion, of a much larger problem.

Parents are lately afraid of being real parents. They don't want to be older, wiser, and more self-controlled. They want to be cool, hip, and young-looking. They feed off the positive feedback their student's friends are more than willing to lay on thick, so as to keep the good times rolling along. I have even over-heard on several occasions students talking to one another about other parents who give and allow whatever a student wants as long as they are told how cool they are. Students have commented on parents who "want to be young" so they tell them they like their outfit or shoes or phone or car. Students write in their creative writing journals about aunts, uncles, and parents who "think they are still kids" and believe it or not, it is a source of frustration to many of them. One girl wrote something to the effect, "It's nice that she wants to be close to me and understand me, but she had her chance to be young, and now is living off my social life. I wish she was someone I could trust to be the grown up when I needed it." This is a sad commentary on my generation's parenting skills.

Back to my original topic of note-passing, after 3 years at my current school, I have finally found someone who I can call a friend. I have many wonderful, friendly co-workers, but this is the first time that I've had someone who seems to "get" me and my particular brand of sarcastic procrastination and random non-sequiturs. We have taken to passing notes between classes in preparation for coaching (volleyball) practices and games, and additionally, as a form of therapy to deal with stress. I have yet to fold one in the shape of a football, but who knows? Maybe someday if the headmaster isn't looking, I'll tell her to "go-long."

dealing with death

My heart is hurting for those I know who have lost family members of late. The sense of unpreparedness for the death of loved ones is always the most difficult to bear, even more than the ache that comes with the loss of a dear friend or family member. Lately, two pastors from the church where my husband and I taught were unexpectedly taken home to be with the Lord, one due to a plane crash that also took the life of his son, and one due to a heart attack in the months following the crash. Within the same month, a dear college friend lost her younger sister, who had incidentally spent the night in my dorm room when she was a prospective student. This young woman was snatched from this world as a result of careless mistakes during a gall bladder surgery which led to an emergency removal of much of her colon, and eventually a brain hemmorage and death.

The sadness and frustration of this terrible news can't compare to what their families, friends, and churches are facing now, and yet I must write to sort through my own feelings. How unfair it seems to take these two leaders from the same church fellowship so close on the heels of one another. How wrong it appears for someone so young and full of life to suffer for the carelessness of a medical professional. What a wrenching sense of disappointment with this world tumbles over me as I write this. Words fall short.

It is a reminder that time is short as well.

We're BAAAACK!

All my promises of writing more when we got settled at camp were for naught! There were simply not enough hours in the day. The days began with a 6:00 alarm and off to a counselor prayer meeting at 6:45. Then breakfast, chapel, 3 skills classes, lunch, office work, camp games and flex time, dinner, chapel, camp games and flex time, bed.... that is for the campers and counselors. We were up after their bed times making sure they were NOT up after their bed times.

After our first week of camp, we soon realized that the current schedule of midnight lights out was not working, and that time was shifted back to 10:30 for the oldest campers, 11 pm for staff. Amazingly, this was a popular decision, as the counselors were every bit as tired as we were! There were some grumblings about the "new rules" we put into place, by both returning campers and returning staff. Bill and I feared we would face a mutiny for a few weeks, but the end result was a very positive experience for both campers and workers, with a very few exceptions. God is good.

But now to the best news of all. The Lord was truly moving in the hearts and lives of all those at Camp Pinnacle this summer. There were over 130 first time decisions for Christ, and countless re-commitments, and dedications to walking in His service. We know that this was a work of the Lord, because so many times we were simply amazed at the responses by campers who had been the most outspoken and dissatisfied with the changes in camp. Praise the Lord, He worked in spite of us, and allowed us to be a part of what He is doing.

Now we are jumping back into our "real world" jobs. I'm back to school as of Monday, and the girls go back Tuesday. Our exchange student from the year before last is visiting us this week as well, so it's a fast paced return to reality. Thank you so much to those of you who have been praying for us. Your prayers were heard.

looking up

A nice day yesterday full of work and organizing the summer camp office culminated in a pizza dinner in the home of Pastor Chris and Vickie. Their youngest daughter Lydia made 3 delicious pepperoni, cheese, and my personal favorite: pineapple pizzas for us. We stayed and laughed and talked far longer than we had planned, truly enjoying the opportunity to get to know them and their vision for Pinnacle more intimately.

The cabin we have is now in great shape. Mowed grass and carted away garbage have done wonders for the outside, while all the scrubbing has made the inside quite pleasant. A sleeper sofa was delivered today for the girls, who had been taking turns sleeping on the floor or older sofa that was originally in the cabin. All that to say, we are settling in well, after a slightly bumpy beginning. The girls and our dog Sam are enjoying a greater amount of liberty than is usually allotted to them since school is out and Mom and Dad are busy helping to get camp ready. The independence and activity has been good for them. Needless to say, we are all dropping off to sleep very quickly at bedtime!

Today we're off to purchase "camp clothes," that is to say: clothes from a second hand store that will likely be destroyed in the process of camping for a whole summer. Then we have an appointment with resident computer whiz, and "horse lady" (as my girls call her), Ellen Preckel. She has promised to give us an overview of the computer program "Camp Brain" so we can start working on scheduling. With so much to do, it's been too easy to let personal devotional time slide, but I'm determined to get that back on my schedule each morning. We're also excited to start attending the staff Bible study beginning tomorrow morning.

I'll add more as the summer progresses, but for now.... that's all, folks!

On Arrival

We're here at Camp Pinnacle in the beautiful Helderberg Mountains just outside of Albany. The view from the camp is incredible, especially at the various lookout points around the acreage. Last night we went to one such point called "Sunset," so called for its spectacular view of the evening sky at dusk. It's a little bit of a hike, and even my dog was huffing and puffing and limping a bit by the time we reached the summit; but the view was well worth it. That was the hi-light.

The down and dirty of the day was that we had no real place prepared for us when we arrived at camp. The two bedroom apartment we had been shown and were promised is currently being used by a lovely missionary family whom we had the pleasure of meeting on Saturday. Apparently the family has been occupying the apartment since February, and will stay on indefinitely. They have three daughters, two twins aged five, and the youngest who is now three. Katie and Beth were enchanted with the girls already, and Bill and I truly enjoyed our shared lunch with the parents. They are wonderful people, and we would never dream of asking them to vacate the place for us. We did, however, begin to feel like the unwanted relatives when there was no place ready for us to stay.

Bill had called ahead and spoken to the pastor's wife to let her know we would arrive 2 days earlier than planned. We reminded her that we were bringing our dog, and asked again what we would need to bring for our housing, and what would be included (ie: linens, pots and pans, etc.) The answers were somewhat vague, but we were assured that there was a roomy RV for us, and that all we needed was our clothing and ourselves. Meals would be provided. Although we were doubtful about the RV working for a family of 4 plus a dog through the whole summer, we believed that God would provide. When we pulled in to camp on Saturday, we met a flustered pastor's wife who confessed she wasn't sure we were coming that day and a pastor totally in the dark about our early arrival. We were shown a small RV with no beds ready for our use and a single sized futon which we were encouraged to use in lieu of the double bed in the bedroom that had no linens. And where were the girls and dog to sleep?

We were then shown a tiny cabin with taller weeds, and more trash and rusted out appliances on the front lawn than a Jeff Foxworthy skit. I'm not kidding. Inside the cabin there was a mini fridge with a chunky gallon of milk and scary stains all over the inside. There was a shower stall with black mold all over the floor and along every fixture. There was a doubtful looking mattress and box spring resting on a broken bookshelf and blocks of wood. Finally, there was someone else's garbage and clothing left in all the drawers, closets, and shelves available, not that there were many. Although Vickie was apologetic and offered to clean the place for us, I refused and told her we were capable of cleaning. I knew she was busy with a conference that day and the many other responsibilities she shared with her husband to keep the place running. In spite of my assurances, inside we felt deflated. Didn't they want us here? Were they trying to make things so uncomfortable that we would give up and go home? The temptation to turn around and drive the 16 hours back to South Carolina was very real.

Instead, we rolled up our sleeves and worked hard all day yesterday after church. We scrubbed and dumped, moved and scrounged, and provided our own meals because, surprise, there were no meals offered Sunday through Wednesday. We spent close to $200 at Walmart and other stores to help fill in the gaps with food, and needed gear. Thankfully, Bill's mom came through big time with the offer of a coffee pot, a fan, and some plastic cups and a pitcher she wasn't using. After hours of cleaning, as well as moving and replacing all the unsuitable furniture, the place didn't seem so bad. In fact, we were quite proud of what our efforts had wrought. Wild flowers in a vase sit on a clean table on the porch. A clean desk, refrigerator, living room, bedroom, and bathroom now all smell wonderfully fresh. The shower floor, to our surprise, turned out to be white! More importantly, during this whole process, we were broken and humbled.

God reminded us yesterday that we came to this camp to serve him, not to be served by others. It's a good lesson at the beginning of a summer full of long days, hard work, and ultimately ministry in the lives of campers and staff. We are once again feeling privileged to be here. A big thank you to those of you who are praying for us this summer. God is already beginning to work!

Summer Camp

In a few short days my family and I will be going to summer camp. We'll be there all summer long, and for me, the excitement is mounting, along with the sheer terror of tackling the unknown. Let me back-track....

This has been nothing short of the fulfillment of a life-long dream for my husband and me. We actually met at this same camp in 1993, so it holds a special meaning for us. After a year long courtship, we married the following summer, and have always hoped and prayed that one day we would be able to have a camping ministry. It would take almost 15 years for that dream to become a reality in the very camp that started it all, Camp Pinnacle near Albany, NY. After meeting with the new camp director and his wife last year, we began seriously praying about becoming a part of the ministry. In a strange coincidence, the summer camp ministry director we were replacing just happened to be Bill's old baseball coach. Through emails with him and the directors, we slowly saw the Lord's plan begin to take shape.

The camp itself is nothing short of spectacular. It was founded in the early 1900's as a Christian girls' retreat and has since grown to include boys, horseback riding, archery, skateboarding, low and high ropes, running, swimming, fishing, atv's, paintball, a gym, a conference center and some incredible acreage on the top of a beautiful mountain in the Helderbergs. The gorgeous natural setting provides a backdrop for real ministry in the lives of the campers and staff members. This camp has always been God's work, and he has allowed us to be a part of it!

So here's where my fears set in. What an amazing burden it is to be in charge of a summer program that could be the first time someone has an opportunity to become a Christian! What if I'm not good enough at witnessing, mentoring, leading.... etc.? What if I mess this up? It's almost too good to believe that I'm going back there, so I'm afraid that something must go wrong. There has to be a catch.

Luckily for me, there is not much time for me to fret and worry. We are busily packing and tying up loose ends before leaving. I know that my part of this awesome ministry is not what matters, it's God's plan and he's going to work it out through the people he's called to work there. I'm just so thankful he's called me.

Volleyball

Now on to a topic that is dear to my heart, volleyball. It wasn't always that way. There are some people who have such a natural athleticism, that no matter which sport they attempt, they have success. Not the case for me, although I do have certain physical traits that give me an advantage for many sports. My height, for instance, enables me to jump and reach higher than most other women. But there are sports for which height is an advantage that have never been my forte. Basketball is one such sport. I literally detest being bumped, scratched, and pushed, which are all to be expected if I play post (as a person of my size is expected to do). I also can't shoot a basket to save my life! Other sports like track and field and cheer leading came easily for me.

Volleyball was initially a sport I played because a friend convinced me to try out with her. I was quite terrible from the start. I sat the bench on my middle school and JV team, which takes a certain level of incompetence to achieve. I was so bad, I actually didn't try out or play my sophomore year, but was convinced to try again the following year (with the same friend). This time, things began to click for me. Perhaps I had grown into my height, or perhaps all the coaching had finally begun to sink in. Whatever the reason, although track was still by far my favorite, I began to see some success in volleyball, and was part of a very successful, county and sectional championship team in my senior year.

There were now several different colleges who approached me about playing volleyball and/or running track. I initially decided on Houghton College because it was small enough to allow me to do both sports. Making the transition from a high school team to college level volleyball was the hardest, most challenging thing I had ever done up to that point. The pre-season workouts were grueling, my new teammates were much stronger players than I was, and what was "good enough" in high school didn't even come close in college. I began to learn true self-discipline for the first time under the instruction of my coach, "Skip" Lord. We ran incessantly, lifted weights, and played whenever we weren't running or lifting. To my suprise, I made the travel team, and had a regular position, rotating in the right-front, or "weak side" for a teammate who was a senior defensive specialist.

Although not playing my favorite position, middle blocker, I began to learn and grow as a player with the incredible support and extra help I received from my amazing assistant coaches Judy Fox and Jody Hildreth. Judy would spend an extra hour after each practice with me, working on my approach to attack and my blocking. Jody introduced me to the joy of playing doubles for the first time, and after winning my first tournament, I was hooked. A stress fracture in late winter sidelined me from participating on the track and field team for college my freshman year. By the end of the year, I had decided that one college sport was more than enough to keep up with, and my heart belonged to the hard court, not the field.

The following year, I earned the middle blocker position and the rest is history except to say that there is something about the game that simply fulfills me. The rhythm and feel of the ball, the quick and regular movement on the court from defense to offense, serve receive to serve, and passer to setter to hitter is something that I cannot accurately describe. Even thinking about the game puts me in a bit of a trance. I have been blessed to have so many wonderful coaches and opportunities to grow as a player and coach over the years, for which I am forever grateful. There is nothing I love so much as the time I spend showing young players why I love the game. If anyone had ever been dragged kicking and screaming to an activity, it was me, and now there is nothing I enjoy more.

Comparative Christianity

I read something my old friend Kristen had posted the other day on facebook which sparked yet another reverie. Her comments were in regards to "cultural Christianity," a topic familiar to most of us who have been Christians for any length of time. The theory is that much of our belief system is based more upon the puritan foundations of our culture, than it is based upon the word of God. Although there is real merit to this idea, I find myself wondering if it is an altogether "new" phenomenon particular to Christian Americans.

Throughout the new testament there are instances of Christ confronting this same human tendency. It is legalism. In many of his discussions with Jewish scholars of his day, Jesus pointed out the errors of their belief system, which had been originally based on the word of God, and then degenerated into "rules taught by men." Even before Christ walked the earth, the Israelites were in a constant pattern of sin, judgement, and repentance. This pattern was repeated endlessly because the rabbis and teachers of the law were concerned with looking more "holy" than the next guy, instead of confronting the sinful tendencies within. Jesus tells us exactly what he thought about legalism when he called these religious leaders "white-washed tombs."

In American Christianity, Kristen mentions that this legalism often takes on the mantra, "Don't drink, smoke or chew, or run with girls that do." Legalism cripples us as Christians because we cannot effectively witness and minister to others when we are inwardly condemning and comparing their behavior to our own. True ministry will not take place; we are so busy feeling superior that we aren't motivated by the love that Jesus says is essential. Within this framework of comparative Christianity, we cannot possibly love the Lord with all our heart, mind, and strength and our neighbor as ourselves. We would rather love the way we look when juxtaposed with other sinners. It stifles spiritual growth to say, "I may have problems, but at least I don't... (fill in the blank)."

What a comforting thinking pattern! There is a convincing hint of humility in the ready admission of our problems, but in reality it is an attempt at justifying our sin. It is an intentional quenching of the Holy Spirit, who is trying to move and work in our lives to make us more like Christ. He is the only One with whom we should compare ourselves, and that comparison will always leave us broken and humbled, ready to be changed by the work of the Spirit. When we recognize our false humility for what it is, then real ministry can begin. We walk hand-in-hand to the feet of Jesus, knowing that we are all in desperate need of his grace. A mentor once summed it up succinctly when he told me, "brokenness is the only place where God can use you."

Aging

Katie turns 11 on June 30 this year, and will be in the 6th grade. That means one thing in regards to my age: I am old. She is young, beautiful, and top notch, with her whole life ahead of her. I am more and more decrepit with every passing day.

Example 1: To borrow a phrase from my beloved high school biology teacher, I have "gastro-intestinal problems." To counter-act my diverticulosis, I must consume yogurt and granola each morning, and a half-glass of wine each afternoon. I'm not complaining. I like the taste of yogurt with granola, and a glass of wine after a hard day is certainly a welcome respite. But the indignities of age are creeping up on me, and I resent the fact that I must consume these things or suffer consequences. How much nicer it would be to be able to choose to have a glass of wine, or yogurt with granola!

Example 2: I have arthritis in my big toe. I am saddest about this particular diagnosis, because arthritis seems to be a clear indication of old age. My doctor has told me it was likely due to the repeated jumping and landing I do as a volleyball player and coach, and not necessarily a symbol of my aging. To me, however, it's quite simple: old people get arthritis. I have arthritis, ergo: I am old. Don't point out the logical fallacy here, because it will be duly noted and ignored.

Example 3: My dark brown hair is turning gray. I have plotted and schemed against this visual proof of aging to no avail. Hi-lights mask it for a month or two, covering the gray with dye works for a few weeks, but the gray continues to be fruitful and multiply. I was recently asked if I would ever just stop fighting it, but was unsure of how to answer. Certainly when I am a grandmother gray hair would be appropriate, but to be honest I cannot conceive of it ever being the color I desire. My first gray hair appeared at age 19, and I know there is no turning back, but I continue to battle it nonetheless.

4th and final example: I ache after physical activity. When I say, "ache" I am not referring to the sore muscles one experiences as a result of lactic acid settling in them. I mean that I feel the ache in my very core. It's as if my skeleton, or more precisely, my bone marrow is aching. It is a deep, penetrating, insistent ache, and all the advil, tylenol, and naprosin in my medicine cabinet cannot touch it. I hurt. My response to this physical revolt is more exercise, and a desire to subjugate my pain by pushing forward. Even so, I long for the good old days when exercise meant a certain amount of pleasure infused with the pain. Those days appear to be gone.

I'm thinking now of a quote from Monty Python's "The Holy Grail." The peasant, reacting to king Arthur, responds, "I'm 37! I'm not old!" This being my precise age, the quote has a particular, almost poignant meaning for me. I'm holding on to that sentiment, in denial of my body's revolt. As of February 2009, I'll need to find a new quote!

Rolling over my dog's tail

He was minding his own business, sleeping dutifully next to my office chair where I would be most likely to trip over him if I attempted to leave. His head was between his paws, and his eyes were rolled back into his head in deep sleep. As I reached for something on my computer desk, it happened. I rolled over his tail. Long pieces of black and white hair from the tail stuck in the wheels of the office chair, and without a yip, the dog jumped up and pulled away, looking accusingly in my direction. The chair made a loud popping sound, thereby waking up all the sleepover girls in my nearby rec room. And all this at a time when I am still not sure if I want to be awake.

I need my coffee.

Guilt vs. Love

I was reading last night's post (That's a capital "T"...) and reflecting. What a ridiculous way to live my life! Of all the motivating factors I could choose, why would I choose guilt? Here's the thing: I do choose to live with guilt. It does not choose me. I have chosen to allow guilt to rule my decisions, and believed the fallacy that without it, I would have no self-control. This allows me to "excuse" my repeated bad behavior by talking about how "guilty" it makes me feel. Is there any way that feeling guilty can make me a better person? Obviously not! I have somehow managed to live my life thus far without improving any of my procrastinating ways, regardless of how much guilt I heap upon myself. The lunacy of this thinking pattern is obvious!

Not only does my guilt not change me for the better, it also restrains me from truly seeking the Lord's will for my life. I don't do what I should do for fear of not being worthy, not being good enough. What makes me think I'm good enough to witness to a person who obviously needs the Lord's grace? What makes me think I'm good enough to get my graduate degree so I can futher help my family financially? Or even, (referring to last night's post) what makes me think I'm good enough to enjoy the pool table I just purchased? I know I'm not good enough, but instead of embracing the grace given to me through Christ, I hold onto my guilt and try not to live like the true child of God that I am. This is not how God meant for me to live!

He sent his son so I could have abundant life (in other words, to actually enjoy the life he has given me). I am essentially refusing his gift of grace by holding on to my cruddy guilt. It has been like the proverbial "security blanket" Linus drags around with him in the comic strip "Peanuts." The problem is, my guilt security blanket cannot cover my sin, make me a new person, or free me to live the life I've been called to live. It is a sign of my arrested spiritual development, and it must go.

But what will take its place? My fears? My sense of duty? I recall a teacher of the law in Mark asking Christ which commandment (guideline or motivation for how to live life) was the most important of all. Jesus' response was "Love..." I am told to let love for God, and then other people set the standard for my actions. Not guilt. Not obligations. Love.

So which is easier? Which is the path of least resistance? Guilt. But which is freeing? Which is infinitely more fulfilling and true? Love. So I'm choosing love in the same way that I've chosen guilt up until this moment. I'm embracing Christ and his incredible gift of grace right this instant, and I'm refusing to let guilt have a place in my life. "Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!" II Cor. 9:15

That's a capital "T" that rhymes with "P" that stands for pool!

We just bought a pool table. It had been our intention to get one as soon as we moved into our house 2 years ago. The house has a converted garage/rec-room just crying out for some sort of recreational something. The table flips to an air hockey table on the reverse side, and has been a temptation since I first laid eyes on it in December of 2006. Although there are more worth-while things we could have done with the money, a red clearance tag was irresistible after waiting so long for the purchase.

The girls love it. Bill loves it. I love it too. The question is, was this a necessary purchase? I don't think so, and therein lies the guilt. Whenever I play pool or air hockey on the table, I feel I don't have the right to enjoy it. What is that all about?

Guilt is the main factor in my life. I am fairly convinced that without guilt, I would have no motivation whatsoever. I see a hypothetical guilt-free me in my minds eye, lying around shamelessly eating Godiva chocolate, drinking Starbucks mocha frappuccinos (double blended), while occasionally checking my facebook account for news of my friends far and near. I would probably stay on the phone for days at a time, and read book after book on my "must read" list. There's no way I'd be working full-time. We'd eat out every night, and my kitchen would never be put to use. I know for a fact, I'd also be enjoying that pool and air hockey table.

Dysfunctional Direction Disorder

Christie: "Hello, my name is Christie."

3-D Support Group: "Hi Christie"

pause

Group Facilitator: (encouragingly) "Go on. You don't have to be embarrassed here, Christie."

Christie: (hesitating) "Well, I guess it all started when I was a kid. (warming up to the idea) My siblings would follow along on a map when we travelled on family vacations. But that map never made sense to me. I mean, what does North, South, East, West, have to do with left and right? Am I right?"

Group: "You're right!"

Christie: "So anyway, I went along through life always wondering why I was different from all the other people. I know now that there were warning signs I just didn't see."

Facilitator: (knowingly) "Cleopatra wasn't de only Queen of de-Nile"

(murmur of assent from the group)

Christie: "There was the time that I was supposed to drive home from Niagara Falls, and somehow ended up in Rochester. There was the time when I was trying to get from a university campus to a mall 6 miles down the road and I ended up driving around in aimless circles for over an hour. One time I even stared at a mall directory in search of a store that was directly in front of me! Well, while gazing confusedly at another map yesterday, the realization suddenly hit me. I have dysfunctional direction disorder!"

(Applause)

Facilitator: "It takes a brave person to stand up in front of a group and admit your personal pain. Thank you for your honesty. Dysfunctional Direction Disorder, or 3-D, affects us all. We were going to have refreshments, but I couldn't find Walmart and ended up in Lowes. Instead of continuing to frantically and fruitlessly search, I just bought the lovely potted plants you see on the refreshment table. Isn't that a nice change from the same old snacks anyway?

shouted from the back of the room: You couldn't find Walmart last week either.

Facilitator: Yes, but on a positive note, the flea collars I found at Pet Smart that day work exceptionally well. In closing, lets all try and meet back here next week. And remember, when someone asks you for directions, just say...

everyone: "Don't ask me! I have 3-D"

Spam

So hooray! I'm not a spammer. Apparently my blog was being checked to be sure I wasn't. It's nice to be in the clear.

Speaking of spam, it seems as if it's almost non-existent in my online life lately. Most good ISP's have spam controls, so unless I choose to have an email address with hotmail, it's rare that something gets through the filters I have in place. Which brings me to my reverie.... back in the dark ages when I was a student, home Internet simply did not exist. We are all so thankful to Al Gore for inventing the Internet, that we rarely consider what life was like before the world wide web. Let's reflect.

As a child in the 70's, the only Spam was a pork product of some sort celebrated in a Monty Python song. The "technology" I can recall being used in our school was the mimeograph machine. When hot off the press, what an indescribable smell came from the warm, purple inked pages my teacher called "dittos". The words were often blurry, and many times the lines on crosswords were a bit wavy, but dittos were the wave of the future.... soon to make work books obsolete, according to many sources "in the know" (aka my teachers). In my class, Mike Rakoska had the enviable position of retrieving the dittos from the copy room. This was due to the fact that his grandma worked there, a situation highly inequitable for the rest of us poor slobs longing to go and inhale the mimeograph fumes all the way back to the room.

Then the 80's hit with a vengeance, bringing Atari and Pacman to every modern home. My parents refused to be modern at the time, so my Pacman and Pong had to be wheedled out of friends with more forward-thinking parents. Copy machines also evolved, and dittos became a thing of the past. The new copies were clear, sure, but where was the purple ink? Where was the wonderful smell? It had gone the way of the mimeograph. My school also installed "computers" in the library. I use quotations here for obvious reasons. Today's hand held game boys are more complex. Unlike my school, the other, wealthier, cool schools had Internet by the late 80's.

I can still remember being annoyed with my mother, a high school librarian in a neighboring town. Every night she came home talking about "modems" and the "world wide web" thereby causing my eyes to roll back in my head and my mind to wander from topic to topic as she droned on and on. My school still had the "computers" that were installed 10 years ago. I was resistant to this new Internet technology for the simple reason that I had never seen it. It was merely another annoying thing about my mother, who, during this stage of my adolescence, could also annoy me just by drinking a milk shake. I am not making this up. She had this irritating way of leaving a drip of melted milk shake on her lower lip..... ugh! I still shudder at the memory, although I doubt watching her drink one today would have the same effect. I hope.

By college, I was using computers in lieu of type writers for all the various and sundry papers I was assigned. I found them to be extremely liberating, because, joy of joys, my papers could be saved electronically and turned in for other classes and assignments! As my college career progressed, I became more and more bold. I recall saving a paper that I had received a "B-" on at the beginning of a semester, then re-submitting the same paper to the same professor for the same class and receiving an "A" the second time around. My good opinion was secured. Computers were awesome!

As the mid-90's rolled along, the Internet made its way into nearly every American home, including mine. I still remember my first piece of "spam." It said something like, "Enlarge your penis for her pleasure..." I was flabbergasted. Who would send such a thing? Was my husband visiting one of "those sights?" I had it out with him when he got home, and to his chagrin, I would not believe his confused, embarrassed, innocent look and protestations. Finally my more computer savvy friend told me that this was spam. Spam? Not the pork product, evidently, but similarly distasteful in its overall effect.

As I find no tidy way to tie this all up in a concise conclusion, let me say that I'm thankful I have been cleared of the charges laid at my door. I'm not a spammer, and I'm glad. But I do miss those warm, purple, scented dittos.

Romance and Romeo

When I was dating, particularly in highschool, I scorned the guys who tripped all over themselves to tell me I was beautiful. I laughed at those earnest boyfriends who attempted to make me feel like a princess by opening doors and gazing longingly into my eyes. I held at arms length the men who told me they loved me. For whatever reason, I felt uncomfortable discussing or displaying any emotional attachments. I even remember asking my friend Amy, "Can't guys just have fun without asking me how I really feel?"



It wasn't that I didn't like kissing or holding hands. It wasn't even that I didn't like the particular boy, or the idea of having a boyfriend. The issue was, I never really felt like I was "in love" with any of them. I loved dating, and having fun. I thought boys were cute and funny, and enjoyed spending time with them. But that was all.



Then came a series of ill-advised, unexceptional relationships in college. While my friends were all in search of their "MRS degree" in addition to their undergraduate work, I was blowing off both school and men with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. It's a wonder that I passed any of my classes. My dating relationships mirrored my school efforts, in that they were meaningless and effortless, a sad testiment to my lack of convictions at the time. The truth is, I was scared.



I knew I was supposed to be growing up, and the thought of being a responsible adult was quite frankly beyond me. I think I intentionally self-destructed for the sheer terror of the reality that awaited me on the other side of academia. The fact that I had any friends after my apparent melt down is a testiment to their grace and friendship.



And just when I had given up all hope of any future, I met my Romeo. He is, incidentally, a man who has never tripped all over himself to tell me I'm beautiful. He doesn't tend to open doors for me unless my hands are full. He almost never gazes longingly into my eyes, and seems quite incapable of asking me what I really feel. He does tell me he loves me every day, but not always in words. He tells me by heating up my car on a cold day before I have to go to work, or by offering to help with dinner when I'm tired. He tells me by spending time with me, whether I'm walking the dog or watching Pride and Prejudice for the 500th time. He tells me by staying with me through nearly 14 years of marriage and counting.

Do I sometimes wish for the romance I once scorned? I'm ashamed to admit that the answer is yes.

My first Blog/ About me

An old college buddy encouraged me to start this blog. Seeing her entries and online insights was the inspiration for what follows. All inaccuracies, inefficiencies, and inexplicable references are to be directly attributed to her overconfidence in a fellow procrastinator and professional slacker. Here goes.

The challenge of a blank page. Let's start off with the fact that I've never particularly felt I had anything valuable to say. When given completely open parameters, I stumble along blindly looking for some sort of guidelines. I am paralyzed by the sheer vastness of possibility. Which leads me to another inherent self-truth: I like structure. In its absence, what little creativity resides in my mind is stifled. Within a structure, my mind loves plotting and planning, sorting and organizing, and even surprising those who think they may know what I will say or do. Generally speaking, I believe I am much better at editing and revising others' original thoughts than I am at writing my own.

Beyond those aforementioned disclaimers, it is imperative that I mention I love coffee. Coffee doesn't always love me. In fact, it leaves me with blinding headaches if I allow myself to consume as much as my palate desires. Despite this risk, the wonderful, rich, brown, creamy, sweet liquid has such a pleasant effect on my overall sense of well-being. I feel loved when I have a cup of coffee in my hand. It is a strange sort of self-love. My husband cannot stand the taste or even the smell of coffee. For this reason, I usually drink my coffee in solitude, and in a house with two children, solitude is seldom over-rated.

I love my two daughters. Blond and sunny, smart and lively, ever-changing and developing before my eyes, they have my heart. They were once a part of me, are still like me, and yet grow more and more independent of me each day. It is a challenging and consuming passion to know and parent them well. Katie is trying on identities like fashions, eager, yet tentative about about what it means to be in middle school for the first time next year. She is lovely and sensitive, intelligent and athletic, artistic, silly and insecure. Beth is raging at the incomprehensible joke God has played by making her the younger sister. Adventurous, daring, competitive, and sparkling, she is pretty and insightful, quick to understand, and quicker to judge. What amazing people they are, and how fascinating to play a role in their lives.

Then there's my dog Sam, the border collie/spaniel with the heart of a chicken and the innate desire to round up anything and anyone near him. He has an uncanny ability to sense the exact place I am heading and cut me off, turning me toward some unseen destination only he knows. Perhaps in his muddled doggie mind, I am the proverbial black sheep that must be separated from the herd. Whatever his purpose, he is frighteningly good at achieving it. When the girls were younger, he would run circles around them, barking and nipping until they cooperated and remained in the middle of the yard. Just one heading for the edge would send him around the outside, playfully, yet earnestly urging her back to the "pen." Now that he's older, with white hairs creeping into the once all-black mask around his eyes, Sam mostly sleeps where I must trip over him. Although he rarely runs any more, when ambling or occasionally moseying, he still prefers to place himself in the direct path of an oncoming person and then nudge him to one side or the other. He is my maddening joy.

I was going to write about my marriage, but I think that's another blog all by itself. I was going to write about teaching and coaching, but I need more time to properly sort through those things too. Then there's the guilt which seems to be the underlying motivator for nearly everything I do. Clearly, for me, counselling is in order, but not necessarily another paragraph. No, today, I will end with the satisfying feeling of having more to say, but knowing that what has been said will suffice. For now.