What Church Is Not:

Rituals. Soundtracks. Outlines.


What Church Is:

A grown man taking his son in his arms, holding him, loving him, even after all that's been said. That same man bringing his other son into his embrace while the mother pulls the daughter up to complete the now crying, hugging, mushy group of a family. Holding his family tight and praying a prayer that I'm sure made  Jesus stand up and shout Glory!, I thought to myself,

This is church. Our living room. Silent except for sniffing. No audience. No outlines. No praise and worship band. An imperfect family seeking the wisdom of The Perfect One. A man who learned nothing from his earthly father leaning heavily on his Heavenly Father.

I gotta say, it was one of the most beautiful things I've ever experienced.



And with that, I've got to get ready for church. The building, that is.

Sunshine In The Dark

A little girl tugged on my shirt today, stood on her tiptoes, and whispered in my ear:

Jack always backtalks me, all day long, but he's not today cause he's scared of you.

Her eyes were wide. Her smile was huge.
I patted her on the back and told her I was glad to be of help.
She hugged me tight before she skipped back to her coloring sheet and crayons.

A bright spot in an otherwise depressing day.

I Could Be Something Great (If I Ever Got Out Of Bed)

I do some of my best writing at night.

In bed.
In my mind.

Complete essays. Deep insight. Intriguing theories.

Introduction.
Body.
Conclusion.

I can picture the written word clearly. I visualize the paragraphs, use good transitional sentences, and correct my grammar. I think of different opening lines and optional closing remarks. I convince myself that I'll remember it all in the morning and eventually drift off to sleep.

Then I wake up and remember nothing.

Oh, I remember tidbits here and there. It's like catching a glimpse of something great, like maybe the sun trying to peek through dark curtains on a dreary day, but never quite grasping the full, glorious picture. Such a mental block climbs beyond frustration. I really should get up when inspiration strikes, but that bed is too darn warm.

Such is the price of laziness.

Last night's masterpiece included a response to a recent blog I read via Pinterest. The young author presented her ten (or maybe fourteen?) surefire steps to a happy, healthy marriage. This female optimist has been married for three (or maybe five?) years and has no children. Judging from the pictures that accompanied her post, she and her husband are fresh out of college, attractive as in that athletic way, and in love with the world and everyone around them.

And if you know me, you can only imagine the thoughts that ran through my mind.

Well, okay... my thoughts were not that dire. I'm all for optimistic love. Really. I was there once, too. I'm still in love with the man and with the hope that never ends and with the knowledge that my God says it will all work out in the end. Life has a way of throwing those curve balls at you, though. Things you never saw coming. Things that if you had saw coming you might have cashed it in then for fear that you would never make it out alive.

But you do make it out. A little more beat up. Maybe some bruises. Definitely a scar or two. A war story all your own.

The husband says he thinks things are about to change for us. Maybe the tide is turning. He's been deep in his Bible of a night. Maybe he's reading about the end times. Maybe he's reading about Job. I don't ask. That's between him and the Lord and a direct violation of Optimistic Young Wife's Advice in Tip Number Seven (or maybe Tip Number Nine?). According to her, I'm suppose to ask him his thoughts on a daily basis.

Chuckle. Chuckle.

She'll learn and she'll tweak her own tips as the years progress and babies come and money goes. I should know. I tweak my own internal advice on a daily basis. I expect the unexpected.

And I've not been disappointed.

Now if I'd only get out of bed and transfer those nighttime writings from my mind to paper, I might actually get somewhere... and make a whole lot more sense in the process.

Bring On The Band!

'Tis the season for Christmas Parades.

Parade after parade after parade. Beauty queen of this school and that school and this game and that game. Mustang Clubs. Corvette Clubs. Old Car Clubs. Even a Jeep Club and a Haphazard-Thrown-Together-Motorcycle Club. Horses. Tractors. Random trucks with hand-painted signs announcing this, that, or other.

Marching Bands. Cheerleaders. Tap Dancers. The Jolly Big Guy On The Fire Truck At The End.

And a random, long-bearded old guy in a flannel shirt carrying the Confederate Flag.

There are days where I absolutely love where I live.

Boys With No Shirts (or more importantly, part two of a girly football game)

This post is dedicated to those of you anxiously awaiting an update on the Championship Powder Puff Football Game last night. Yeah... I'm laughing, too. I will, however, not only give that update, but also share my thoughts on half-naked teenage boys.

And some of you just sat up straighter.


First things first.

The freshmen girls did beat the sophomore team to secure their third place standing in this year's championship tournament. My girl stood her ground on defense with the rest of her team and endured the throat-clenching, hair-pulling, jersey-grabbing antics of an unorganized tenth grade offense. Final score was freshmen 12; sophomores ZERO. Woot Woot. We didn't hang around for the junior/senior game.


And now on to the more interesting stuff.

Last night was cold for our neck of the woods. We sat on a blanket (on the metal bleachers), huddled in a blanket, and watched others spend good money to warm their hands on slices of pizza or cups of hot chocolate. But even the brisk wind blowing could not stop groups of shirtless teenage boys from supporting their female classmates out on the field. On both sides, boys in pajama pants and shorts bravely faced the cold wearing nothing on top but coordinating body paint and letters proudly displaying their loyalty (F-R-E-S-H-M.... you get the idea). Hats on backwards, boomboxes playing, and flags waving, the girls were not lacking a cheerleading squad on either side.

When the freshmen girls scored the FIRST touchdown, their shirtless male counterparts made a victory lap around the track stopping only to wave their flag in the face of the sophomore boys. When the SECOND touchdown was made, the victory lap was repeated only to swap the flag-in-the-face move with all the freshmen boys dropping on the field to exhibit their strength in push-ups (to show their might over the sophomores, the daughter later informed me). While this was taking place, a sophomore boy snatched the flag of the freshmen.

Which led to a minor flag tussle.
Which got a teacher involved.
Which caused enough distraction for a freshman boy to snatch the boombox of the sophomores.
Which he promptly delivered to the group of shirtless senior boys sitting in the bleachers.
Which got another teacher involved.

Oh my goodness.

We laughed and clapped and completely forgot there was an actual game taking place on the field.

As the boombox-snatching freshman was escorted away from the scene of the crime, we went back to watching the game and the husband remarked that towards the end of the second half, the boys with only paint on their backs and chests to keep them warm were not as rowdy as they were in the beginning. The cold must have dampened their enthusiasm as hands were shoved into pajama pant pockets and they were more huddled together than chanting any great cheer. The final buzzer buzzed and the game was over. I think the boys disappeared faster than the girls who were, like last night, delivering their farewell hugs as they made their way off the field.

So, all in all, the last two nights have been a lot of fun. The daughter is already looking forward to next year and I gotta admit, I'm anxious to see what those boys come up with next.

And watching my girl play, too.

That's the most important part...

Right?

Powder Puff Dreams

For the first time in all of my kids' middle school/high school careers, we attended a sporting event for the sole purpose of watching one of our own take the field. I've never been envious of the notorious soccer mom running herself ragged to get from one game or event or class to another with all of her Nike-Reebok-Adidas wearing kids in tow, but I have to admit it was rather exciting to descend the concrete steps of those metal bleachers looking for a place to park myself. Equipped with a comfy blanket to sit on, we snatched a spot on the 50-yard line and as luck would have it, a trash-talking grandpa for the opposite team took up space right in front of us. The oldest broke open his motorcycle-riding-backpack that was stuffed with snacks, the husband began a verbal assessment of the opponent, and with the sound of a buzzer, the game was on.

Powder Puff Football.

It's the freshman year of the youngest. In the days leading up to her high school registration, she remarked to her dad that she intended to get the full high school experience. She sent me a text a few weeks ago announcing: I did it, Mom. Signed up for powder puff. What have I gotten myself into? Even as I admonished her for using her phone during school (It's study hall, Mom), I was at the same time cheering her on. You go, girl! 

So for the last week she has been at practice learning about football and taking defensive tactic training from her father. It's all been rather entertaining. She comes home from practice wound up about this sophomore or that senior and the girls who won't do anything because they're afraid of messing up their hair. She insisted we didn't need to be at the game last night because as she put it, We're gonna get killed, Mom.

Which brings me to another point.

Whose bright idea was it to pit the freshmen team against the seniors?

Yep. The senior girls took to the field in a intimidating formation that involved launching diapers and pacifiers and baby bottles at the huddled group of freshmen girls. It was rather sad and funny all at the same time. You don't need the details of the game- the seniors did win, but it was by no means a slaughter as predicted earlier by the daughter. We watched our baby girl take up her defensive stance and slightly prayed, Not the teeth, Lord. Protect the teeth ($5000 worth of orthodontics, you know). She held her own and we cheered them on. Even the trash-talking grandpa became eerily quiet as the clock wound down. When the final buzzer sounded and girls on the field hugged each other (as only girls in football jerseys can do), we gathered up our blanket and snacks and waited for our athlete to make her appearance. The husband leaned over and whispered to me, Well, at least we only had to do this one time.

Nope, I sadly shook my head. We're here tomorrow night, too. Losers play the losers; winners play the winners.

Those sophomores are going down.

Then I'll gladly hang up my soccer mom shoes.

At least till next year.

Memories, December, And Pictures To Go With It

The second of December? Good Lord. Where has the time gone? It seems like just yesterday I was trudging through knee-deep snow in the Rocky Mountains hoping to induce labor...  that and walking up and down a flight of steps during every commercial break of The Young and The Restless and As The World Turns (my soap opera days). I can't remember my exact due date with the oldest. I think it was November 27th at first and was later changed to December 9th, or something like that. Doesn't matter. He arrived just when he was suppose to, somewhere in the middle of those two guessing dates on the morning of December 4, 1993.

I remember the night before his birth so clearly that it's almost eerie. I'm sure I am not alone in that some memories are so exact, so right there, I swear my mind could fool myself if only for a short time. I was wearing a light blue and white-striped button down, short-sleeved shirt. The husband came home from his Army duties to a supper of Hamburger Helper Chili Mac and after the sun went down, we sat in a dark living room of our rented town home on the ugliest-couch-known-to-man looking at the twinkling lights on our first Christmas tree together. Around ten o'clock we went to bed and around eleven o'clock I knew something felt different. A few hours later, I called the maternity ward at the hospital, described what I was feeling to the friendly Air Force nurse, and was assured that I was not in labor.

She was wrong.

I remember the husband insisting we take our little baby carrier and my packed bag to the hospital when I finally woke him up and we left our home around three in the morning. I told him there was no need, the lady said it wasn't labor, and that they would probably give me something to help my stomach (keep in mind this was my first, my mom wasn't close by, and the book did not describe anything I was feeling). Ever the practical man, he said he wasn't making a trip back to get everything and he was pretty sure this was the big moment.

He was right.

That little boy showed up a little after six-thirty that morning and we made the happy calls to the grandparents. The next day, we loaded that little baby seat into the backseat of a Mustang where I hovered beside him terrified of all the passing cars on the freeway. I can still see us arriving back at our town home, setting our tiny little bundle still in his baby seat on that ugly couch, and looking at each other. We had nobody but us and I don't mind admitting that I felt utterly helpless. Nine months was suddenly not nearly enough time to prepare for our new family of three and our home felt a lot different than a fully staffed maternity ward. Thank God for that man. He sprang into action and by the end of that first hour had me settled into our not-so-ugly rocking-chair holding the most beautiful baby ever while he lined up bottles and stacked diapers and did everything else that needed to be done. It took a few more days of this same pattern before he looked at me and said, Wanna take him to see your parents?

And that's what we did... took a less-than-one-week-old baby on a fourteen-hour drive from the Rocky Mountains to the Midwest (in DECEMBER, of all times) and gave my mom and dad the surprise of their life.

One of my all-time favorite memories.

The tree we sat looking at on the evening of December 3rd.

Surprising my parents a week later.

The striped blue and white shirt and the ugly couch .

The not-so-ugly rocking chair.