Mousetrap

The childhood game Mouse Trap.

This is my life.

It’s been so good to read back through my blog entries, reminding myself of some of my life purposes, and the lens that I want to have as I go tripping and colliding through my one, glorious, over in a flash, life.

I see moments where I have thrown myself full throttle into ridiculous situations, believing I can conquer all and (minus some bumps and bruises), come out generally unscathed, with a fairly good sense of humor. I have had a mindset nestled in hope and led by optimism.

Perhaps it’s experience. Or perhaps it’s all the adult things that I swore would never be the decision makers in my life. You know…house payments, slowing metabolism, 401k’s, health insurance, acne as a grown up. Let’s face it adulating is hard, and the world is uncertain.

Transitions are hard. The times where you feel like your appendages are tethered to four racing stallions, booking it through the cactus infested desert….all in opposite directions. My legs get wobbly. And quite frankly, I think they do because somewhere deep down, I want to be a fortune teller. I want to be able to know every outcome and how it affects my forever. Why? Because somewhere I’ve become afraid. I’d like to tell myself that it’s because I’ve become wiser, or more cautious. No. The word is afraid. Afraid of pain. Afraid of difficulty. Afraid of uncertainty.

And then I read back to times in this blog where I’m sounding the battle call for all to rise up! Embrace the struggle! It will all be ok! It’s about the journey, not the destination!

All of those things I still believe in my head. But somewhere along the line, caution….no let’s call it what it is…fear, has very sneakily become the legs of my heart.

*pssst*

Yes?

You lost me. This started with mousetrap. I can see the picture right there. Bold, primary, plastic pieces perfectly placed in my periphery.

Ah. Yes. (Very nice alliteration, by the way.) Mousetrap.

You see, I was talking to God about this very thing. This is how our conversation went, and thus, the connection:

Me: Help!

 God: Hey kiddo. I’m here. Don’t panic.

Me: So, uh…life. I feel up in the air. I don’t know which way is up and where I’m headed. I know you’ve led me to this place, but quite frankly, I don’t know what to do.

God: So you’re panicking because you don’t know the future? I get this concern a lot. I’ve got something to help with that. You ready? …..Mousetrap.

Me: The game mousetrap? uh…ok. Let me try to get where you’re going here. I need to take one step at a time, just like I would in setting up the board? Piece by piece. Ok. yeah, I get that.

God: Well…I like the step by step thing, but no.

Me: No? uh…

God: No, you are the mouse. I set up every single step. You sit. You wait. You be patient and know that I am setting up an exciting, beautiful plan. It is all behind the scenes, in the background. You cannot see what is happening, but in one swift moment, the plan will be put into motion and everything will connect seamlessly toward the place I am bringing you. But you, you must be patient. You must wait. You must confess your part in this…which is a small, little person, who really doesn’t have control of much. That fear you’ve been talking about…All the things you think you are afraid of. It comes down to control. You are afraid of not having control. Put that need down and trust Me. Life will become less of an assault and more like a child’s board game. Simple. Fun. Worth the time. Do you understand?

I so desperately want to understand. Better yet, I want it to seep down to where my little heart can stand on legs of trust instead of on legs of fear.

Thank you, God for this roof over my head and this home for my heart. Thank you for this body, and all the wonderful living and hugging it gets to do. Thank you for your provision over my life.

And thank you little blog for reminding me of where I’ve come and to where I am going.

This little mouse is going to continue to Live Bravely.

 

Too Good not to share

I am part of a generation of men and women wanting to get married. To find the “one” and spend long years of marital bliss together.

The ideology and desire are still very much there in most of the singles I know, and yet the trend of getting married and staying that way is a dying lifestyle.

As a woman who believes strongly in a man pursuing the woman, I often become frustrated. If I had a dollar for every time one of my guy friends says, “Hey, why haven’t you been snagged up, yet?”, I’d be a very rich woman. I often want to reply, (and sometimes do) “I don’t know, why don’t YOU tell me.”

I have a hunch that the contents of the following link holds the keys to my answer. Now mind you, I don’t just feel this is a “man” issue…but we live in a society where it has seeped into the woman’s world as well. The travesty is that many people don’t talk about it.

A facebook friend posted this article….I think it’s too good not to share.

Read the article….This takes ones religion/value system aside and focuses on hard, cold, scientific facts.

Ready, Go….Don’t wait…read it now…it’s good stuff. Come back here afterward and we can finish up our conversation…..Let me know your thoughts!

As a Christian, I hold saving myself for marriage very seriously, and have had the “why” conversation numerous times. Our world has evolved into a place where lines are blurred and excuses are constantly being made in regards to purity.

If you’re a young person wondering why God would ask us to do things that just make Him seem like a “party pooper” then take a look at this. God’s requests of us are not so that we become the “perfect children”, but the requests He makes of us are because He’s a perfect Father and wants to protect us.

See, I believe that God is a believer in awesome, “rock your face off” sex. And He’s created the perfect formula for that, so….

Stay Pure, Bravely!

Time to Say Goodbye

I had only about 45 minutes before my students would start arriving for the “Instrumental Rental Night”. My stomache was a ball of nerves, excited to meet parents and to place in students’ hands the key to unlocking a new way of thinking and language.

While in midstep of my running around, there was a knock at the back door to my classroom. Opening it, I saw my mom. My face spread quickly to a smile, thinking she had shown up in support for one of my many firsts as a teacher.

“Grandma isn’t doing well. She’s in the hospital”

My smile faded. It was a moment where you knew.

“Your aunt, uncle and I are driving to Denver now. I wanted to drop by to let you know. Here’s her direct line to her hospital room. You should call her.”

Hugs and then the door shut.

My lungs were struggling to take in air past the lump that was forming.

You should call her.

I dialed.

Hello?

Her voice was weak.

“Hi Grandma. It’s Wend. I just talked to mom. How are you?”

It’s those moments that habit combined with not knowing what to say kick you in the mouth. I knew the answer to the question.

 I’m tired. *breath*  Did you get the locket?

Growing up, Grandma had a gold, heart-shaped locket, which housed a picture of her and my grandpa on their wedding day. As a little girl, every time I climbed up on to her lap, I would open that locket and gaze on the younger versions of my grandparents with imagination and starry eyes.

As a teenager, Grandma had pulled me aside one day and said, “When I die, I want you to have my locket.”

A week ago, it had come home with my mom from a trip she had taken to be with Grandma.

Did you get the locket?

“Yeah, Grandma, I did. Thank you..” The lump was getting ready to seep tears.

Well, I just want you to remember how much your Grandpa and I loved you.

Words weren’t coming. “Thanks Grandma,” I choked out.

I’ve told Ione what songs I want sung at the funeral….

I wanted to ask her not to talk like that.

Nurses are here to get me ready for surgery, so I need to go. Tell Amy Lynn I love her.

“I love you, Grandma.”

I love you, Sweetie. Goodbye.

“Goodbye, Grandma”

And she was gone.

The clock. ticked. to a stop. My room was dark, except for the emergency light flickering above the exit. The room was silent; I was waiting for an exhale.

I knew that was the last time I would talk to my Grandma.  

This was the song that provided me with comfort as I sat in my classroom and allowed the sweet tears of loss to cleanse my heartache.

Nothing comforts like sitting in the presence of Jesus. In His arms, we can

Mourn Bravely.

“This isn’t fun any more”

My heart quite literally broke today.

“This just isn’t fun any more”

These are the words of one of my students.

We have just come off of a marching competition where we received terrible scores.

We went over the notes yesterday and had rehearsal today. “Don’t be frustrated…fuel the Fire”. This is what I told them. It landed on deaf ears. Today, moral is low, they don’t want to do what I’m asking them, and I can tell they don’t want to be here.

I’m not quite sure what to do.

I see before me students who are talented. Capable. Music lovers.. They enjoy marching. They are fun and enthusiastic and excited about life. I want to help them couple those qualities with skill and  translate them to the field. Some barriers that get in the way are lack of focus and lack of commitment….So…I want to push them. I want to say “Yes you can!” “You can be excellent!”.

At the first sight of adversity, I feel like they are giving up.

Today, I have angry, frustrated students who are shutting down and holding some ugly stuff in their hearts. What do I do? I know that my student’s attitude reflects my own. I know that I can’t expect them to be what I myself am not willing to be?

So what am I willing to be? I will not just survive, but I will thrive. I believe that we can become excellent. I refuse to let all the outside junk speak to who I am going to be as a teacher. And I don’t want judges scores to determine who these kids think they are as musicians, students, or people. We are more the scores. But we will know  what it means to work hard.

“The only way of finding the limits of the possible is by going beyond them into the impossible.” Arthur C. Clarke

To some degree I feel like I have found my students’ mental limits, so I need to pull back. I know they have more in them; baby steps. A little at a time.

I am praying for grace from my students in the moments, that as a new teacher, I don’t quite know what to do. I felt coming out of our competition that the best thing was to be honest with them. I was told by a mentor never to sugar coat things for students…that they would see right through it.

So I didn’t.

Now these kids need a pick me up.

Educators, Musicians, artists, parents, lovers of Jesus….I need your help. I need advice. I want these kids to see my genuine love for them. I want them to enjoy what they are doing and still be ok working hard toward a common goal. I need a bit of a miracle.

Exchanging Glances

How often do we go through life wondering what kind of impact we are making?

The truth of the matter is, we may never be told how we positively influenced a person.

A smile on the street could change a life. Picking up a dropped book in the mall or saying “Have a great day” can change the trajectory of someone’s day.

I was on Spring Break with some girl friends. We decided to catch some spring training games, so we headed down to Arizona to watch some of our favorite baseball teams get ready for the season.

It was a normal day…nothing out of the ordinary, except my entourage and I were all a bit exhausted from travel and too much time together in a car.

The moment was so brief, but to this day it lingers in my mind.

The street is narrow in the city with tall, brick buildings holding people’s apartments and lives….all lining and watching the traffic below. We’re stopped at a light; my head leaning on the backseat window. Heavy eyelids fighting my will to stay awake.  As I look up, I see a boy. About 16. Sitting in a window sill…looking a bit lonely. With both of our moods subdued, our eyes meet. Not in a romantic sense, but in that moment, time slowed and two people on a busy street truly saw one another. It was a moment of understanding.  We both lifted tired, but intentional hands and waved.

The light changed and we were gone.

I’m not sure of what that young man’s life looked like. Perhaps I’m making more of a moment than I should, but I like to believe that small moments hold profound effects. Possibly some boy was having a wrestling match with life that day and some random girl in a car below gave him a knowing look that said….

Live Bravely.

Be intentional today….and tomorrow…Well, make today jealous.

No Quippy Antics, just breathing

Just as my title suggests….I got nothing.

Not tonight. No humorous story sharing all too personal facts of my adolescence.

Tonight I sit wishing I could press pause for just one brief moment. Not for any purpose except for the fact that I feel like I haven’t inhaled (or exhaled) for a couple of days now. Do you ever get feeling like you stopped breathing and are turning blue?

I spoke this evening with a colleague who is having some what of a hard time in her transition into new teacher-dom. She’s moved to a new place. Left her guy behind. Wondering if he is really, truly the one. Trying to get the check list done.

She’s like me. We HATE checklists. The world seems to be run by people who live by the check list.

1) Get shower: Check

2) Have coffee: Check

3) Achieve World domination before 2nd Breakfast: Check

It seems for me that in order to MAKE a list, I find myself exerting much more effort than if I had just started working and got things done. Lists, for me, give the illusion of work without any of the REAL outcomes.

My dear friend, Noelle, had a word for me that has helped me in my transition. “To do the impossible thing takes a miracle”.

Hmmmm…I think I like being in the miracle business….if I really think about it.

This thought lead me to Alice. She made a list. A list that gives me a little bit more encouragement.

“Name seven impossible things before breakfast…. I can slay the jabberwalkie”.

The thing with staring at these kinds of beasts is, whether we like it or not, they truly do train us up to do the next great thing well when it comes around. A training ground for killing ugly monsters parading around as quotas, business plans, & comparison of ourselves to other individuals.

Though I’m a bit whelmed, I’m finding that I’m not over-whelmed. I think half of the mountains we have to climb have more to do with the anticipation of them…not the actuality of them. Monday morning is coming whether I claim to be ready or not, so I may as well not get worked up over it and do what I can do.

Two years ago, I was in a similar place. But it was hellacious. I cried.  A LOT. But tonight. No tears. Just oh so ready for bed.

And all of this has absolutely nothing to do with my own ability. God is so faithful to pull us through. And He doesn’t do it just so we can have a list of things that we’ve accomplished at the end of our lives. No, he’s so interested in what kind of dependence we can bring to him. Did I trust & surrender just a little bit more this time around? My peace would point to yes. Thank you Jesus.

I read a church marquee by the side of the road. You know the ones….(that usually make you vomit a little, even though you very much love Jesus). This one was different; it spoke to where I was at:

“Faith is the ability to not panic”

I guess that is a testament to what kind of god, God really is. Powerful. Loving. In control. Willing to step in on your behalf.

yeah that’s good stuff. Don’t panic; He’s got it.

So if an ugly jabberwalkie is staring at you right now….remember, don’t panic

and

Slay Bravely.

Ephesians 6

How Davey Crockett gave me an STD

I was on a choir tour around the great and awesome state of Texas in college. The place where my hair never dried after a shower, and I had to carry a sweater around for when I walked into a building out of the SCOURCHING heat. The fake, frigid, A/C  air would hit you like the frozen tundra. Ah, yes, Tay-HAUS. mmmhmmmhmmm.

We’d already been to Austin (though there are rumors of Austin being hip & great, what I experienced was the armpit of Texas), Houston (home of the most beautiful opera) and Dallas (r.i.p. JFK being its claim to fame) and were making our way to the beautiful city of San Antonio. The River walk was truly enchanting and I LOVED spending our evenings down by the river watching entertainment or floating along in a calm boat.

We had sung the Yellow Rose of Texas more times than I could count, had visited the ALAMO and had seen a pretty disappointing wax museum (I think Brad Pitt had a cleft palate) , but over all were having a really great time.

We had stayed at the Davey Crockett Holiday Inn across from the Alamo, where the first thing my roommate said to me upon entry was “Why does our hotel room smell like pee”? Though we noticed it, I didn’t think I’d contract a “disease” from the room, but apparently I was wrong.

My roommate and I had gone about our stay in San Antonio like normal girls, sharing clothes here and there, and when there weren’t towels enough for the four of us, we just shared. (It’s not like I’d ACTUALLY get dry in the humidity anyway)

It wasn’t until I had been back home in good ol’ Colorado for a couple weeks that I even suspected that something had gone array.

I stepped out of the shower one morning and looked in the mirror. “BUT I’VE ALREADY HAD THE CHICKEN POX!!!!!” All over my back and torso were red bumps. WHAT IN GOD’S GREEN EARTH IS GOING ON?!?!?!?!?

ring ring

“Listen, I don’t want to freak you out”, it was my roommate from our time in San Antonio.“But I have scabies, technically, they are an STD. You haven’t by any chance gotten little red bumps over you, have you?”

Her timing was impeccable.

Apparently, scabies are little mites that burrow under your skin. The bumps that are produced are one of two things. 1) the scabies babies i.e. egg sacs or 2) scabie poop.

hooray for scabie poop!

“Scabies are actually considered an STD because you get them from prolonged skin on skin contact.”

SO HOW THE HECK DO I HAVE SCABIES!!!!! I HAVE AN STD FOR CRYIN’ OUT LOUD!!!!! 
the end of the age of innocence.

Come to find out you can contract the little stinkers from hotel rooms and linens that haven’t been cleaned adequately. If you have them then they can easily be shared through such things as towels…..check. and clothing….check.

“Why does our hotel room smell like pee?”

and that’s when
one + one = Davey Crockett gave me an STD.

DISCLAIMER: Apparently, some folks are very passionate about scabies & I’ve received my first blogging “hatemail”. Much of the information in this entry is just a recount of events. Example: A friend’s doctor told her scabies are an STD, she passed that on to me…then I you. Did I do crazy research? No. I just dealt with the situation as it was handed to me.  The purpose of my writing is not necessarily to educate….rather to entertain…. Yes, I understand that scabies don’t smell like pee. But dirty rooms do smell like pee. And you can get scabies from a dirty hotel room. Bottom line: not perfect, sometimes gross things happen to you in life. The purpose of this blog is to make light of the things that have potential to drive you crazy. Moreso than educating about scabies, I’m saying “Do NOt stay at the Davey Crocket Inn across from the Alamo!!!” I apologize profusely to those who this story upset. I’ll leave the education to you; thank you for the information. I’ll just keep enjoying and embracing the awkward moments. For those interested in knowing. A good ol’ medicated cream clears the whole situation right up.

My Very Own Captain Morgan

 

So I used to work at a bike shop.I was the “shop girl”.

the token female to be the first to greet any patron who beckoned me with the ding dong of the front door bell as the glass door swung from open to shut.

Overall, I enjoyed this aspect of my job, getting to be personable and hospitable to those in need of tubes, tires or a new weekend warrior toy. There were, however, a handful of…..characters, we’ll call them, that would come through that door causing me to look at my fellow gentlemen coworkers with puppy dog eyes BEGGING them to do the chivalrous thing and “take this one for me”.

all I can say is ….CHIVALRY IS DEAD

He came walking in dressed in daisy dukes. The denim, cut off, “you can see the pocket linings coming out the bottom” kind of daisy dukes. And atop, a mesh cut off belly shirt. I believe it was yellow.

I am not one to poke fun at others misfortunes, especially those classified under the
“physical handicap” category, but the guy had a hook. A mechanical, forceps looking thing that would every now and again malfunction.

And he had a tricycle.

And he would hit on me.

Be still my fainting heart.

Usually I’d get through conversations with Cap’n Hook with relatively few emotional scars.

Today was different.

He sauntered in pushing the trike with one hand and holding a metal bike part in the hook. He parked that sucker one foot away from me and swung one of his tube sock donned legs up onto his tricycle seat, as much like Captain Morgan than the ol’ scallywag himself.

Need I remind you of the daisy dukes?

I was speechless….not in the “I am inspired and awed sort of way”, but more of in the “OH DEAR LORD MY RETINAS!!!” sort of way.

“Yup.” he said. “Gotta get this fixed up today.” Was he talking about his trike or his unfortunate fashion (and not to mention, social) feau pax? I was unsure.

He spoke and I stood wide eyed staring. Much like in the passing of a very bad car wreck. Don’t look, don’t look…..aaahhh, why’d I look?!?!?! He continued to talk, and unfortunately I decided to come to at a most inopportune time.

“Yeah, hit the jackpot today. Was dumpster diving and found a whole garbage bag of porn videos.”

vomit. vomit. puppy dog eyes. searching…….. for……..a…….rescue……anyone? anyone? no? crap.

My courageous, & manly bike mechanics stood snickering in the back. My face flushed red and right at that same moment, Cap’n got talking expressively with his hand/hook and FLUNG the metal bike part across half the length of the store, almost rendering a woman looking at shoes unconscious. As my gaze came back to the dumpster diving junkie, I realized he did not even notice that he had just chucked his bit o’ bike.

And this is the part of the story that I get the giggles.

As I try to stifle my chuckles, he finally gets around to “so that’s why I brought this broken bit to you to….wait, where’d it go??”

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha

(gasp)

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
No kiddin’?

Let’s just say this is where I referred him to the “Bicycle Professionals” to get the “adequate attention that he and his tricycle needed.”

ring. ring.

“The Bike Shop, this is Awkward Girl, how may I help you?” “oh, Captain, it’s for you….”

“Jessica Simpson called, she wants her shorts back.”

If you’re going to don the dukes, I suggest you do so Bravely.

 

“Fish”sues Issues

 “You should get a pet fish” were the words that floated past my college friend’s lips.The words caused the acid burning, throw up sensation in my throat.

As a coming of age women, you want to take care of things. Loved ones. Plants. Pets.

Living single in a box of a dorm room limits your ability to really “nurture” any of those things, and pet options were in fact limited to fish…and if you were a rebel willing to get written up by the R.A., you might venture into the realm of perhaps a gerbil. My friend’s suggestion threw me into a cold sweat, which warranted an explanation.

It was an icy Colorado winter, wrapped in a foggy haze; your breath caught in your lungs making it hard to breathe. Snotcicles hung from steamy nostrils. I was four years old….

What I had in my mind as a four-year old was a small, bright orange goldfish. Smiling. Much like the fish from Cat in the Hat…I’d be OK with it if it talked. When Grandma offered to get my sister and I some fish, I was elated, but when she showed up with a large tank and two “goldfish” in hand, disappointment washed over my body.

The goldfish were hardly gold at all. Actually, they were brown. Poop brown. And big….no small, smiling, shimmering, sensational Seuss fish…no. Big, poop brown carp. Poop eaters. Poop Brown, poop eating carp that grew to whatever environment you put them in. Did I mention granny bought a friggin’ huge tank?

Dad had a fuse on his temper about the length of a bobby pin, which meant that often times he would throw things…out the front door. Burnt toast? Toaster out the door. Cat scratching the sofa? Cat meows filled the neighborhood air. Poop brown non-Seussical fish that gotsobigandnastythatyoucouldn’tkeeptheirtankclean….flip flop little fishies…no flushy down the toidy for you.

You can imagine the horror as I watched the nasty fish suffocate and flop to their death on the frozen tundra called my yard. It would be an understatement to say in that moment I was traumatized.“Uh, no, I don’t think I want a fish.”

“Listen, you need to face your fears head on.” My suitemate’s words offered no comfort.

Fine….let’s do this thing.

I headed to Wally World in search of the fish that would heal me from my childhood wounds. And there he was. Bright, shimmery orange, with flowing tail and fins, and a fat little belly. I think he even smiled a bit.

“That’s the one I want.”

After five attempts at fishing Mr. Fish out of the tank, the clerk was finally successful. Little did I know that today was a two for one special. In the very moment that the net was about to be pulled from the tank, an albino fish hopped on board.

Without missing a beat the clerk chimed in “Actually, these guys do better in pairs. You should just keep him as well.” I knew he was just sick of playing “Go Fish”.

Alright. Whatever. I’ll keep albino fish.

And then. I saw him. In all his grossness, albino fish turned, and swallowing his whole right eye was a black spot painted on the background of his pasty, albino, flakey, disease infested flesh. He looked like Chuckie. I named him Pisser.

“I bet he eats the other fish by morning” My friends had the impeccable capability to really talk someone down off of a cliff. Well, eat the other fish, he did not. HOwever, “otherfish” hardly made it the week through. “Otherfish” was quite short-lived really. So short, that I can’t recall his name. Oh heartache!

And do you think Pisser would die? I made attempts at helping Pisser to the big fishbowl in the sky. No food. check. My room was so hot in the summer his water almost boiled. Still no go. Shoot, I wouldn’t even clean his bowl. And do you think he cared? No. In fact he almost thrived in a toxic environment. Of course he would. Devil fish.

Eventually, Pisser gave in. I was so ticked at the whole escapade that I let him rot in the bowl for a few days before flushing him down the loo. Disgusting, yes. Don’t judge.

Conclusion: Fish make crappy pets. And I will now and forever have “fish”sues issues.

So if you ever do try out fish as a pet, make sure you’re ready to do so Bravely.