Breaking Up with Joe

I’ve had to say goodbye to a good friend recently. To a dear, bold companion. My steaming cup ‘o joe. My beloved coffee. Sigh. Parting is such sorrow. (Notice I omitted sweet.)

Before you think this decision is some testament to my discipline or that it’s is rooted in some deeper spiritual meaning, I’ll tell you right off the bat, it’s purely for digestive reasons. I’m only doing this because my GI tract indubitably demanded it. And so far, my intestines and stomach have been much happier organs now that Joe has left the building. My taste buds are crying out unfair but my stomach is telling them to suck it up and deal with it.

My husband got me hooked on coffee twelve years ago. Come to think of it, that’s not entirely true. It was my son to be exact, when I was carrying him. (Funny how even in utero our children have that kind of power.) Most women lose their taste for coffee during pregnancy but mine was just revving up. The rich aroma of Doug’s coffee actually soothed my precarious stomach in those early months- that and lemon heads- and I eventually started drinking it. Loaded with sugar and cream at first but as the years went by, I gave up the additives and craved pure, unadulterated coffee.

But now, for whatever reason, coffee just isn’t “working” for me anymore.

So now I start the morning with a nice cup of hot lemon water. Or herbal tea. And I tell myself that it’s just as good. And when my husband’s not looking, I hover my face over his coffee cup and inhale the steam. And just to prove this isn’t legalistic, I sometimes cheat. Like this Sunday afternoon, when  I savored a quarter of a cup of French Roast while lounging on the couch reading Kathryn Stockett’s “The Help”. Pure heaven.

It’s clearly good for me, this coffee deprival, but I still fall into whining. The first two weeks of my fast I’d pass a Starbucks and burst into tears.

I’m over that now. I’m over Joe. You know what? He wasn’t such hot stuff after all. Sure, he was charming. Sure he was lovely and comforting and exhilarating, all wrapped in one. But so is my lemon water.

At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

A Pencil Box full of Scabs

When I was in the third grade a boy name Brent Something-Or-Other wanted to give me a rather startling gift: his  pencil box full of scabs. Yes, scabs. The kind you see branded across kids knees. That kind your mother told you not to pick or else they might scar. He’d been saving them all year, he boasted, and he wanted to give them to none other than little ‘ol me. I’m not sure if he was serious, or playing an icky-nine-year-old-boy joke, or if had emotional problems and, being as shy as I was, I never discovered his intent. Although it was clear from his abundant pencil box, he’d had his fair share of scrapes and falls over the school year.

Eeeeeew. I know. I’m sorry. The lengths I go to make an analogy.

Sometimes when I’ve found, in my opinion, a nifty men’s sweater at Kohls, I have to pause and ask myself: Is this a gift my husband would truly want, or is it merely a pencil box full of scabs? In other words, would the intended receiver desire this, or is it just something I’d like to give, something I like and want him/her to wear/watch/read/own?

Like an American Girl doll. I really, really want one. A sweet little dark haired Asian doll that looks like my daughter. At this point, my daughter couldn’t care less. (And yes, I realize the money I’m saving on this one.) Or years ago when my son was in pre-school and I obsessed over all the Fisher Price town pieces: the farm, the airplane, the gas station, the school…. It’s sad when a mother has to bribe her youngster to play “Little People” with her. (“Please, please, please? I’ll let you be the fireman?”)

An object becomes a gift when its receiver deems it valuable.

Mother’s Day is coming up. And of course any old thing my kids wrap up and put in my hands will be just perfect because honestly, when it comes to our babies, we moms are suckers for sentimentality. You picked out this rock all by yourself? I absolutely love it! How did you know?

So on this Mother’s Day, enjoy your bouquet of weeds, your denser than a rock but made with love cake, your gargantuan earrings that will stretch your earlobes like taffy, your macaroni necklace that leaves traces of paint on your collarbone. These are the gifts of incalculable value. That little sticky faced giver is what makes the gift "just perfect". 

And as for all the other not-from-our-kids gifts we receive that fall short, someone came up with a brilliant catchall phrase: it’s the thought that counts.

Sure. Okay. But I still can’t apply that to Brent. 

Accepting Rejection and Running On

Someone recently asked me if, as a freelance writer, I ever get rejected.

I’m still laughing.

The reality is, I get rejections all the time. Less than I used to but still plenty to keep me humble and motivated to hone my craft.

In 2004 I received my first “acceptance” to a paying publication. They sent me ten copies of the magazine and a twenty-five dollar check. I’m pretty certain I kissed that check. Not because of its monetary value but because I felt so utterly validated. Rejection is just part of the writing game. You get used to it. You develop an alligator skin. So when a “yes” comes along you celebrate it. You take a deep sigh of relief that maybe, just maybe, you can call yourself a writer after all.  

In honor of Good Friday, I’m posting my first little published piece that technically can’t even be called an article. It appeared in the March 2004 edition of The Lookout (not to be confused with the watchtower!) Good Friday service is my all time favorite service in the entire year. Yes, it’s somber. Yes it’s heavy. But man oh man, it sure does get me ready to celebrate that empty tomb. Enjoy!

Run to the Cross

As I sat next to my squirming three-year-old at our church’s Good Friday service, I tried to explain to him why we were covering the cross at the front of the church with black ribbons. 

         “We’re pretending,” I finally said, realizing my theological explanations were in vain, “that this cloth represents the bad things we do.  We’re fastening them to the cross to show that Jesus died to take them away.”

         After we attached our cloth and returned to our seats, I felt a tug on my sweater. “Mama, I want to see the cross again.”

         Usually my son wouldn’t stray more than a few feet from my side so I helped him out or his seat, expecting him to stand near the aisle and gaze from afar.  But when his feet hit the floor he ran up the center aisle, his eyes fixed on the cross.  As I watched him gaze up at the blackened cross in wonder my initial embarrassment vanished.  He had done what I pray he’ll do for the rest of his life- run unashamedly to the cross.

“Let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.  Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross.” (Hebrews 12:1, 2)

Spring is a Diva

This March, like every other March I suppose, I’m skeptical that Spring will make good on its promise to arrive. In fact, Spring seems to be turning into a bit of a diva, like a teenager who will only make an appearance when they're fashionably late. Spring has taunted us with flashes of green grass and Robin Red Breasts. But just when we’re putting the boots away… “Just kidding!” Spring pelts us with snow like a pie in the face before dashing off again.

Ah, Spring. You little tease.

If you are blessed to live in the southern part of Wisconsin or in another state altogether, (you lucky, lucky, bird) you won’t fully understand this blog. You might tell me to buck up. Quit my whining. But I can tell by the snow-encrusted driveways and sidewalks I pass along my hometown streets that I’m not alone in my grumblings. We’ve just plain given up on shoveling. You can come to my house for a visit but from here on out, it’s at your own risk. Maybe bring some salt.

To add insult to injury, my daughter’s favorite past time of late is making ice. Lots of it.  My refrigerator is lined with various sizes of cups of ice. As if there’s not enough outside. Of course just last week as she and her brother were home for “Spring Break”, (hilarious) she turned to me, adamantly and said, “You said we could get ice cream at Belts on Spring break.”

“No,” I corrected her. “I said we could go to Belts when it’s Spring, once the snow melts.”

She looked out the window in despair. I promised her we’d go in June. Or July at the very latest, but that we’d just have to wait. This made her angry. I told her I was sorry and asked her if she wanted to make more ice.

I’m not so good at this waiting thing either.

And yet waiting seems to make up such a big chunk of life. Seems like I’m always waiting for something, for the toast to pop or the light to change. And those are the small things. I've waited for big things too like waiting to finish high school, waiting to finish college, waiting to get married, to get pregnant, waiting to have the baby, for the baby to be potty trained…. You get the picture. It never ends.

There have been times when I’m simply in the moment, not trying to peek around the corner. I’m not waiting when I’m...

Screaming on a rollercoaster

holding a sleeping baby

utterly engrossed in a good book/movie

laughing hysterically

eating something overwhelmingly good

deep in conversation

I know Spring will come. It came last year, and the year before that and the year before that. So I’m not hopelessly waiting, I’m waiting with hope.

With my flip-flops on.

Never say never. I never do.

I did it. I bit the bullet. I’ve created a blog- something I’ve intentionally resisted for a while now. Like facebook. Like Texting. Like marrying a pastor. Like adopting. Like owning a dog. Like eating raw fish. All things I’ve now done and all things that have turned out to be good. Surprisingly good. Some, even extraordinary.

So why my resistance to having a blog?

Partly because Blogging lends itself to self- absorption. It’s all me, me, me. Yep. I said it. Now that I’ve offended half of you, please realize that I’m blogging these words. So. I guess that means I’m self-centered. I’ve had a sneaking suspicion of this for some time now. 

Secondly, as a writer, I’m apprehensive of putting anything in print that I haven’t wrestled with, rewritten, edited, and sweated over. And I just can’t- or won’t- commit to that kind of commitment with a blog. (then again this may end up being another example of never say never.)

So here’s how I’ve reconciled these reservations:

Self Absorbed? Yes, blogs can be. But they also have the potential of being expressive, engaging, helpful, uplifting, and sometimes even cathartic. (sometimes even for the reader.) As far as writing and posting something that might not be up to par in terms of its publish-ability, (case in point... I don’t even think that’s a word!) that may be a good thing. It might be liberating to free the ideas that float in and out of mind without worrying about word count and query letters.

On to the blog name. It stems from a personal fantasy in which Harper Lee and I are clicking chopsticks together over our Spicy California and Geisha rolls. We're sharing the same dish of soy sauce because we’re that close. In case you don’t know, but I’m sure you do, Harper Lee wrote this little novel called “To Kill a Mockingbird”. Have you read it? If you haven’t, go read it. If you haven’t read it since high school, go read it. If you read it and don’t like it, read it again. If you still don’t like it, you have my pity.

So in light of the free-spiritedness of the twenty-first century blog, my postings will be random. They will be sporadic. They may include book recommendations, or thoughts on writing in general, or possibilities for sushi rolls, or three in the morning insomnia induced ramblings or, if I’m brave enough, political musings. I just don’t know yet.

This is all new to me. Like texting was four weeks ago. Which, by the way, I can’t live without. I mean, how else in the world could I ask my hubby to pick up a Chicago roll on the way home?

Let the rambling begin.