Stuck in Frump, Striving for Fab

Our first costume was a bit 'risky' to wear out of the house (and my son would probably kill me now if he knew it was on my blog...shhhhh!), but we thought it was cute.



















Instead, we added a couple of items, and it became...










The Alfalfa costume.

This was the costume that wasn't really a costume. Jericho was really into wearing suits during this particular phase, and would often wear them to school.

Because they weren't allowed to wear costumes to school that year, and because we were heading out for a party after school, we went ahead and let him wear his suit. To make it into a costume, we used the bowtie from his cousin's wedding (in lieu of one of his regular church ties) and I snipped a section from one of my makeup brushes and hot-glued it together on one end. When it was nearly cool, I stuck it on his head.

It held up all day, but when we went to take it out of his hair that night, it was stuck fast.

Which necessitated my snipping it out.

Which left a nearly bald patch.

Which meant having to get a very, very short haircut to 'cover' for the damage.

Elf he came up with all on his own. And yep, you attentive types may have noticed that's a longsleeved yellow tee-shirt where his pants should be (with the neck hole in a place not exactly conducive to trick or treating on the mean streets of the Southwest.

Though hilarious, that one was not permitted out of the house (except for the photo).

The Fly was another of Jericho's own creations which although creative, was kept for home use only. My tea strainer was never quite the same again.
Aladdin was a joint venture between myself (the headpiece) and Jericho's grandma and aunt Cheryl. That satin was slippery stuff to work with, but gave off a great shine. This was actually a costume for a school play one spring, and the following Fall, we used it for Trick-or-treating. And it was kind of tricky getting his 'magic carpet' up to the porches with all the other kids going past in their costumes, because it took up considerable space.








Whoa, Pardner...that is Jericho all decked out for a "Halloween HoeDown" we had with our youth group at Church--he always gets to come along on our youth group outings because he's our kid ;0)



















Last year, because we had a young toddler in the house, I couldn't seem to find the time to come up with a suitable costume, and he'd outgrown nearly every costume we still had floating around the house.

Jericho, a huge X-Men fan, came up with his own Wolverine costume about five minutes before we had to leave for trick-or-treating. He already had everything for the costume except for some gloves (which I provided), and some chopsticks he found in a kitchen drawer. He did his own hair, but asked if I could use my makeup to help him with his sideburns.

He was pretty proud of himself.

Last year for Judah's birthday, Auntie Jami sent this costume. His birthday was in September, and he'd been wearing it almost constantly up to the day of Halloween...to the store, to the post office, and so forth, because he kept digging it out of the laundry and fussing to have it put on. He actually took his first steps in this costume.

And has been bouncing all over the place since.

I've been tagged by Cecily R to write 7 random things about myself.

I feel it necessary to make a disclaimer that mine was not as short and concise as hers. Sorry about the excess verbiage.

Enjoy!

1. When I was what felt like 2 months overdue with our firstborn (really just two weeks) and as big as a house, I went to the hospital three times before finally being allowed to check in as a patient 'officially' in labor. Apparently the labor pains I'd been experiencing in the previous couple of days and during the previous 2 visits to the maternity ward had been fake labor. The second time, the nurse in triage told me, "It's not actual labor honey, it just feels like it is. They're Braxton-Hicks contractions. You go on home and take a nice long walk, and with any luck you'll be back in here tonight with the real thing."

I was already so exhausted and cranky and miserably overdue, that I felt like snapping, "Great idea, lady...I'll go home right now and walk until I'm dog tired so that I can come in and relax in the maternity ward this evening with the real thing!" Riiiiiight.

2.You know how you feel when you stub your toe, and you know that if you walk it off, it'll feel better quicker, but inevitably someone just has to ask, "Are you okay?" which makes it hurt even worse?

Well, that's pretty much how I felt on the labor table with our older son. What I wanted to do was to get down on a clean floor there in the hospital (on a large, thick blanket because of the germs), and writhe around in my agony without hospital people asking me anything or even being in the same room. I just wanted them to leave me to suffer in privacy.

The problem was, the doctors in that hospital insisted I be up on that stupid table for their convenience, though they are only in the room for the last 5 minutes before the baby is born!! Meanwhile I'm in there suffering for 8 hours on a table approximately the size of a 5 gallon bucket, feeling much like a circus elephant gingerly trying to find a place to put my feet on that tiny little surface so that I could keep my balance without falling off!

As my husband recounted for the entire family later (complete with a re-enactment on the floor), though my pregnant girth was considerable, I changed positions so rapidly and so many times, that it appeared to him that I was breakdancing.

I don't consider myself a feminist, but I'd like to know why male doctors, male specialists and male hospital board members have made these types of executive decisions (like the elevated birthing table created and meant for their convenience) for untold millions of women for decades now, having never personally experienced labor and delivery themselves...and nobody says a thing about it? We just continue to go into hospitals equipped with these hideous devices of torture and endure it!

I'd like to see what these same men would do if they were suddenly informed by a board of women from the plumbers union that for ease of toilet cleaning for women across the land, it had been unanimously decided that men's toilets everywhere would now be mounted midway up the walls in the bathrooms, at an angle so that housewives and custodians would no longer need to crouch down to scrub them, but for the man's convenience, stirrups would be mounted just below the toilet on the wall to hold their feet (while in a position that was not at all conducive to keeping their butts on the toilet) and there would be handholds from the ceiling so they could hang on for dear life in said acrobatic position while doing their business?

For some reason, I don't think such a decision would fly, because men everywhere would revolt in mass numbers. How are they to read, after all, when suspended in such ungainly positions without their hands free?

Grrrr.

3. For some unknown reason, that hospital didn't "do" epidurals. Which should have been my first warning sign, but being that I had naively gone into that first birthing situation thinking that I would not be taking any drugs of any kind, I didn't pay much attention to that unit in my (required by the hospital) pre-birth class, confident that since my mom and both grandmothers hadn't used drugs with any of their babies (17 total between them, and one was 11 lbs 3 oz), then I shouldn't have any problem at all.

Unfortunately, I'd not counted on back labor. Which is typically defined as a baby in utero being in such a position as to have his spine positioned against your own, which makes wiggling down the birth canal nearly impossible, and excruciatingly painful to the mom. So after crying and pleading, they gave me a morphine block (instead of an epidural like all other hospitals in the area did).

Yes, morphine. To have a baby.

Apparently seeing that I didn't already have enough on my plate at the moment, what with trying to balance on the bucket and push the baby they were certain (based on several ultrasounds and a freaked out man-doctor's assumption having heard about my 11 lb 3 oz sister) would be upwards of 11 pounds, out an opening that was far too small for the predicted ginormous baby...they were now going to add narcotics to the mix.

I was pretty much locked in by this time, being a little too late in the game to ask for a second opinion or to transfer to another hospital to give birth.

Worried, I sat on the table, and in between contractions, the anesthesiologist delicately inserted the needle into my spine. Which hurt, but nothing like the back labor.

An amazingly peaceful warmth spread through my entire body...for about 10 seconds. After which I immediately became hyper-ticklish and itchy all at the same time. All over my body. I mean, inside and outside and everywhere in between, including under my toenails and my gums. Did you know it was possible to itch there? I did not know that either, but I was itching there like crazy!

Anytime I scratched anything, however, it tickled, due to morhine-whacked out nerve endings. Being ticklish made me giggle moreso than my usual. As in incessantly. Which probably really freaked out the other birthing women in that hallway, because I sounded a like a cross between a hyena and Flipper the dolphin. These itchy-ticklish-giggles also made it kind of tricky for the nurse and physician's assistant to put the catheter and baby monitor in as the time to deliver drew closer.

The morphine also did strange things to my vision. One minute, I could see just fine, the next it would be double and blurry, and then I'd be so tired I would take a nap, only to be rudely wakened by another contraction a minute later. And between puking and sleeping due to the drugs, this strange cycle was repeated for what felt like hours until my beautiful baby boy was finally born. Well, what I could see of him when my eyes would focus properly, that is. My husband stayed with him as planned, and was there for his first bath, which I have only vague memories of watching from a wheelchair outside the window in double-vision. If only I'd remembered to pack my 3-d glasses in my luggage.

That experience convinced me that drugs and me didn't mix, and that I would make the world's worst drug addict. Not that I ever had any aspirations of going that route or anything, but I would be the one maniac in the squat giggling my fool head off, and even in my normal state of mind that's downright embarrassing!

4. I've never broken a bone.

5.My very first car was a 1975 Buick LeSabre. I got it for high school graduation. It was a big old bomber of a car of a brilliant metallic Teal color. 18 1/2 feet of pure, driving luxury. My first night as the proud new owner, my friends and I christened it by taking our entire youth group from church to go see a movie in it. All 10 of us. Nobody even had to sit on laps, because that car was so wide.

Before me, the only other owner had been an old guy from somewhere else in Washington State who had kept the car in the garage and babied it for years, keeping it nicely waxed, washed, and like new inside. He apparently only took the car out for Sunday drives and a few business trips, because when I became the owner in 1989, it only had 75,000 miles on it, and everything from the wheels up was like new, including the tires. It was a real steal as used cars went. He'd kept meticulous records of every fill-up, oil change and repair ever made on that car (in a special book for such purposes) which was in the glove box.

Not long after graduation, I moved to Minnesota. Somewhere just before my first winter there, I got the brilliant idea to wax my car to 'protect' the paint from the elements, as it was no longer a garaged car. After buying a tub of turtle wax, my dad's preferred brand, I did it all by myself, following the directions I learned in Karate Kid. After a considerable amount of time working at this task, something went terribly wrong, and I saw that the pad was picking up the color of the car, so I gave up. The beautiful shiny turquoise paint was forever dingy from that point on, and had circles all over it if the lighting was just so.

While I managed to keep the interior of that car neat as a pin, I soon fell behind on keeping track of each and every fill-up, oil change and tune-up, and finally gave up and threw the record book out to try not feel as guilty.

A year after moving to Minnesota, I began college, and was too poor to do much of anything except only the very basic, necessary maintenance to keep it running so as to get to and from work.

Needless to say, over the next couple of years, things began to wear out and fall apart. Not just because of my ineptitude with proper maintenance, but because being subjected to the elements year round and being driven in Minnesota winters is very hard on a car. By the time my husband and I got married, the car was beginning to show signs of wear and tear on the outside and under the hood, though the interior still looked like new.

Our first married winter, the heater in the car gave up the ghost. Which made for some defrosting challenges. One person's breath with the heater hadn't been much of a problem, but two people's breath without, while driving in 25-below-zero cold, accumulates quite rapidly on the windows. Being poor newlywed college kids, we couldn't get the heater fixed, and made do without. It was not uncommon for my husband or I to drive while the other of us furiously scraped the ice off the inside of the windshield with a long ice scraper, and then wiped the new steam like mad with an old flannel shirt. We were busier than one-armed paper-hangers in that car and were worn out by the time we ever got to work. And dropping him off for his job early in the morning and going solo to college afterward was what taught me the valuable skill of multi-tasking.

That same winter, my husband had to replace the alternator, in 45 below weather, while lying on a black plastic garbage bag on the snowy pavement underneath the car. He reported to me later that his hands stuck to the cold metal like tongues sometimes do to popsicles (or metal flagpoles).

6.We later sold "old Bessie" to a guy who ran her in a demolition derby. We got $50 for her. Which paid for our second vehicle. A really, really old Toyota pickup truck (the super small trucks you don't see much of anymore) that was so rusted out, the bed had a piece of plywood in it to prevent things from falling out the bottom. Once, on the way home from the grocery store, we lost a couple of cans of food that had fallen through a rotten spot in that plywood, so we eventually put an old laundry basket in the back to hold our groceries. The cab also had holes where the salty-road slush from the front tires hit the underbody of the car. We had to fill these holes with old socks and duct tape them up really good to keep slush off our clothes in the winter, but boy were we thankful for the heater in that little truck cab. Compared to our old method of drive-scrape-wipe all winter long, we were really riding in style! In the summer, it was actually quite nice to unplug those holes, as it added a little extra air conditioning.

7. Sloths are my least favorite animal.

Whew!

Okay, I guess here is where I get to tag 7 others for this game...so I tag
Brooke
Yette
Kellan
Katybug
Shauna
Deb
and Jenster

No rules....just whatever 7 random things you feel compelled to share about yourself. Have fun!

Okay friends, here's a cool contest I just heard about from my friend Brooke, who heard about it from



Click on the above Domestic Diva link for more info on how you can enter the contest to win a PINK Dyson Vacuum Cleaner...but you have to hurry and spread the word, as the contest ends October 31st!

It's a great way to support Breast Cancer awareness!

Just for fun, our church AWANA Club has theme nights that the kids can participate in each Wednesday night of club. Some involve dressing up, some involve bringing something (Noah night includes bringing a favorite stuffed animal). But of the 32 theme nights we do each year, none is more popular than Crazy Hat night. Which we held last night.

My son and I stayed up late last night watching several old Harold Lloyd slapstick comedies back-to-back. We found the boxed set of them at Costco, and I knew we couldn't pass them up.

We laughed our heads off.

And did I mention that these were silent pictures?

Even with all the advanced special effects that are in movies today, you can really appreciate the lengths they went to in making these films, and how the gags were timed to perfection and executed with precision.

There is a special feature commentary hosted by Leonard Maltin that you can listen to while watching the films that is also very fascinating. Lots of interesting history about many of the studios and actors of that time, as well as tidbits about how and where they were filmed.

It's really neat to see downtown Los Angeles and Culver City, CA as they were back then. One amusing scene in the film, Safety Last (which is where the infamous clock photo came from) shows Paramedics of that day doing their work on the streets of L.A., and then Leonard Maltin explains how they were able to get this particular shot several stories above the streets of Los Angeles. Harold Lloyd was a cinematic genius, way ahead of his time. A pioneer in the industry.

I also learned that Harold Lloyd was missing the thumb and forefinger on his right hand in this movie (and the above photo). He had a special prosthetic glove made so that nobody would ever notice. I was also surprised to find that he did many of his own stunts in his movies.

Watching these movies with Jericho brought back memories of my mom and I staying up late at grandma's house doing the exact same thing when I was about his same age.

Good times, good times.

Hooray for Harold Lloyd.

A Crazy Day

I woke to a jackhammer at dawn on Monday
which set a not-so-great tone for my day.
A road crew was working just over my block wall
with tractors and dump trucks and jackhammers, all.

The noise was so loud, I could not sleep a wink
so I schlepped to the bathroom to wash my face at the sink
I tried to get moving, and start my daily routine
and bumbled around the kitchen in search of caffeine

Because it was still early, I thought I'd let the kids sleep,
but that was not to be thanks to "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"
Those tractors and trucks, all jockeying about
made such a racket I wanted to shout!
Especially when the baby woke up two hours early
which meant our schedule would be messed up good, surely.
We finally got out the door, and loaded in to the car
but due to the construction couldn't get very far.
They finally moved a tractor so we could go straight
and though we'd left early, my son got to school late.

Later that morning, I lugged groceries inside
but the noise hadn't stopped, it was now magnified.
After lunch, I put the baby down for much needed sleep
and finally began to clean, dust and sweep.
I was just getting caught up after putting groceries away
when my son called from school, "Mom, it's minimum day!"

"What?" I shriek in alarm,
as I run for my purse, sleeping babe in my arms.
I dash off to the school and am way late picking him up,
apologize profusely to the office staff, feeling like a total schmuck.
Then drive across town early to pick daddy up,
as he wanted to spend the evening fixing the truck.

This entails more errands while we're already out
I feel the day slipping away, and just want to pout
It's an uphill battle, this day-to-day grind,
Trying to get ahead, but only getting more behind

By now, I'm worn out, with a gazillion things to do
and the baby says from his car seat, "Mama, I want foo!"
I find in my purse a wrapped granola bar
So I hand it over to the backseat of the car
My husband finally comes out from the store
And we head for a restaurant because of the hour.

As of Thursday night,
road construction was finally complete
but try as I might
my housework is still not beat.
*sigh*

Why can't I get out from this frump I'm stuck in
And let out the fabulous "me" from within?
The one that is not so easily derailed
who stays on task, the test passed and not failed?

Perhaps one of these days I'll finally get there
but this gargantuan task will take lots of prayer
I can't do it of my own strength, this I know to be true
Only His strength in and through me will do.

:: ::

**Silly Kid Stories**

The other night after everyone else went to bed, my older son Jericho (age 11) had just finished his homework, and was using up the last few minutes of his day before bedtime playing in the living room.

I was working on the computer and heard him playing with a toy gun by himself in the living room. I always enjoy listening in (and sometimes peeking in) on him when he's doing this, because he usually plays out an entire, made up scenario, with himself as both good and bad guy, and I usually find these scenarios very amusing:

[sound effects] Ka pow, pow, pow, pow!

Good Guy: [In an angry voice] "You killed my buddy out there...keep your arms up!" [He's looking to the right, his arm stretched out, pistol aimed at the bad guy, a serious look on his face]

Bad guy: [holding hands up as if in surrender, a scared look on his face] "Don't do it! Don't shoot..."

Good guy: [more sound effects of a couple of ricocheting shots, and then one that found it's mark]

Bad guy: "Ooof" [holds chest and falls dramatically on the floor, as though gravely injured]

ominous silence

[sounds of a sudden struggle on the floor]

Bad guy: [in a weak voice, a previously hidden gun now aimed at the good guy] "You think you've got me down?"

Good Guy: [kicks the bad guy's gun out of the way and stands menacingly over the bad guy, now helpless on the ground] In a Clint Eastwood voice, "You ain't seen nothin' yet..." [ka pow, pow ka pow, pow, pow]

blows on the end of the gun in victory

This totally cracks me up, as it's the polar opposite of the fanciful, "happily ever after" scenarios I used to dream up as a girl. Jeff tells me that he, too, dreamed up these same elaborate scenarios as a boy. A total guy thing.

But then, I suppose that every "Knight in Shining Armor" has to start his hero training somewhere!

:: ::

Jeff was late getting home from work one evening a couple of weeks ago. Jericho started in telling me about some things that had happened during his school day. One of the latter comments was this:

"I think Mrs. "S" really likes me, mom. Mostly because I'm one of the best students in her class...well, except for the fact that I chose hydrogen as my atom model."

I looked at him kind of puzzled, not really getting what he meant (my, um, science skills are sorely lacking, I'm afraid, that portion of my memory having gotten a bit dusty over the years...)
"Hydrogen only has three things that you stick up off of your model...one electron, one proton and one neutron" he explained. "Most of the other kids models have like 10 or 20 things sticking up off of them."

I thought he meant that he thought that his teacher would think he was a slacker for picking the atom with the fewest things on it. "There's nothing wrong with that, I mean, it was on the list of atoms you could choose to make your model from, right?"

He looks at me and rolls his eyes, "Mom...it looked...male, if you know what I mean."

Apparently he was a little embarrassed because his atom looked 'anatomically correct', but the glue had already dried.

:: ::

On Monday morning, after fighting all that road construction while trying to get Jericho to school on time, we reached an intersection that is notorious for being a real bear each morning.

I made impatient sounds and sort of drummed on the steering wheel, willing them to heed the now green light and GO.

From the carseat in the back, I hear my two year old Judah pipe up, "Come ON, people!!!"

:: ::

Judah can't quite pronounce the word "football". It comes out sounding a little more like, "Fooey-ull". This in spite of the fact that he can say both "foot" and "ball" clear as can be.

In my Awana class on Wednesday evening, during a quiet time where kids are saying their memory verses, he was tossing around a Nerf football.

He kept calling it "Fooey-ull", so I pulled him up on my lap, and pointing to his shoe said, "Foot Ball", trying to make the association for him so he'd say "foot" and "ball" together.

"No, mama...SHOE!"

And yes, he still insists on calling it "Fooey-ull".

:: ::

Judah loves watching football. Throwing footballs. Holding a football instead of a teddy bear in his crib at night. Throwing footballs. Playing football. Throwing. More. Footballs.

I think we've got ourselves a future linebacker. Or quarterback. Or tight end. Anyway, he's only two, and he can already tuck the ball under his arm and run like the wind, dramatically throwing himself down into a somersault type roll, ball under his arm.

We passed a school the other day on the way to pick up his dad from work, and there were football players out practicing on the field in the afternoon sun. They suddenly all took off together in a line, doing some type of a drill.

Judah got all excited from the backseat, "Mama...fooey-ull guys!"

"Did you see the football players?" I asked with equal enthusiasm.

From the backseat, I hear him start belting out this fight song tune the cheerleaders use frequently during their routines at the high school games we've been attending the past few weekends, "Duh, duh, duh, dum, da-dum, da-dum "HEY", duh duh da dum..." with plenty of emphasis on the "Hey".

He pauses for a moment. "Do it, mama." (my cue to get with the program).

So I start singing the "Duh, duh, duh, dum, da-dum, da-dum" part, and without missing a beat, he chimes in with "HEY!" at the appropriate time.

And so for the next mile or two, we sing the fight song. Over and over and over.

But I wouldn't trade those precious moments for anything.

For some Christian folks out there, Halloween is kind of a controversial topic. I recently read a very good article in the Christian Examiner by a favorite radio personality, Steve Russo. It was entitled, "What Should We Do With Halloween?" While I liked everything he had to say in the article and agreed with it, I was a little bit disappointed with the title. I guess it sort of rankled with me because it makes it sound like we Christians are a bunch of nitwits who are running about in a panic, not quite sure what we should do with Halloween. Just like we are not sure what we should do with lots of other 'issues' in the church: drinking wine, praise music vs. hymns, what constitutes appropriate Christian attire, dating vs. courting, and so on.

Now I realize that his article was probably aimed at newer Christian believers out there who may have never considered some of these things before, and are perhaps seeking some guidance from a knowledgable Christian believer as to how to approach such things with their own children from a Biblical perspective. I'm glad it was Steve Russo's article in that issue, and not someone with more legalistic leanings which would seek to suck all the joy out of October 31st, which could be a perfectly enjoyable and memorable day for many children if only the parents had chosen to approach it in a better way.

I believe that certain things, such as Halloween, have become 'issues' among God's people because not everyone professing to love and serve Jesus Christ sees eye-to-eye on every single thing. Some of this is, in fact, what divides congregations and even draws denominational lines. There are those calling themselves Christians that indulge in far more than I ever would where Halloween is concerned, and then there are those at the opposite end of the spectrum that avoid anything and everything to do with such a pagan holiday, lest it corrupt they or their families. My husband and I fall somewhere in the middle.

These kinds of questions as to what believers should "do" with these issues of our day are nothing new. They have been around for centuries, at least as far back as Bibilical times. And ultimately, unless there is something in scripture that specifically forbids or points to a certain behavior as being a sin, or is otherwise displeasing to the Lord, many such things boil down to the issue of Christian Liberty.

Take for instance the eating of meat that had been sacrificed to idols as mentioned in the book of 1 Corinthians in the Bible. The Apostle Paul wrote this letter to the Corinthian Christians, and spent all of Chapter 8 discussing the issue of food sacrificed to idols. In that pagan society (as with the Greeks and Romans), there were pagan temples in the area, which were large, columned pavillions, usually housing an altar with a large statue of a pagan god or goddess inside. Pagan worshippers brought food offerings to these altars certain times of the year, where priests would burn the less desirable portions of an animal in the course of their sacrifices, but would save the choicer cuts for consumption at banquets celebrating the sacrifices.

What was left over was typically sold in the marketplace, and many Christians of the day had no compunction whatsoever about eating that meat just like any other meat they might have found in their open air markets. The Apostle Paul quickly whittles the 'issue' down to one of Christian liberty. If all Corinthian Christians could have agreed on the fact that there was but One God, and that idols were nothing, they all would have been able to eat the meat without a second thought.

However, there were newer converts to Christianity that had apparently come out of these pagan backgrounds which recoiled at the thought of eating meat sacrificed to pagan gods. Because of their immaturity as young believers, they felt that such things were wrong. Paul denied the validity of their scruples, but did suggest in the latter verses of the chapter that the older more mature Christians should act in love towards these younger brothers. If it offends a Christian brother you spend time with to eat of this meat, then you shouldn't do it, lest it cause the younger brother to fall and thus sin against the Lord. Paul warned that they not let the exercize of their freedom become a stumbling block to these younger, weaker believers.

Which is why I don't make a huge deal out of Halloween around some folks I know who don't feel as I do about it. In fact, I often don't even mention anything about it to them, because I wouldn't want it to become a stumbling block.

When I am asked my views on the subject of Halloween, however, I do usually tell folks that we don't make a big deal out of "Halloween", but do allow our kids to dress up and go door to door collecting candy from well-meaning and generous folks who enjoy seeing little ones dressed up and having a good time. It's also a way for us to spread a little light and joy around the neighborhood, and to develop relationships with some of the neighbors we might not otherwise see very often.

But on nights where Halloween falls on a church night or a weekend night where there is a harvest party or fall festival going on somewhere, we usually forego the trick-or-treating and attend that instead. Mainly, we just want our kids to have some good harmless fun on that day, because we don't want them to grow up feeling in any way 'deprived' of fun because of our beliefs.

We found with our older son that when the scary, ghoulish Halloween decorations began appearing in the stores each year, it was a golden opportunity to talk with him about darkness and light as found in Scripture, and to pass on our values to him, by explaining the very real evil that exists in the world. We explained when he was just a little guy about how the Devil is not just some harmless little red guy in a suit with horns and a pitchfork, but a very real adversary, the enemy of our souls, and who is bent on dragging us away from the Lord. We'd go on to explain that Jesus is the light of the world, and that His death and resurrection meant that he triumphed over sin and death.

We've had amazing conversations with our son over the years about the occult, and about some of the evil stuff that some people do celebrate in association with Halloween. Our son has grown up with a very good understanding of what Scripture has to say about those things, and has never shown an interest in any of the pagan aspects of Halloween.

A girl I knew growing up was not allowed to dress up at all for Halloween. In fact, she and her sibling were lucky if their parents even let them have candy on that day, or to accept a carameled apple from a well-meaning and kind-hearted neighbor lady who made them and brought them over. They weren't allowed to go to parties of any kind at school if it was in any way associated with the 'secular' celebration of Halloween. No explanations for why were given, it was simply not permitted.

Not surprisingly, the kids in that family grew up feeling deprived of all the fun every other kid they knew was having on that day. What they knew of their parents form of Christianity was not the warm-fuzzy security of knowing what they believed and why, with times of joy and celebration mixed in and a healthy, positive understanding of God, but rather one of rules and regulations, and parents tightening the screws on them certain times of the year, sucking all the fun and joy from their lives with no good reason. It came as no real surprise to learn that they grew up to go out and indulge in all those things they felt they'd missed out on over the years.

Looking back, I feel as though parents like that do their children a grave disservice by not choosing their battles more wisely. Had they allowed some of the benign and relatively harmless things about Halloween that are so important to a kid--namely dressing up and getting tons of candy--while explaining why the other things were not good things to participate in, instead of just cracking down without reason, their children might today be walking more God-honoring lives.

For my husband and I, Halloween was never really an issue. Both Jeff and I grew up in homes where our parents allowed us to dress up and go trick-or-treating, but eschewed the darker side of Halloween. Neither of us were ever allowed to dress up in ghoulish costumes, and because of the way our parents handled it, gently discouraging the darker side of things while offering plenty of other exciting alternatives on October 31st, we never really had a desire or an interest in those things that might have taken us away from our Spiritual roots.

I remember feeling so sorry for those kids whose parents came down to the school all fired up on Halloween and yanked their kids out of class, taking them home where they would not be 'influenced' by it. I remember one such boy craning his head to look back into the classroom where our teacher and a room mother had set out all the goodies on the table for a party after lunch recess. The mom jerked her kids arm to turn his head, and dragged him home where he wouldn't be 'influenced' by such things.

He didn't want to convert to Satanism, for pity's sake...all he wanted was a cupcake and some candy, and maybe to dress up in a fun costume. That's pretty much what it boils down to for most kids...dressing up and getting lots of candy. I remember that half the fun was the anticipation of all the fun to come. In the days leading up to October 31st, the buzz on the playground and around lunch tables were what we would get to 'be' when we went trick-or-treating, and then for days afterward to play in that costume at home, and talk about how much fun it was to 'be' whatever we had been, and to marvel over how much candy we got. It also kind of broke up that long stretch of school between the first day and Thanksgiving Break.

Many folks, including our family, have long enjoyed decorating their homes seasonally. In the winter, this might include snow flakes or snow men, snow globes, and eventually a Christmas tree and numerous accompanying decorations. We know, of course, that these things have nothing whatsoever to do with the birth of Jesus, but by nature of Christmas in our part of the world falling in the winter time, these types of decorations have often been incorporated into our home decor. However, though we have included many of these seasonal elements in our home decor around Christmas, we've chosen to focus special attention at Christmas time on the birth of our Savior.

In the fall, we have often decorated with Indian Corn and Gourds, pumpkins, autumn leaves, cornucopias filled with the bounty of the harvest, ornamental shocks of wheat and maybe a cornstalk scarecrow on the front porch. Lots of pumpkin and apple and popcorn treats can be found in our home this time of year. In and of themselves, these things are not 'pagan' or evil, and, when you think about it, God created these things for us to eat and enjoy. Just because many of these things have come to be associated with Halloween in recent years does not make them evil. Having been a childhood cat lover, I was always disgusted that Black Cats were dragged into the mix because of their association with superstitious beliefs and 'witches' potions and whatnot.

Several years ago, I was asked rather self-righteously by a Christian woman I knew, "Why would you celebrate a Holiday with Pagan origins?" She asked me this because she overheard me telling someone that we would be taking him trick-or-treating later that night. I'm afraid I wasn't very gracious in my reply, having been cornered as I felt I was by her, but I told her that just because we took our son trick-or-treating didn't mean we celebrated Halloween's pagan origins at all. For heaven's sake, we haven't begun performing sacrifices over a pentagram...we just let our kid dress up and go trick-or-treating to get some candy! We obviously didn't see eye-to-eye on this.

Growing up, my family has always thrown other seasonal activities into that week or two before or after Halloween for added fun, like visiting a pumpkin patch to pick out our pumpkin, or going through a corn maze. Or selecting some gourds and Indian corn to display around the house. Or making carameled apples. These are the sorts of things that I recall with great fondness as being a very special treat during my childhood. Carameled apples and popcorn balls were enough trouble that it was a once a year deal, reserved for a special occasion, usually when apples were plentiful, and my mom was feeling up to doing something fun. Pumpkin carving was also pretty messy, and not the sort of thing most moms wish to clean up after more than about once a year, but always we'd do that to light our porch for trick-or-treaters, and then bring in the pumpkin the next day to clean it, boil it up and puree it and freeze it away to be made into pies for Thanksgiving. And always, the day we carved the pumpkin, we'd toast the pumpkin seeds in a little oil, salt them and eat them like sunflower seeds in the shell. These are the storts of memories we like to make for our own family. Warm-fuzy memories they can take out and mull over when they are old.

Besides the fact that Halloween was for us an area of Christian liberty, I like to think about the fact that there are other Godly folks like us out there in their neighborhoods on Halloween night shining the light, delighting in kids creative costumes, being good and kind to our neighbor children, handing out candy and tracts, and being a light in the darkness...instead of being some ogre that slaps a note on the front door and turns off their porch light, "WE don't celebrate Halloween!" Where is the witness in that? That's passing up a really valuable opportunity to be a light in the darkness in my book, especially when you have a bunch of people coming to your door.

When I was a young girl, I loved rainbows. I had a vast sticker collection which included lots of rainbows among other things, and I spent a lot of time doodling rainbows on everything I owned. But around that same time, I began hearing the murmurings among Christians about how the rainbow was becoming a symbol associated with the New Age Movement. And I'd seen for myself plenty of examples of this in logos and such by groups with New Age leanings. So, not wanting to align myself in any way with New Agers, with considerable sadness, I gave up rainbows. I quit spending my allowance on stuff with rainbows on it, and quit collecting rainbow stickers, and quit doodling rainbows on everything in sight. I felt it was my duty as a Christian, and that it somehow 'honored' the Lord that I do this.

About a month later, I was at the mall with my friends family, and we went into a Hello Kitty store called "The Happiness Shop". This store had a wall full of rolls of stickers that would rival any scrapbook store today, and which made my little sticker-collector's eyes sparkle with delight. And up there on that wall, my eyes were drawn to a large, lovely, sparkly rainbow sticker that would be perfect for my collection. I had the money in my hot little hands, but after a considerable argument with myself there in that store, I decided not to get because of the whole New Age connection. I went home, and later that day was really bummed that I didn't get it, because it was beautiful, and I really wanted it for my collection.

Seeing me moping around, my mom asked me what was wrong, and I finally poured out my story. When I told her this, she shook her head and said, "No way. Uh, uh...that's just silly! God gave the Rainbow to us as a sign of the promise from Him that he'd never flood the entire earth with water again, and I'll be darned if I'm gonna let those New Agers or anyone else take away something God gave us and corrupt it! Quite frankly, I like rainbows, and I'm not letting anyone take that enjoyment away from me by turning what is good and decent into something that is not."

That day, something fell into place for me. Here I had been 'throwing the baby out with the bathwater' all that time, denying myself the enjoyment of something that God himself took the time to hang up there in the sky for us after each rain that we had there in Western Washington. I'd mistakenly felt that I should 'give up' something that was in and of itself good and beautiful, when in fact, I'd been listening to the wrong voices. Needless to say, when we returned again to the mall, I bought that rainbow sticker, and proudly displayed it in my album and began drawing rainbows once again. I still enjoy rainbows to this day, even though an entirely different movement has attempted to take that beautiful symbol and corrupt it.

In much the same way, I'm not going to stop decorating my home with seasonal decorations, or discontinue many fun activities that I associate with lots of warm, fuzzy family memories of this time of year from my childhood, simply because they've been absorbed into the marketing machine that has become Halloween. And it's not a poor little black cat's fault that it's black, and that it is associated with a lot of rituals around Halloween, making it necessary for the Humane Society and other places to not allow 'adoptions' of black cats around Halloween lest they be used for evil purposes. We can't allow this world to take those things that the Lord meant for good, and corrupt them into something that is not.

As a young girl, I remember my mom making me the most beautiful pink and purple, irridescent, shimmery fairy tale princess costume in the world for me one Halloween. It had a tall, conical princess hat that matched my cape and dress, with a long sheer fabric 'tassle' that hung down, and it looked exactly like a princess illustration I'd found in one of our story books. I remember being in awe that my mom had managed to make it so perfect.

After being sufficiently doted on by our grandma and trick-or-treating through her neighborhood and at the gas station around the corner (where we always got dum-dum suckers just like we did when my grandma would get her tank filled up), we got back to her house with pillowcases that were too heavy for us to carry. My mom loaded us (and our loot) into the old Pinto station wagon for the long drive home, stopping off at an Arby's fast food place to eat on the way.

We all went inside, and while my mom ordered, I remember my sister and I looking at our princess-y reflections in the windows inside the restaurant, turning around and around with our sparkly little scepters, thinking ourselves to be real princesses. That our mom had put makeup and lipstick on us had been the crowning touch. I'd never felt so beautiful, and many kind people in the restaurant told us so. We played with those costumes so often over the next few weeks, they ended up in tatters.

No doubt my mom's reason for stopping was because she wanted to get something halfway decent in our systems to counteract the sugar rush we'd get once we sorted through our candy at home. My parents had to sort through our pillow cases both to make sure there were no razor blades or PCP tattoos in there, and to get rid of all the "icky" chocolate that we wouldn't want anyway.

Then all our remaining candy would be put in our Jack-O-Lantern buckets up on top of the fridge, and the long month of candy rationing began.

:: ::

I remember a Fall Festival in our Christian School gymnasium when I was in 3rd grade where we got to come in costumes (as long as they weren't 'frightful'). I dressed as Princess Leia. (The boys always wanted me to play with them at recess after that, because, amazingly they couldn't play Star Wars without a Princess Leia. When I had to go watch that movie with my boy cousins the previous summer, I fell asleep, and didn't remember what I was supposed to be doing, so most of the time I just sat on top of the Big Toy on the playground flying my aircraft.)

We went around from booth to booth spending 'tickets' to participate in things like a bean bag toss and a balloon-popping game with darts (where I might add that nobody ever got their eye poked out), where you won prizes depending where on the game board you managed to either toss or pop something. At the balloon popping booth, I won some yellow tube with red caps on either end that had a sound in it which resembled a cow mooing when you turned it upside down over and over and over. I was really bummed when that got lost somewhere that night.

But there were at least ten of these types of booths set up around the gym, and hay bales had even been brought into the gym for a festive look.

There was also a "Cake walk, where the last one standing on a safe 'spot' on the game circle won a cake. That night, after I'd spent nearly all my tickets trying to win but never even coming close, my younger sister Jami played once and won a chocolate bundt cake with rich chocolate frosting and candy corns on it which she promised to share with me. We didn't often get sweets in our household, so this was a huge deal, and we envisioned putting this away where only we knew where it was, and taking bites whenever we felt like it.

Unfortunately, our dad didn't let her keep it. This was no doubt because around that same time period, my sister and I had a bit of a track record of overdoing it on cake and mints at weddings and then having to sleep with towels on our pillows those nights because we would inevitably get sick from all the sugar.

But if anything made me sick that night, it would have been watching some of the big boys in the school bob for apples in a big wash-tub full of water. I was totally grossed out waiting in line for that event behind them, and seeing them pull their heads up dripping wet, spitting and drooling water out of their mouths and noses into that communal tub as they fought to be the first to bite into an apple. When I realized they didn't change the water between 'customers', I SO got out of that line! Never did understand the fascination with that game. Still makes me gag just thinking of it.

The highlight of the night, however, was when you reached the very last booth near the exit. It was the 'fishing' game. A long dowel with a rope and a clothes pin attached to the end was 'cast' over the booth wall, and after a 'tug', you pulled it back, and there was a good-sized sack hanging off the end of the line, with tons of candy and cheap carnival toys inside. We left very happy campers.

:: ::

There was the year I attended a Fall Festival with my friend Jamie in someone else's church basement. We all ate lots of junk food and stood around talking.

Then, the adults made us sit on chairs in a circle, blindfolded us and handed around bowls of things we were to put our hands into for the 'full' effect: Cooked Ramen noodles (brains), cooked spaghetti (worms), peeled grapes (eyeballs), thick goopy tomato sauce (blood), and something lumpy and chunky like cottage cheese with diced pears in it (puke). Which one little girl ended up doing for real after touching what she was sure were the real eyeballs. Except that was after she went into hysterics.

I remember thinking maybe she hadn't been 'mature' enough for that event. Because I was a big, mature 6th grader.

I'm still not sure what the point behind all that was, being a church and all, as there wasn't any specific talk about the evils of halloween or anything. I remember it all to be very brief. But we were all sufficiently grossed out after the one girl really puked, and as a consolation gift, we got tons of candy to take home. I had to share my candy with all my siblings because in taking me to my friend's house and back, they missed out on the opportunity to go trick-or-treating.

I also remember one mom had arrived there late with her children wearing a belly-dancing costume, and all the other kids dads kept staring at her.

:: ::

There was the year I attended a Harvest Party in our church basement and we were told that we could dress up like anything as long as it was from the Bible and we could explain our costume. I was in 7th grade that year, and most of us interpreted that to mean dressing up as Bible Characters like Moses or King Solomon or Mary, the mother of Jesus.

I'm not sure why (other than the fact that in my family, we always seemed to fly by the seat of our pants with things like this and remember two minutes before we we're supposed to be there) but the best we could come up with on short notice was for me to go as a Bible times woman...wearing my dad's striped bathrobe over my clothes.

I was really disillusioned, because I felt I looked more like the boy Joseph that was sold into slavery with that robe of many colors, except for the shawl worn over my head like a nativity character, and a few bangle bracelets, but I guessed it was better than showing up without a costume.

However, when I got there, being rather shy at the time, I spent most of the evening trying to blend into the woodwork, because when I looked around, I was surprised to find a few of "Noah's Animals" ("Aw, man...why didn't I think of that?! I could've used my headband with the two glitter balls sticking up off of long, thin springs, and gone as an ant! At the very least, I could have brought along my dad's duck call, and stood off on the sidelines making duck noises with it).
Two boys there were dressed as a horse. One horse. They wore an antiquated, homemade costume of taupe colored fur with a stripe of contrasting longer brown fur for the mane and tail, and stupid looking felt eyes with lashes, probably dug out of some grandmothers closet. One boy wore the head, and another boy had to bend over to be the hind-end, but the overall effect was more like a Chinese New Year dragon, especially with all their their antics in their blindfolded state, which were progressively over-exaggerated to make us all to laugh. And laugh we did!

They were one of the high points of that evening, running around and doing things like kicking out their feet in sync like Conga dancers might to the musical chairs music, then purposefully bumping into things. But all the hilarity and horsing around ended when they bumped into the punch table, splashing red foamy punch on one of the grown-ups.

During the 'explain your costume' portion of the evening, we were surprised to find a couple of boys came to that party dressed as a mummy, and a well-padded fat guy with a toy sword sticking out of his body with fake blood and guts hanging off where the sword went in. We kept on saying, "Oooh, they're gonna get busted"...until we found out they were "Lazarus, Come Forth" and "King Eglon".

Oh, man! And here I'd dressed as a Bible times woman/boy Joseph, when I could have been a more gory, bloody "Jezebel" dashed on the rocks with a dog licking up my blood!

Good memories, good memories.

We feed our dog her food in medium sized, stainless steel mixing bowls that we got at the dollar store. We bought 7 of them, to ensure that the dog had a clean bowl every day for her food.

While this was nice in theory, it's never worked out quite that way. What usually ends up happening is that when all 7 dog dishes run out, our older son Jericho (whose job it is to feed the dog) ends up dipping into our people dishes, which also end up dirty and scattered about the back yard. Ewww.

Few things are more annoying to me than finally having a day where everything is caught up, and I'm in the mood to go into the kitchen and mix up something special for the family...only to find all my mixing bowls and baking pans AWOL.

The odd thing is, I don't usually notice that they've slowly disappeared until the following begins to occur: I'm sitting on the living room couch, Judah is down for his nap, sound asleep. My housework is caught up, and I'm in the mood for some tea and scones while reading a good book or working on the computer.

I just sit down to enjoy it, when there is a commotion in the yard, right outside the window. In quick succession, four stainless steel dog dishes suddenly go skittering across the concrete patio along with what sounds like someone grunting and groaning as they stumble around out there in broad daylight.

Initially, I startle, but when I hear barking, I realize it's just the dog. Probably racing at breakneck speed to bark at some passerby at the front fence and stumbling over everything in her path.

What I don't get, though, is why the dog would trip over these things when they're usually out there long enough to become part of the scenery and for her to learn to navigate around them.

Is she just clumsy, or did she actually lose some of her vision as a puppy?

I've mentioned before how Raisin, our black Shar-pei dog, had lots of wrinkles as a puppy, and they were so heavy above her eyes, that they pushed her eyelids down, causing a dangerous condition called entropion that could have caused blindness if we'd not gotten her a corrective eye-lift.

Yes, the dog. Got an eye lift.

But it's got me thinking. How could a Vet know for sure how much vision a dog really has? It's not like there is a special vision test for animals. "Raisin, place a paw over your left eye and look at the chart down there. Tell me which animals you see on the top row."

Nor can the dog reply back to questions the Vet might ask about her vision, "Things are a little fuzzy in the right eye, Doc...and I've been having some trouble with my depth perception. Oh, and I've also noticed that my night vision is a tad off."

You don't see dogs wearing corrective glasses, so there must not be any conclusive way to tell for sure (or if there is, it's probably not in our budget) so we've sort of had to figure these things out by trial and error.

"So in general, do you believe she can see?"

Well, when the glass sliding door is open out back, she's sitting there, staring at us longingly through the screen, alert to the slightest movement or additional people entering the room. So, yeah, I'm pretty sure she sees us.

"Have you ever seen her bump into things?"

Just the glass sliding door when it's clean (which isn't very often, between her jowly slobber on the outside, and Judah's fingerprints on the inside).

"Does she seem to see moving objects?"

She spends the entire day chasing the neighbors puppy up and down the fence line, trampling shrubs and scattering beauty bark along the way...does that count?

"Does she seem to be able to see far distances?"

Hmmm. Well, she's been known to bark at the FedEx guy when he gets out of his van across the street.

By all accounts, she can see well enough, and her corneas don't look foggy anymore like they did just before her eye lift.

So why in the world does she go for weeks without making a peep in the backyard (aside from her barking, which we've learned to tune out), and then all of a sudden one day, she's tripping over those doggone bowls left and right (er, other than the fact there are just so many of them, that is, heh heh).

I just don't get it, but it's scared the daylights out of me a couple of times of late.

I'm beginning to wonder if she's out there kicking them around on purpose...going on strike because she doesn't like her dry dog food.

Personally, I think she's seen one too many of those Fancy Feast commercials on the neighbor's bigscreen TV, which glows out through their glass sliding door at night. Thinks she's all entitled to wet dog food in a fancy crystal dish. Uppity pup.

:: ::

English Scones

These lightly sweetened scones are a cross between a biscuit and a muffin top are excellent with Lemon Curd and Devonshire Cream (Crema Mexicana or whipped cream in a can work if you're desperate...ask me know I know this!). And you can't have English Scones without a proper cup of hot English Breakfast or Earl Gray tea.





4 cups flour (I use whole wheat)
2 Tbs. baking powder
4 Tbs. sugar (half as much if adding raisins)
1 tsp. salt
6 Tbs. butter
2 eggs
1 1/2 c. milk (plain yogurt works well, too)
*1 c. raisins (or currants), chopped in food processor before mixing up dough, but removed to a dish until dough is mixed.

In a food processor fitted with the chopping blade, mix all the dry ingredients and give them a whirl to mix well.

Add butter, and 'cut in' briefly to make coarse crumbs as though for pie crust or biscuits.

Add egg and process until dough begins to stick together.

Slowly add milk until soft dough forms. Add chopped raisins and incorporate into the dough.

Spoon golf ball sized lumps of dough onto a greased cookie sheet about 2 inches apart.

Bake at 450 degrees for 15 minutes until golden brown.

Makes 2 Dozen scones.

Vehicular Homicide. Death by a vehicle.

It was something I was a little concerned about as we were headed for church this evening.

Our one remaining vehicle, our little Ford Pick-up, had only one minor episode of "bad gas" on the way to drop Jericho off for school this morning, so I thought it would be relatively safe to venture out to church this evening.

I was wrong.

Grandma picked up Jericho from school and was to bring him to church this evening to save me an unnecessary trip into town with our truck in it's unpredictable condition.

In my usual Wednesday evening hustle to get out the door to church, I'd completely forgotten about the technical difficulties in the truck, and was humming along towards the intersection where I turn to get to church. A very busy intersection, I might add. During rush hour.

Suddenly, it begins to chug. And as I downshifted carefully slowing towards the stop in the left turn lane, the truck suddenly lost all power. Turned off completely. Naturally, the left arrow light turned green at that moment, and I had to restart the engine.

I glanced in my rear view mirror in dismay when I noticed a very nice new vehicle behind me. The lady in that vehicle began blowing her horn very impatiently, not once but several times.

Mind you, I'm already freaking out about being stuck with my truck midway out in the intersection, worrying about still being stuck there when the light changed, and so I gesture wildly as best I can, "I'm stuck", while frantically trying to restart the engine and get it moved off the roadway.

It was as though it wasn't getting enough juice or something, so I'm gunning it and finally get it through the intersection with a slow series of jerks and lurches (and just before the light changed, too, thank God) but was now in the left lane next to a raised median, trying to keep the poor truck running and needing desperately to get to the right shoulder.

My concentration is disrupted by yet another blast from her horn, and I see in the mirror that Her Royal Rudeness is now not only in a major hurry but angry, too. Road rage angry. Car problems are obviously too far behind her to remember them, not that she'd care if she did.

You can tell a lot about a person in even a very brief assessment in the rear view mirror, and I saw enough to know that Good Samaritan was not part of her resume.

Just a little note here: when somebody's car is obviously giving them trouble (hint, lady: that slow lurching of a vehicle through a busy intersection is not normal or intentional!) ...do society a favor and don't honk at them!

It will not hurry them up and all it does is fluster the poor soul behind the wheel, who has a bazillion frightened thoughts jumping across synapses in her brain, as she worries about far more than just getting out of your lane...things like traffic tickets, bodily injuries and death!

And another thing, a horn that is loud enough to blow the hair up off the back of her neck is also enough to give her a heart attack, and in fact, does cause the woman to break out in a nervous sweat, heart pounding.

I look again in the mirror, and see the woman gesturing wildly, angrily, her car as close as could be to my rear bumper, but all I could do was stay the course. Traffic was already coming alongside me in the other lanes, and I was doing everything in my power to keep the engine on, while simultaneously gunning the gas and shifting

Just as the traffic clears, I go to move right, and who goes squealing around me but Her Royal Rudeness. Nearly took off my the side mirror of my truck in her haste!

I finally get over to the shoulder and just sit for a few moments to calm my nerves. When calm, I got it restarted, and gave it enough gas that it 'coughed', promptly resuming it's usual motor sounds and behavior like nothing had ever happened, and very cautiously merge back into traffic.

Things progressed nicely until I got to the next 4-way intersection, where as I slowed to a stop the truck gave out yet again.

I know many folks give their vehicles a name. Usually it's an affectionate term for a faithful old car that gets you through tough times. Like my very first car which was 18 1/2 feet of pure luxury and steel...a 1975 Buick LeSabre. "Bessie" was a big, blue bomber of a car, which when she finally rusted out in Minnesota was sold for $50 to a guy who ran her in a demolition derby. I loved ol' Bess.

We've always just referred to our pick-up has "the truck", to distinguish it from "the Honda". It's never had a real name until tonight. "Galloping Gertie" is what I've dubbed her, because as I restarted that truck and gave it some gas, that's exactly what she did...galloped through the intersection like the buckin' bronc we saw at the Rodeo a while back.

If I'd had a cowboy hat, I would've lifted it, nodding politely to the other motorists watching agape from their respective stops, and let loose a hale and hearty, "Yeeeeeeee-haw, Cowgirl UP!" This time in a different vehicle, Judah and I once again held on as she bucked and kicked her way through that intersection, and all the way down the road into our church parking lot where I coasted to a stop.

I arrived late.

I was in no mood to talk to anyone else, let alone teach the Teens class, feeling irritable and cranky for some strange reason.

At the door, I called Jeff's cell. Yep, called him. Not because his cell phone was replaced, but because, oddly, it was suddenly working again today. And this after Judah had been playing with it last night.

I couldn't get through, so I texted him instead to apprise him of the situation, said a prayer about my attitude and took a deep breath before stepping into my classroom.

Amazingly, Judah was very cooperative through all of this, not making a peep. He even sat quietly in class, which is unusual for him.

About midway through the evening, I went to the classroom next door for something, and happened to mentioned our car situation to our friend Michael.

"Oh, really? I'm selling my old car. It's that two-door, but it's only got 80,000 miles on it."

"Really?" I ask, a little glimmer of hope flickering to life. "How much are you asking?"

He kind of shrugged like he didn't think he'd get much for it, "I dunno..."

In a hurry to get back to my class, I said, "Well I'll tell Jeff about it." Scooping up my things, I head for the door and say over my shoulder, "You'll probably be getting a a call tonight."

While in class, one of the teen boys, who is very familiar with that same make and model of truck owning one just like it, told me it sounded like it needed a new rotor and cap, spark plugs, and perhaps spark plug wires.

Hmmm...my dad had mentioned the same thing about the spark plugs and wires earlier today.

My friend Chrissy and her daughter followed us home afterwards (under the auspices of helping us, though I think they secretly wanted to see if my truck really bucked and galloped like I'd said, lol).

Gertie did not disappoint. We made it home safe and sound, eventually.

Jeff was home, and when we walked inside, I immediately told him about Michael's "For Sale" car.

He called him right away. Though it was worth a more, Jeff asked him if he'd take $5oo for the car.

"For you guys, I'd give it to you for that price."

What is really cool about this story, is that we'd given Michael his first car a couple of years ago when he'd been in a difficult spot. It enabled him to go from peddling a bike with a trailer to and from the grocery store to do his shopping and to mow a few local lawns, to having the ability to get around town freely and expand his lawn business. Eventually, he even bought a nice, newer home.

He fixed up that old car we gave him and sold it, then wheeled-and-dealed on a few other cars, eventually working his way up to a small fleet of really great vehicles. A truck and trailer for his business. Another car with low mileage (so he could leave the trailer attached to his work truck), and more recently, a nearly new car he got for a song.

Tomorrow at this time, we'll be the proud owners of his old Mercury Cougar with the low mileage, which we didn't even have to haggle or negotiate over. It may not be the four door we thought we needed, but for $500 dollars we can certainly make do!

And the best news is, we may not need to take on that car payment after all!

That, my friends, is yet another example of our Heavenly Father knowing our needs before we even ask (Matthew 6:8) and working all things together for the good of those who love Him, who are the called according to His purposes (Romans 8:28)!

If we were living during the flu epidemic of 1918, a doctor would have put a big quarantine notice on the door of our home, warning people to keep away.