and a Happy New Year!

Our first Christmas








O rosemary tannenbaum,
how evergreen your branches!
And how you make our house smell like
pork chops or mashed potatoes!





Santa Baby, hurry down the chimney tonite!

The Honeymooners

One of these days...
right in the kisser!



Pictures from our trip to Charleston are on Josh's blog:

www.sacredsalvage.blogspot.com

Playing House

Josh and I just celebrated our first month-iversary. Congratulations to us! We haven't taken our honeymoon yet, but real life is starting to set in.

I read somewhere about the post-wedding depression that some women experience. After all the drama and hype and stress and stage-fright and princess-ness of of being a bride is over, suddenly I'm faced with the pile of thank-you notes and the long hours at home by myself with the cat and the new city with its busy highways, and I'm no longer a bride.

I'm a wife.

The song from Working keeps runnning through my head...

All I am is just a housewife
Nothing special, nothing great
What I do is kinda boring
If you'd rather, it can wait
All I am is someone's mother
All I am is someone's wife
All of which seems unimportant
All it is is
Just my life


In my former life, I was uber-busy with a full-time and a part-time teaching job, finishing my thesis project, leading a small-group, serving on several leadership team committees, discipling two amazing young women, maintaining multiple friendships and family relationships, and blogging on a regular basis.

Oh, and I had a long-distance stranger- turned-boyfriend- turned-fiance.

Some days, that's about the relative percentage of time and energy I gave him.

This week...let's see... I've done several loads of laundry, run the dishwasher a couple of times, dusted the new furniture, fed the cat, watched a lot of Rachel Ray's cooking show trying to get motivated to cook, fed the husband, read a book about South Carolina, helped a friend pack up her kitchen, finished Christmas shopping, wrote a million thank-you notes (actually 74), napped on the couch while my husband played video games, packed for our honeymoon, got lost driving around KC, went to a Christmas party, and blogged. (once!!! today!!! finally!!!)

Oh yeah, and when Josh comes home from work, I'm waiting at the cottage door.
Who could ask for anything more?

My about-town-working-girl little sister just kind of laughed at me when I told her what I had been doing lately.

I'm in the process of looking for a "real" job (aka substitute teaching or reading specialist something), but I've been surprisingly blessed by the whole stay-at-home "being married" thing this month. It was one thing to study Scripture about marriage, or to read "successful marriage" books before we got married, and to anticipate the theoretical joy of togetherness. But there's a practical level of being a wife that is strangely fulfilling. Who knew I'd start to enjoy doing the dishes?

I can see how it is comforting and encouraging and helpful to Josh to see a friendly face and a hot meal (or at least chips and salsa) at 10:30 p.m. when he gets home from class.

But it's more than that...for me, it's been a challenge for, and a release from, my performance- product-oriented- purpose-driven personality.

How many sermons have I heard about casting off the legalistic works-based-salvation idea of "doing" good works for God's kingdom and learning to just "be" the church, to "be" in the Lord's presence, to "be" a Christian.

Taking away all of the jobs and roles I used to fulfill has made me confront what it means to just simply love and be loved, both by the Lord and by my husband.

Taking on the "Martha" role for a solid month of housework has actually helped me understand the "Mary" role of drawing near and enjoying the presence of my beloved.

Mr. and Mrs.

We got married! Yay!

Check out Josh's blog and Flickr site to see pictures from the wedding.

www.sacredsalvage.blogspot.com

I'll blog again soon, I promise.

Odds and Ends

I'm cleaning out my email in-box, and I ran across a couple of funny memories from my summer in Lithuania.

Lithuanian farmers keep cows out in the fields near the houses by tying a rope around the cow's neck, and attaching it to a big 5-gallon-bucket-size cement boulder.

The cow can walk around a bit, but won't go too far.

So I was looking at several black-and-white cows in a field, and then I see this stork nearby. You know, a big black and white bird with long legs and a big bill...very common here.

Suddenly in my head, I imagined the stork and all his stork buddies protesting this cruel treatment of cows, by tying themselves up to ropes with little plastic cups full of cement on the ends, making a peaceful picket-line along the highway.


------------------------------------------------------------------


Also worthy of note: Actual sample sentences from my grammar book on comparative and superlative adjectives.

Superman is tough.

Tarzan is tougher than Superman.

But I, Big Bird, am the toughest of all.

God's fridge

Thou Knowest by Katharine Lee Bates

Thou knowest, Thou Who art the soul of all
Selfless endeavor, how I longed to make
This deed of mine, adventured for love's sake,
Thy deed,--sweet grapes upon a sunny wall,
A rose whose petals into fragrance fall,
A glint of heaven glassed in some lonely lake
Amidst the heather and the fringing brake,
Our secret,--ah, Thou knowest.
Though it call
Only for pardon, still to Thee I bring
My poor, shamed deed that craved the Beautiful,
--To Thee, the Master-Artist, Who alone
Wilt of Thy grace see in this graceless thing
The pattern marred by the imperfect tool,
And know that dim, wronged pattern for Thine Own.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is what I sometimes feel like when I write...that my descriptive words are flat smudges of charcoal on canvas when what I am trying to create is a three-dimensional event, a breathing soul.

I long to make words come alive on the page or in a prayer, or for my work to be a blessing to be of some value, as God creates in His kingdom.

But I have an imperfect tool and imperfect talent.

My good works, good words, are filthy rags except for God's grace. He sees my attempts to paint, or write, or serve, or love. My "poor, shamed work that craved the Beautiful." He recognizes His handprint on me, sees Christ's blood covering my attempts at righteousness and beauty.

God recognizes His pattern in my feeble artwork, and hangs it on His fridge, because He knows me. He delights in me.

I think He looks at the feeble scribbles of life I offer Him and says, "Look what My kid made!"

Be a Duck

When we were in college, my friend Alyson used to say "be a duck!" as a reminder to find peace in response to stressful situations, letting the "rain" of frustration roll off your back.

Look at this duck. What kind of life is that?

Paddle, paddle. Watch the sun sparkle on the water. Quack at your friends. Preen your feathers.
Get your ducklings in a row. Gobble up pieces of soggy bread.

In Genesis 1:21, "God made...every sort of living and moving thing with which the waters were full, and every sort of winged bird, and God saw that it was good."

God definitely likes ducks.

Ducks do exactly what they are supposed to do in God's kingdom plan. Just like they are commanded in Psalm 150:6, "Let everything that has breath praise the Lord!" Quack!

Tail-feathers waggle in the air when ducks dive down for a fish dinner, and that brings glory to God!

Because we're blessed with slightly more advanced faculties than the average duck, God gave us a few more responsibilities beyond waggling our tail-feathers. 1Thessalonians 5:16-18 says "Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus toward you."

Rejoice. Pray. Give thanks. In everything.

Even when your dinner is day-old slices of "enriched" white bread. Even when the rain beats down and you have to hide your head under your wing.

Even when you are humiliated by Ernie singing to you in the bathtub.

Even when circumstances in life suddenly become unexpectedly difficult.
Especially then.

It is God's will for us to worship Him, to seek Him for earthly provision and spiritual fulfillment, to give thanks for His abundant grace and promised deliverance. In everything.

May my heart learn to be like Paul's as he writes in Philippians, "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength."

That's the secret of being a duck. Contented trust in my Creator, admiration of the earthly beauty around me, finding my place in the Kingdom.

Quack! Be a duck! Hallelujah! It is good to sing praises unto our God!

# 34. He's Not That Guy

I have a long list of reasons why I am marrying my fiance, including his passion for the Lord; his unequivocal pursuit of my heart; his strength and comittment to building a healthy relationship; his dedication to social justice and compassion for hurting people; his sarcastic, goofy sense of humor; his admirable work ethic and responsibility. Those are the big things at the top of the list.

Somewhere down towards the middle of the list, between #33. Humbles Me in Speed Scrabble Any Chance He Gets and #35. Makes the Best Hummus I've Ever Had, is this fact: #34. He's Not That Guy.

I've known That Guy, and gone out on a bunch of first dates with That Guy, and I am proud to say that My Guy? Is not That Guy!

Thanks to Sars and Miss Alli (and Regina, apparently) at www.tomatonation.com for making me laugh.

Sars: Whenever a guy whom you initially think is interesting winds up being the same kind of emotionally stunted schmuck you thought you'd dodged this time, there's this "ohhhhh NO . . . he's THAT guy" revelation.

Alli: Exactly. And it's all just so unoriginal. I would at least like someone to come up with a new way of sucking. I've seriously had it with the quasi-dark-souled quasi-artistic Black Turtleneck Slacker, the reigning King of Irony with his collection of Kool-Aid memorabilia, and especially the Smirking Self-Professed Feisty-Girl-Liker who is secretly afraid of every woman except his mom.

Sars: Oh, man. And let's not forget Told He Was Cute Too Many Times In High School Guy and I Know Everything About Your Internet Business Because I Read Forbes Once A Year Ago Guy.

Alli: That's really wrong. Be glad you live in the wrong part of the country for Yes, In Fact I Did Kill That Myself Guy.

Sars: Ew.

Regina: What about Oh, I Don't Watch TV Guy?

Sars: Doesn't Watch TV Guy sucks.

Regina: You know he watches America's Funniest Home Videos.

Sars: Hee. Totally.

Alli: And don't even get me started on Have I Casually Mentioned My SAT Scores Guy. Ooh, I hate that guy.

Sars: What about You'd Better Like My Friends Because You'll Never See Me Without Them Guy?

Alli: And his buddy I Don't Quite Live With My Parents But I Have All Their Old Furniture Guy, and the buddy's roommate, Gets All His Current Events Information From Watching Fox News While Eating Froot Loops Guy, kicked back in the living room.

Sars: Right next to Repeats But Does Not Comprehend Or Accurately Attribute Deep Thoughts Guy, whose acoustic guitar case says "I DON'T BELIEVE IN BEATLES, I JUST BELIEVE IN ME -- FERRIS BUELLER."

Alli: Poor John Lennon.

Sars: That Guy's a close relative of Surely You Don't Listen To The Corporate Schlock Masquerading As Pop Music These Days Guy.

Alli: Who has no friends.

Sars: But is a spiritual brother to Tolerate My Obscure and Painful Jazz Collection Guy.

Alli: And now, let's all wave to Has No Sense Of Humor About Getting Salsa On His Pants Guy.

Regina: How can you have no sense of humor about that? It's salsa! It's your pants!

Sars: And yet he's unamused.

Alli: That seems impossible.

Regina: You know who else is not very funny? I Am Writing The Great American Novel So You Can Get The Check Again Guy.

Alli: Ah, yes. And There's Only One Place To Sit In My Apartment And I Sit There Because It Faces The PlayStation, So Make Yourself Comfortable On That Plastic Crate With The Folded Blanket On It Guy.

Regina: Oh, wait. Is he the same as Hey Why Don't I Make You Dinner, Oh Wait The Only Things In The Fridge Are An Opened Can Of Schlitz And Half An Egg Roll, So Why Don't We Just Run Down To Burrito Palace And Pick Up Some Nachos To Go Or Something Guy? Because he sounds vaguely familiar.

Sars: Yeah, that's him. On Opposite Day he takes the guise of I Went To Italy On My Parents' Credit Card For Two Weeks, And Now I'm A Fascist About Olive Oil And Can't Consider Funyuns A "Valid" Snack, Even Ironically Guy.

Regina: Hee, Opposite Day.

Alli: Snacks are a double-edged sword, though. I'm not crazy about I Eat Circus Peanuts And Pez For Lunch Because It Gives Me A Sense Of Whimsy Guy either.

Sars: He's eating circus peanuts. Nobody is excited about that guy except the Brach's Corporation, and even they're like, "We have to keep making these things? What is WITH That Guy?" On the other hand, he's better than I Just Want To Be As Honest As I Can Guy.

Alli: Oh, but how can you be mad at him when he's a jerk? He Just Wants To Be As Honest As He Can! It's not his fault! Nothing is his fault! He's just being honest!

Regina: The problem with That Guy is that he is totally not genuine. Or interesting.

Sars: Or he treats you like, because you're a woman, you're just some kind of irrational swirl of nonsensical behaviors. Don't do that, That Guy.

Alli: He can't help it. He's just That Guy!

-----------------------------

So in case you were wondering about some of the reasons why I love my fiance...

# 34. He's Not That Guy.

who am i anyway?

Recently, I received a discouraging result from an on-line job application. The 50-question survey indicated that while I placed "High Value on Practical Application of Theory," I placed "Low Value on Student Learning." Ouch.

I disagree, obviously, and wonder which questions I answered incorrectly. I'm not confident that this school will want to hire me.

It's hard to know how to respond to an evaluation like this. I'm reminded of the worst thing anyone has ever said to me, which was that I had "a negative influence on students."

I mean, what can you say after something like that? "Nuh-uh!" just doesn't seem adequate.

After that evaluation, and again after this on-line application questionnaire, I had to ask myself some tough questions about myself as a teacher, and as a human being. I concluded that an on-line survey couldn't begin to understand personal teaching style, and there was enough evidence to the contrary about my influence on students, that I didn't need to abandon this particular career ship.

Believe me, I've considered it.

It makes me think of the lyrics from A Chorus Line:

Who am I anyway?
Am I my resume?
This is a picture of a person I don't know.
What do they want from me?
What should I try to be?
So many faces all around, and here I go...

I'm grateful for what the Lord has revealed about my identity...the promises of scripture that I am His beloved child, His chosen worshipper, His equipped ambassador, His forgiven friend.

Those are the quintessential elements of who I am...who I am striving to be.

And while I don't know what I'll do to pay the bills, I have peace that the Lord knows me much better than any on-line survey or school administrator, and He says that I am worthy to work in His Kingdom.

That's the best evaluation I can ever hope for.

--------------------------------------

On a sort of unrelated note, I've had some down-time at work today, and ended up taking a bunch of silly on-line surveys like "Which Breakfast Cereal Are You?" (Raisin Bran) and "What's Your Professional Wrestler Name?" (Chainsaw Terror or Spitfire). Yeah... I took it twice... so what?

I think I was trying to assuage my hurt feelings from the job interview survey. Just for the record, not only do I place "Low Value on Student Learning," but if I were a leprechaun, my name would be Lorna Kirwan.








If I were a 50's housewife, my name would be Regina Shirley. Sounds like a Cabbage Patch Kid.

I am also from the planet Mercury. For whatever that's worth.

Hey...maybe the school should hire Regina Shirley! I bet she values student learning.

numbers make me tired

1 Inch added to the hem of my fiance's wedding pants

2 Radio stations between Omaha and St. Joseph

3 Items accidentally left at the fiance's house

4 Types of Doritos at reunion picnic

5 Years since I graduated from Sterling College

6 Kinds of dessert served at our couple's bridal shower

7 Dead skunks on the side of the road

8 Items crossed off my to-do list today

9 Boxes of my belongings moved to the fiance's house this trip

10 Minutes late The Amazing Race started on Sunday

13 Friends at the SC Class of '01 reunion

61 Dollars for a Missouri Marriage License

310 Love Gift dollars in the Living Room Furniture Fund

588 1/2 Hours until the wedding

900 Students at Derrick Thomas Academy, where I interviewed for a reading specialist position

1283 Miles put on my car this weekend

Value of fellowship with old friends, parents, and my home church family? Infinite.

the saddest funnie

Hobbes: Wow, you're working on your report already? It's not due till Thursday!

Calvin: Yeah, I know...Mom says the pills must be working.

Hobbes: Well, it's snowing outside. I thought maybe we could...(Calvin ignores him)...I don't know...you tell me.

Calvin: Sorry, I wasn't listening...I really have to finish this.

And then Hobbes just...isn't...anymore.

Apple Cheeks

What an amazing bunch of women! Apple cheeks on every one of them!

Holly Hunter was the voice of Elasti-Girl in The Incredibles!

Molly Ringwald was the cherry-flavored darling of the John Hughes trifecta: Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, and Pretty in Pink!

Too bad Sheryl Crow's cover of Cat Stevens' "First Cut is the Deepest" leaves out the best line in the whole song, because otherwise, I am in great company.

Other pictures produced matches to David Don't-Hassel-the-hoff.
Apple cheeks, indeed.

That Face

I thought love was only true in fairy tales
Meant for someone else but not for me.
Love was out to get me,
That's the way it seemed.
Disappointment haunted all my dreams.

Then I saw his face,
Now I'm a believer!
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.
I'm in love, I'm a believer!
I couldn't leave him if I tried.

a posse ad esse

Sometimes a Latin dictionary comes in handy:

When dealing with your fiance's pet: Feles mala! cur cista non uteris? Bad kitty! Why don't you use the litter box?

When registering for wedding gifts: Furnulum pani nolo. Thanks, but I don't want a toaster.

When taking a bath: Ubi est mea anaticula cumminosa? Where's my rubber ducky?

Back in the day, I had some friends who thought quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur! Anything said in Latin sounds profound!

But now as I'm packing up my apartment in preparation to move to Kansas City, or Our Town, as I like to think of it, I find myself questioning my a) need and b) desire to hang on to such a relic of my former linguistic glory.

But it's not just space on the bookshelf that matters. This dictionary represents a time when I was awkwardly searching for my intellectual, social, and spiritual worth and identity. It was a rough couple of years.

But the people I was trying to impress (aka the boys I liked) aren't a part of my life anymore.

The doubts I had spiritually have been relentlessly proven wrong.

I am certain of God's faithfulness to me, and my purpose in His kingdom.

I have moved a posse ad esse. From possibility to actuality.

I am not hiding from the past, or from struggles that the Lord lead me through, but I don't want a reminder of my old self taunting me from the bookshelf. I choose to put off those things.

I also don't want to have a place of retreat for my brain and heart to linger, when life with my future husband becomes frustrating. I don't want old voices whispering through the pages, "This is who you used to be...think of whom you could have become..."

I am committed to choosing to be who the Lord says I am today.

A posse ad esse. From possibility to actuality of faith.

Where do you go?

The man I am going to marry has adventure running through his veins. Unmapped lands, untried combinations of spices, untested methods of fixing garbage disposals or lawn mowers...he'll figure it out. If there's a tree on the prairie, he'll try not to fall out of it, waving at me from the top branch.

And the crazy thing is that he's asked me to come along. Into uncharted territories, unnamed cities and undefined spaces, into undiscovered places in my own heart and mind. He's Superman, Peter Pan, the last action hero. And me? I'm...I'm with him.

It's scary sometimes, leaping off cliffs and splashing through waterfalls. I feel like I often dig my heels into familiarity and resist his outstretched hand helping me fly.

Look at these pictures of Lois Lane and Wendy. Do you see the trepidation in Lois' face? Can you tell from Wendy's grasping hands and flailing feet that she'd rather be on the ground?

He loves the Five for Fighting Superman song that goes

I can’t stand to fly
I’m not that naive
I’m just out to find
The better part of me

I’m more than a bird...I’m more than a plane
More than some pretty face beside a train
It’s not easy to be me

Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home I’ll never see

It may sound absurd...but don’t be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed...but won’t you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
It’s not easy to be me.

It's not easy to be him, but he's been given the grace to dream big dreams and go big places. And he's invited me along. I'm with him, for better or worse. That's my choice.

I will try.

Thanks, Dave Matthews, for putting it in words for me...

I am no superman not at all
I have no answers for you
I am no hero, and that's for sure
But I do know one thing
Where you go, is where I want to be

Where are you going? Where do you go?
Are you looking for answers
For reasons under the stars
If along the way, you are growing weary
You can rest with me until a brighter day

I am no superman, that's for sure
And I have no answers
I am no hero, oh don't you know
But I do know one thing,
Where you are is where I belong
Where you go, I do know, is where I belong

grease monkey

I get my car(s) fixed a lot.

The guys down at TiresPlus (Michael, Tom, Will, Matt, and the cute one I flirted shamelessly with for a year and a half) know all about my rims, my oil pan, my transmission, my masters degree, my sub jobs, and my fiance.

The guys call me by name when I walk in and let me change the channel on the TV in the waiting area. The first summer I lived here, I remarked off-handedly that TiresPlus should have a punch card like Subway, where every 10th repair is free. They think I'm pretty funny.

This relationship has survived two and a half years, three apartments, five roommates, two cars, a million miles, and nearly that many dollars. I can only hope that my fiance and I do as well.

I know very little about spark plugs, carbuorators, mufflers, or ignition switches. But I'm learning. The guys at TiresPlus are always eager to show me what they're working on, and tell me about the variety of ways my car(s) had been injured.

As a girl, I feel fairly vulnerable when I walk into a car place. I am at the mercy of these men and their oil-stained hands. And who knows...maybe my fiance or my dad could get a more honest opinion, or a better deal, or give the mechanics specific instructions about what to fix.

I'm usually a little vague. What's wrong with my car? Well, it's "a scary humming sound" or "a wobbly feel" or "a suspicious-looking puddle in the garage." TiresPlus teaches me to trust, and have hope, and depend very practically on God's providence and mercy and the wisdom of others.

So the other day I had my car in to have the wheels aligned and the tires balanced, although I asked for it the other way around. As usual, I sat and waited, watching TLC and tying ribbons on wedding invitations. When the guys were done, I went up to the counter to pay.

Tom, who's in charge on Tuesdays, took the bill out of my hand and signed his name across the balance due. He grinned at me and said, "This one's on us. Your punch card was full."

Grace from a grease monkey.

I love TiresPlus.

the long way home

Grandpa Detrich always liked to take the long way home.

First we'd go to the Dairy Queen for a scoop of chocolate ice cream in a cup...then out on dirt roads where wild turkeys scuttled into the ditch...over rickety bridges spanning dry creek beds...past the field where the '52 flood brought an underground spring suddenly to life...up to the top of Indian Hill to look at the new housing developments or the mist settling grey around the grain elevator and all the way to the eastern horizon.

He liked to drive across the Milford Lake Dam, and the back roads by Easy Jack's, or through the Oak Grove or the Bonebrake, pointing out the skeletons of ramshackle farmhouses and stone structures that used to be somebody's "place."

Grandpa Detrich always had to go check on something...a real estate deal for a new family in town, a property dispute out at the quarry, a file down at the office, or the fence along the creek at our aunt's farm.

Nothing was ever quite on the way and I think Grandpa liked that.

Peacocks roost by walking under their designated sleeping spot and jumping straight up into the air to land precariously on that branch...Clive Cussler writes himself and one of his classic cars into every Dirk Pitt novel...the best cherry pie in the world is made by the women from the Alida-Upland church and sold at Chris Bletcher auctions...a Pizza Hut mint will last over an hour if you just set it on the top of your tongue and try not to suck on it.

That's the kind of stuff you learn on the long way home.

The neighborhood cats will leave the birds alone after a couple of shots from a pellet gun. Other rummy players will overlook what you've laid down if you keep your piles close to the edge of the table and out of order. There is a bottomless pot of coffee at the Senior Center, and an endless game of "guess the number" to see who pays for it each month.

Homemade ice cream tastes best eaten outside. Don't mow the lawn when the grass is damp. The human body is fragile, and prone to mysterious injuries that need bandaids and iodine. There's nothing better than a nap with a lap full of sunshine and prism rainbows.

Small towns in Kansas are worth saving... worth celebrating.

That's what Grandpa taught me.

I pray he found the long way home at last.

What's in a name?

Upon making the decision to join the Burton family, I became curious as to just what sort of folks these Burtons, worldwide, are. Both of my grandmothers are very interested in genealogy; however, I'm pretty sure this blog entry has nothing to do with actual bloodlines.

There are apparently a lot of people in the world with the last name of Burton...enjoy a few pages from my new "family" album!









Tim Burton...the bizarrely creative genius behind such films as Edward Scissorhands, Beetle Juice, several Batman films, James and the Giant Peach, and the second Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Be sure to catch Johnny Depp in Tim's upcoming Sweeney Todd.

Dan Burton... Indiana's Republican US Representative (Vice Chairman of the Subcommittee on Asia and the Pacific). He's in his twelfth year in office, and reminds everyone to "Vote Hoosiers!"

Virginia Lee Burton...author and illustrator of Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel. This book was made famous by Ramona Quimby who enjoyed the loud sound effects of the steam shovel, whose name is Mary Anne.

Gary Burton... honored with a Grammy Award for his 1971 jazz album Alone at Last, which features his solo vibraphone concert recorded at the 1971 Montreux Jazz Festival. This is a vibraphone.

Burton-on-Trent might not be Stratford-on-Avon, but Burton is widely known as ‘the brewing capital of England.’ Please remember to drink responsibly...have a half a beer.

Burtons also make snowboards. I don't know anything about snowboarding, except that it looks cold and adventurous, and has a lingo completely foreign to me. I plan on working on my Stale Fish Grab or maybe a Nollie so I can really feel like part of the family and bust some phat air!

Lucy in the Sky

10 Facts and Commentary about Transparent Crystals of Tetrahedrally Bonded Carbon Atoms.

1. Diamonds are the hardest natural material on earth. They score a 10 on Mohs' scale of mineral hardness! In some ways, I have found our engagement to be the hardest (and simultaneously beautiful and sparkly) time of my life. If that Mohs' scale went all the way up to eleven, then I could measure it properly.

2. It takes a temperature of 1325°C and a pressure of 50,000 kg/cm2 to make diamond underground. That's like having the Eiffel Tower dropped on your foot, on a 2417 degree day in France.

3. Diamonds have been around for a long time. The first recorded description of a diamond is in a 296 BC Sanskrit text. I do not know the Sanskrit word for "diamond," so I will have to trust Panini on that.

4. Some people believe that diamonds have magical powers. The Romans believed that diamonds would protect them against poison and plague, or that diamonds could cure enchantment. There's two ways to think about that. Either it means that kisses don't do anything, but engagement rings have the power to turn frogs into princes...or it means that the impending reality of marriage "cures" any enchantment in young lovers' hearts.

5. Diamonds can be deadly. Catherine de Medici, the Queen of France in 1560, used to poison her rivals by spiking their drinks with diamond dust. On a side note, she also made a rule that women had to wear corsets, so she gets Two Thumbs Down.

6. A diamonds repels water but attracts fat. This must be why I like to eat bacon but don't like to wear a swimming suit.

7. Diamond is a good conductor of heat. When it is not in contact with a source of heat, a diamond always feels cold. Me too. Fortunately, my fiance is like a furnace.

8. Most diamonds radiate visible light when exposed to ultraviolet light. This means if you are Ross Gellar, you shouldn't wear too much bling on your improbable second date with the girl with the black light.

9. Marilyn Monroe's song about diamonds (sung by Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge) has a catchy title, but is actually about the glass ceiling, the stock market, budgeting and the aging process; it uses adjectives like liasonic and continental; and includes the tongue-twister "better bets if little pets get big baggettes." I can see why it's such a hit!

10. Diamonds are not actually this girl's best friend, but I'm blessed to wear an oh-so-sparkly transparent crystal of tetrahedrally bonded carbon atoms as a sign of a precious promise from the man I love.

Hard Times

Almost exactly a year ago, I sat transfixed in front of the TV, watching an ominous swirl of clouds approach the Gulf Coast. The wind blew, and the sky got dark, and then Katrina came. The nation watched the tragedy that swamped New Orleans and much of Mississippi with murky water and governmental ineptitude.

This morning, I saw a documentary update on the rebuilding process. Some people are managing to recreate a semblance of normalcy in Louisiana and Alabama, but many other families still live in FEMA trailers, crowded in with relatives, or remain "temporarily relocated" in Dallas and other cities across America.

I wonder what those people think about every day when they wake up. Do they hear the sound of rushing water and people screaming for help?

Do they mourn every moment for lost memories, photographs, friendships, opportunities, the familiarities of home?

Or are there more immediate struggles that eventually start to outweigh those enormous burdens?

Children starting another year of school need new shoes again, parents heading to the office or factory every morning still don't feel fulfilled by their work, the car which helped them escape the rising water is low on gas again. Couples continue to argue about money, or how to communicate more effectively, or where to spend Thanksgiving this year. Single people still wonder if they wouldn't be happier if they were in a relationship. Elderly people feel the everyday aches and pains of an aging body.

These difficulties have nothing to do with Katrina...it's just life. Is that an easier storm to weather?

How do you survive devastation? How do you survive at all?

There's a Reva Williams song that asks, "Why can't 'hard times' be tornadoes, or monsoons, or just an earthquake?/ It's the small things, not 'the big one' that tear us down, that make our hearts break."

Lord, I lay these small things at your feet. Forgive me for being selfish, for being stubborn and prideful, for forgetting what's important. I want to cling to your throne as the waters rise and subside, and not wander away even on sunny days.

Flying Dropkick Off The Top Rope

I'm not in the mood to read.

I grew up without a TV at home and spent the better part of my childhood curled up on the couch with Encyclopedia Brown, Caddie Woodlawn, and the Baby-sitters' Club.

I loved these books; they were about kids like me, kids with ambition, fear, parents, homework, friendships, and a little bit of spending money. The situations they found themselves in, I could identify with. Okay, so I didn't know anybody named Bugs Meany, but I knew that the noontime sun doesn't cast a shadow, so the banker must be lying about the robber's escape. And I never spent a whole silver dollar at the merchantile on rock candy and hair combs and harmonicas for some little Indian kids, but I did have a bonnet and a secret passageway back to the 1880's through the lilac bushes. And I baby-sat all the time, although thankfully not for Jackie Rodowsky, the Walking Disaster.

That's why I loved reading. Because I could imagine myself in the adventure, on the trail to Oregon. Those kids were my friends, or they would have been, if they would have known me. There was so much to learn from them about creatively overcoming adversity, giving to the less-fortunate, and winning at growing up. I owe those authors a lot.

I still love to read, just not today. Today, I want to watch television. Specifically, professional wrestling tapes from the late 80s. Yes, I am a reading teacher, and have preached many a sermon on the Evils of the Idiot Box, but I'm worn out from my first week in 6th grade, and I just want some WWF.

My uncle used to tape WWF, and we'd watch hours of SummerSlamVII at the farm. Jake the Snake, the Bushwhackers, the Ultimate Warrior, Hulk Hogan, Brutus "The Barber" Beefcake... we knew them all. One of my favorites was Shawn Michaels (either as a Rocker with Marty Jannetty, or when he was the Heartbreak Kid, but not when he was part of Degeneration X...don't worry.)

Here are the Rockers with a Twin Flying Dropkick against somebody in an unfortunate fuschia leotard.

Talk about suspension of disbelief.

I lost interest as professional wrestling became scarier...Kane, Triple H, Batista, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Shawn Michaels now...seem so serious in their intent to inflict pain on one another. Give me a little more face paint, more animals as sidekicks, more tank-top ripping, and a few less matches called "Hell in a Cage."

For a decade, WWF was a terrific combination of gymnastics, fashion, and ego all rolled into one thrilling clash of bulging biceps and acting ability. Sure it was fake, but it was so fun! I think I learned stuff, too, like teamwork and innovation (if your partner is getting double-teamed, don't just get in the ring, bring a steel chair!). I also learned determination and perseverance by watching the weariest wrestlers kick out of a Sleeper Hold, fractions of a second before the 3-count.

Okay. Enough talk, a little more action. Bring it on, Vince McMahon!

p.s. Apologies to my college literature professor. You did your best.

Dresses Without Pockets

"They just can't run down to the bureau at 3:05 a.m. and be married by 3:10. They have to give just a little thought to the process,"said Clark County Clerk Shirley Parraguirre.

Thanks, Shirley.

She's commenting on Las Vegas' new policy prohibiting 24-hour wedding chapels. County officials approved a new 8 a.m.-to-midnight schedule that will take effect next Wednesday.

And as a soon-to-be-married individual, I must applaud the efforts of Shirley's department.

If the rest of us have to wrestle with important decisions like whether or not to allow the groom's cake to be a red velvet armadillo with grey frosting, celebrities and others prone to making hasty decisions should have to think at least a little.

It's funny, or perhaps unfortunate, the amount of time, energy, and preparation that goes into planning a wedding. I'm a little frustrated with the whole process myself, and I am fully aware that we've only just begun (thanks, Carpenters).

I'd like to be thinking about potential ministry opportunities with my future husband, or how we're going to resolve the "he likes having a cat/she doesn't" issue, or if we should wait until he's done with grad school to start a family, or what ornaments to hang on our first Christmas tree, or how to actually live out scripture about spiritual leadership and Biblical submission, or how to combine responsibility, teamwork, sacrifice, friendship, provision, joy, honesty, commitment, passion, communication, forgiveness, hope, individuality, memories, respect, and a shared tube of toothpaste into a lifetime of marriage.

But what I've actually been thinking about is whether to a) carry a bouquet; b) have my sister-maid-of-honor carry a bouquet; c) both...but that means she has to hold both of them during the ceremony, which is awkward; or d) neither...but then what will we do with our hands since our dresses don't have pockets?

Seriously.

Since our ringagement back in June, I've been asked more questions about wedding plans than I ever thought possible. People don't want to know why I love this man, or how we're going to use our life together to glorify God. They just want to know if I have found a reasonably priced photographer. Which, as of today, I have not.

My wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I guess I hope that it isn't. I think that day will be wonderful, but I hope the days and years keep getting better. After all, we've only just begun.

Go down to the office, Moses

This week, my 6th grade students are learning classroom expectations. Yesterday we discussed what to do if you finish your work early, how the sign-out sheet works to go to the bathroom (to save the teacher from writing out individual passes), where to turn in a completed assignment, and what time they are dismissed for lunch. All of these details are posted in various spots around the room.

What kinds of questions do you suppose I was asked today?

"I'm done with my work...what should I do?" "I need to go to the bathroom. Can you write me a pass?" "Where do I put my assignment when I'm finished?" "When's lunch?"

I answered the first few hours of questions, but eventually started just pointing a yardstick at the wall where all the guidelines were posted, or at the basket clearly labeled HOUR 4 LANGUAGE ARTS ASSIGNMENTS, or at the schedule posted next to the clock.

Oh, and also, "Do you have a boyfriend?" and "Do you always wear flip-flops to school?" to which I just smiled and nodded and continued explaining how to check out books from the library.

But these kids are not the only forgetful ones when it comes to rules and expectations.

This morning as I was driving to work, I heard a Go Fish song called "The Ten Commandment Boogie." It seemed like a catchy way to teach kids some of God's basic rules, although now at lunchtime, I can't remember any of the lyrics. I mean, I know what the Commandments are, or where to look them up if I needed them, but not the actual words to the song.

And I wondered if God ever got tired of me asking the same questions over and over and over. "Do you really exist?" "Do you really love me?" "Do you really hear me when I pray?" "Do you really have a plan for my life?" "Will you really speak to me?" "Do you mean it?"

Maybe God just sometimes wants to point a yardstick at my Bible and say, "Don't you remember? You know this information. Look it up. I told you yesterday. Please try to remember what I tell you. Believe me. It's for your own good."

May these verses from Psalm 119 be the true desire of my heart.

I seek you with all my heart; do not let me stray from your commands.
I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you.
Praise be to you, O LORD; teach me your decrees.
Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your law.

Tripping Over Each Other

" Step...together...step...together...step...together...step... "

In the books I used to read as a kid, the three-legged race was always the last event of every turn-of-the-century church picnic or county fair.

Freckled girls in gingham and barefoot boys in overalls were tied together at the ankle; their senses heightened by the competition, the unexpected physical contact, and the promise of a blueberry pie for the winners to share.

The pairs lined up at one edge of the field, poised and eager; the crowd gathered, happy and full of fried chicken.
Doc Somebody, who drove a fine matched team of bays even though he had a Model T in the garage, tottered out to the middle of the field and started the race with a feeble but enthusiastic wave of his hankerchief.

The racers lept forward, in the lurching gait of the three-legged, laughing and calling to eachother to "step" with the outside feet..."together" with the inside feet..."step" outside... "together" inside..."step...together...step..."

Some teams made progress at first, but invariably ended up dropping in laughing, tangled heaps of elbows and apron strings. This tumble was usually the catalyst for romance between the twiggy girl with droopy kneesocks and the shy neighbor boy whose cowlick refused to lay straight, even on Sundays.

Ah, young love. Ah, church picnics. Ah, droopy kneesocks.

In my life, however, three-legged races have never been a catalyst for romance. In fact, they have only resulted in rope burns, twisted ankles, and grass stains.

But maybe love itself is a three-legged race. A lurching attempt of two peope in the general direction of shared future happiness. And blueberry pie.

It's difficult to find a balance of how far to reach on one's own (with the outside leg), and then to determine how quickly to move the inside leg so that each person is supported fully. In a relationship, the tasks required of each individual separately can cause an unsettling tug on the shared center support. And likewise, if the inside legs move too quickly or too far forward, or even not far enough, the outside independent legs can buckle.

And there are so many possible complications in three-legged racing! If one person gets distracted by a bird, or an untied shoelace, or by the progress of another team, down you go!

I feel as though my own three-legged race has been a bit off-kilter lately, like we're stepping with different size strides, or not getting our feet pointed in exactly the same direction. We're still running, or at least tripping over each other in a forward direction, but our calls of "step...together...step..." are getting lost in the prairie wind.

So we decide to get up again, to listen more closely, to patiently match pace, to laugh about the grass stains, to forgive the unintentional mis-step, to keep our eyes focused on the finish line.

The crowd cheers us on.

The blueberry pie will taste so good.

Believe It

I already hate blogging.

I hate how the thoughts that occupy the space in my head refuse to be accurately translated to the space on this page.

I hate how often I hit the backspace button and watch twenty-seven minutes...or twenty-seven years...of thought disappear into the blankness.

I have quoted and deleted Jesus and Milton and Peppermint Patty. I have erased a million best-selling novels. My sister has a delightfully random blog, my fiance' has an intensely heartfelt blog, and I ?

Have a title.

Suspension of Disbelief.

It isn't much, but it took all year...

In 1817, Samuel Taylor Coleridge (of "Kubla Khan" fame) wrote "that [his] endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic, yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith."

Which means...

In theatre or fiction, audience members and readers are asked for a "suspension of disbelief," accepting the limitations of a performance medium in exchange for entertainment. Suspension of disbelief makes song-and-dance musicals, sketch comedy, and hypothetical humor work. It's why Mystery Science Theatre is hilarious. It's why The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is horrifying. It's why Tod and Copper make me cry.

Because I buy it. For the moment, I put poetic faith in Walt Disney, or Christopher Guest, or Shakespeare, and allow myself to delight in something that isn't actually technically possible.

Maybe this is how the guy in Mark 9 was feeling. His son was possessed by an evil spirit (wicked convulsions...foaming at the mouth...gnashing teeth...the usual). The man asked Jesus, "If you can do anything, take pity on us and help us." Jesus responds somewhat dryly, "'If you can?'" And then Jesus says, "Everything is possible for him who believes."

The man immediately exclaims (before Jesus does anything), "I do believe; help me overcome my disbelief!" He's ready to accept whatever Jesus can do for his son, no matter how impossible it seems.

And then Jesus makes it happen...cue the music...enter the miracle...admire the special effects... exit the evil spirit!

I do believe; suspend my disbelief, Lord. Help me overcome my doubt and my pride and be ready for whatever You choose to do in my life.

So that's what this blog is about. Suspension of disbelief. Entertainment and faith. Laughter and learning to surrender my life to Jesus Christ more each day.

Believe it.