Dream-World

Ok, so I like the song "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" even though I don't believe in Santa Claus. And I enjoy"Mele Kaliki Maka" even though I've never so much as been to Hawaii. Similarly, I've always had a wistful sort of affection for "I Am Dreaming of A White Christmas" even though I never really thought I'd get a white Christmas. At least...not here in the Seattle area.

But this Christmas, snow it did and I think every fluffy flake only pushed me into hotter contention for the title of Happiest Girl on Earth.

I feel overwhelmed to serve a God who can make an insignificant sort of half-dream turn into a real-life winter wonderland. Much less a God who was willing to pay a price as high as humanity and everything that meant for...me.

Some of you may be interested to know that I received a GPS system for Christmas.

Read My Lips

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!

And You Thought You Were Faint-Hearted!

Mom hates spiders. I mention this because I don't think it's entirely my fault--my feelings toward spiders, that is. Seriously. Mom hates spiders so much, that a spider actually delayed my arrival into the world. That was because Mom saw a dead spider while she was in full-blown labor with me and it caused her adrenaline level to shoot up and shut down her labor. It's a beautiful world--I guess I'm allowed to dislike the creature bold enough to delay my entrance into it.

The other night, I walked in the house shortly after midnight. It felt rather like the night before Christmas--not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. I headed quietly downstairs, set my stuff down, and turned around to see....

It.

It was a big one. So large, in fact, that my first reaction was to look more closely and make sure it was not one of those fake spiders--the ones my brothers sometimes like to use to get a reaction out of me.

It wasn't.

It was very real. Fortunately, it was also sitting very still which gave me fifteen minutes to unload my car and give some good, serious thought to my options. Finally, everything unloaded, I stood in the middle of the floor to face up to facts and make a decision. I considered my three options.

a) Denial. Let the spider live, hoping that either he would wander away and NEVER be seen again or stay there all night so someone could kill him in the morning. Better yet, maybe he could just die...all on his own.

I realized the impracticability of this option almost immediately. A good night's sleep was on the top of my priority list at the moment. A good sleep and coexistence with a spider are mutually exclusive for me. Besides, how would I live with the wondering when every door was opened or paper turned over if a spider would jump out? Unfortunately, my practical side refused to consider it a real possibility that he would stay in one place all night...or die on his own. I proceeded to option 2.

b) Aggression. Kill the spider.

I have killed a spider or two in my time. But it at least takes courage and usually some very convincing external motivation. For example, a needy camper at summer camp.... No screaming camper seemed likely to appear at twelve-thirty in my quiet Christmas-eve-ish sort of house and the only internal motivation I could come up with was wanting the spider dead. Not enough to face those spider-eyes of his. Any further doubts I may have had as to my levels of courage were swept away when the spider started to move. He looked bigger, moving. And what if he came running towards me when I went to kill him?

c) Cowardice. Wake someone up to kill the spider.

I hate to inconvenience anyone, but...well, it all came by process of elimination. I woke Paul up. He deserves a medal for good-humor (and bravery?). I don't know what I deserve, but it's nothing particularly complimentary.

The Rainy City

Seattle. It's not that wet of a city, really. Natives here know that the bark of our generally rather metallic looking sky is hardly equalled by the bite of its downpours. After all, we aren't even in the competition for "U.S. City With Most Annual Rainfall." So, we smile at the normalcy of our heavy cloud cover and shrug off the determined drizzle that dampens our atmosphere.

And then comes a day like today.

I enjoyed a lovely snowfall last Saturday. It doesn't snow here very often, so it's rather an exciting moment when it does. I wanted to catch and hold every snowflake forever. By the time three or four inches had fallen, our neighborhood looked every inch like the perfect Christmas card. Then we all went out to play and spread boot tracks into all its nooks and crannies.

When it does snow here, it rarely hangs around. This weekend was no exception. By Sunday afternoon it was raining. By the time I woke up this morning to the sound of a waterfall pouring out of the gutters, only a football sized lump of our once respectable snowman remained to eulogize a perfect weekend. I made an unusually brisk dash to the car and arrived only mildly damp. "Today," I smiled to myself, settling back for my twenty minute commute and turning on the windshield wipers, "it is a wet, wet world!"

Ten minutes later, still waiting on line to turn off of my street onto the main road, I started to understand what a scenic sort of day I was going to have. The lake that graced the intersection of my street with the main road even had ripples! Every passing car left a wake like a speed boat. As I carefully navigated the left turn onto the main road, leaving a lovely wake of my own, I shuddered, "It's a wet, wet world!"

One hour and forty minutes afterwards, still having only navigated six miles, I arrived at work. If you were to guess that I had been forced to take a rather tedious and moderately circuitous route to work because of flooding and road closures, you would be guessing correctly.

Safe in the dry building, I discovered I wasn't the only employee late to work. As the morning flew by, all of us were a bit jumpy and held frequent excited discussions about the weather while admiring the speed with which a river could form in our parking lot. In the end, our office building was evacuated by the city and I spent an amazingly tedious three hours and twenty minutes inching along the only remaining route out of the flooding area, through a frustrating maze of various circuitous routes, and, eventually, arrived safely home.

Seattle. It's a wet city after all.

H, W, & W

It doesn't work. The whole "early to bed early to rise" thing, that is. Though not exactly scientific in its method, I now offer the personal experience of the last month of my life in non-support of the early/early adage. You see, for the better part of the last month, I have both gone to bed and arisen early. Result: I was sick all month, I am significantly poorer, and if I'm any wiser I can't see how.

Of course, I was sick before I started going to bed earlier. So I suppose it was too late for sleep to prevent the illness? And I'm finding it difficult to link my sleeping pattern with my voracious $$ swallowing vehicle. Then, self-assessment isn't a great way to measure wisdom, is it?

See what I mean about non-scientific methods?

All In A Day's Vacation

Never mind about coming over for a slice of pie. For one, it's gone now. Secondly, our house personifies "organized disaster" at the moment. There are a few corners, just in this living room alone, in which I'd rather not be caught in a fire drill. The whole effect might give you the (false) impression that we are not on vacation.

I think I've had a taste of every kind of vacation in my life. The road-trip-motel combo, the airplane-amusement park combo, the stay-at-home-and-take-local-day-trips combo, the camping-adventure, and even the guess-we-won't-bother-with-vacation-this-year non-adventure. And then there's the working-vacation combo. Now that is what I call redeeming the time.

One year, we spent our working vacation putting in grass in the back yard. It was October and the ground was frozen. While we were hard at work in an icy cold windstorm, a falling tree almost caught Mom underneath it. After expressing gratefulness that she was still alive, we went back to work while the wind howled and finished our job for the day. It was one of the best vacations we ever had.

This year, we have enjoyed a significantly warmer, but much less orderly, working adventure. We call it "unpacking," mostly because it IS unpacking. If you ever find yourself moving with any great frequency and leaving your belongings in storage for extended periods of time, you also may find yourself unmotivated to unpack your belongings as soon as you move into a new home. Some items we own have literally not been outside of a box for five years or more.

So, you may ask, why keep such belongings?

We wonder the same thing, and our last week of vacation has been well used in reboxing many items. This time, for the thrift store. Hooray for purging!

Thanks Again

It has been a cozy Thanksgiving holiday. I greeted it with all the delight with which newly regained health invigorates one. One reason I've posted so little this month can be blamed indirectly on the energies I've had to divert to battling a nasty nagging illness that struck me down. I plunged into cooking when I arrived home from work on Wednesday, but found that the quick enthusiasm of my newly regained health was not quite equalled by my only gradually rising energy levels.

Bummer.

Ah well, I satisfied my body by an early bedtime and late arising the following morning.

Thanksgiving itself was a pleasant round of the familiar mixed with a consciousness of another "first Thanksgiving" in another new place of residence.

Mid-morning, Dad, Mom, and I got the turkey in the oven. Mom, mixing the stuffing up, announced with concern that it didn't taste right. Dad, coming to the rescue with his taster available, commented that she "always says that." Her look of shock was a sight to behold, "I DO?!? What do you always answer?" He smiled, "That it always tastes just perfect!"

It did, indeed, turn out perfectly. Possibly the best stuffing that has ever touched my palate.

Everyone was on hand when it came time to mash the potatoes. For some reason, it is the most popular job available. Theories to explain this phenomenon will be entertained.

We used the fine china for the first time in several years. The last two Thanksgivings, as we remembered vividly, it was in storage.

Among our family traditions, we debone the entire turkey on Thanksgiving day before we consider ourselves done with cleanup. For the last several years, deboning has been my department. This year, Peter helped me. Slowly picking through the the carcase of the turkey, I caught Peter looking longingly out the window. I quickly divided out two healthy piles of meat. "This one's yours," I informed him, "and this one's mine. We'll race."

Several productive minutes later, Peter suddenly said reflectively, "Katie, I've been working a lot faster since we started racing." *pause* then, accusingly, "Katie! Did you KNOW I would do that?"

What can I say? It's not for nothing that I'm the oldest.

Several hours after dinner, we regathered around the table to enjoy pumpkin CHIFFON pie. About 300x better than average pumpkin pie, we serve the lightest, fluffiest pumpkin pie you've ever eaten. As usual, we discussed and unanimously agreed on this very point. John took the cake this year by declaring, "Saying pumpkin pie and pumpkin chiffon pie are anything alike is like saying that grapefruit and grapes are alike."

If you find yourself salivating, come on over. We'll have pie around more or less continuously for the next week or two.

Just before shutting down operations for the night, I carefully packed the china away for another time. Mom, watching me, wondered which of her children should inherit her china. John and Abigail answered simultaneously, "ME!" "I love your china," John said. "Ha, but your wife might not," Mom threw after him as he left the room.

"She will," his words drifted back confidently and we ended our day with laughter to share and full of thankfulness for each other....just the way we are.

Katie's Not-To-Do-List

November 23, 2007

1. Leave the house.

2. Go shopping.

Thankfully....

I was developing a lovely Thanksgiving post this year, but it is definitely still in developement. It may or may not ever see the light of day.

But I can't let this day pass entirely without mention.

I am grateful, this year, for a day of remembrance that gives me time, leisure, and additional incentive to stop and consider all that God has done for me...to "be still and know" that HE is GOD!

What are you thankful for this year?

For Future Reference

* Performing an activity that creates open wounds beneath your fingernails and following it up by slicing lemons is not recommended. The sensation that will result may remind you of that caused by cutting your knees on barnacles, and then continuing to swim in salt water.

* Don't forget that 10 x 80 equals 800. Remembering may save you an embarrassing moment or two.

* If you suffer from insomnia, don't bother seeing your doctor. A sure-fire way to ensure for yourself a good night's sleep is to make yourself in any way responsible for any part of putting on formal banquets every other night for a few days. Bonus points if you are the last one to leave. And if you want a dreamless sleep, plan to follow the final banquet with serving an informal lunch for forty the next morning and then returning home to prepare dinner for company.

This concludes your November edition of Friendly Tips from Katie. We will now return to our regular programming.

It's Beginning To Look...

...perhaps a bit much like Christmas.

Despite my uncertainty about being quite in the holiday spirit so early, I found my fingers flying through a familiar Christmas carol when I was playing the piano on Sunday. And though I rolled my eyes a bit at the Christmas displays that grace Wal-Mart's aisles perhaps a bit too soon, I smiled when "Hark The Herald Angels Sing" blared through the speakers.

At home, I have been smiling every time I walk into the kitchen and see the traditional Christmas wish lists of the three younger ones prominently attached to the refrigerator. They're all three typed this year for the first time.

John, always the first to plan ahead, put his list up first--several weeks ago. (Perhaps he sympathizes with my hope to get my shopping done ahead!) It is headed with his first and last name (I guess he doesn't want us to give anything to the wrong "John") and divided neatly into "wants" and "needs." Among his "wants:" "memory for my computer"--and a lot of other computer stuff. He boldly added an "airsoft gun" to the list, but Dad already crossed that out by way of hinting what he is NOT getting this Christmas. His list of "needs "is topped by big capital letters reading "TONS OF BOOKS" and followed by little tiny letters describing a need for "clothes."

Abigail, next to finish, was specific, precise, and practical. Except maybe when she added "Dickens, entire set" to her list. Well, and I'm a little unclear on the specs for the"flat, large boards" she wants. Unclear, and downright curious. Maybe when she reads this, she'll elaborate. She did, after all, have the foresight to put extra lines on the bottom of her list so she could fill in any afterthoughts that might occur to her.

Peter finished his list just today. He divided it into "needs" and "wants"--but no needs are listed, only wants. From start to finish, his list implies that he is easy to please. "Nice pens (any coler) [sic]." "Bike or the (things for the bike I have to ask dad)." I suppose if we want to brighten Christmas with bike parts, we'd better go shopping with Dad! "Big bag indeain corn. [sic]" His word processing skills need a little bit of work, and so, obviously, does his spelling. Which is why he probably won't be getting the truly unambiguous wish that appears in large, underlined letters smack in the middle of his list:

"NO SCHOOL"

If The Shoe Doesn't Fit

If you were to identify one of the darker strains in my existence, you might summarize it under a label like "a tendency to assume false guilt at the drop of a hat."

If you've never exerienced false guilt, let me assure you that it can get rather overwhelming trying to keep the peace of the world by blaming all its problems on yourself. And feeling guilty every time you say "no" to anyone doesn't help along a peaceful existence either.

God reminds me freqently that it is His job to convict me of sin. And that I am in sin when I assume His jobs as my own. One of these days maybe I'll have learned it for good. "If the shoe doesn't fit, Katie," I'll no longer have to say, kindly, but oh-so-firmly, "don't wear it."

Gypped!

I always look forward to the first frost of the year. I find it utterly beautiful. It is also the day in which I traditionally silence the cold-blooded wimp that lives within me and follow my unbidden impulse to walk barefoot in the grass.

I've never figured out why I have the barefoot urge on the day of the first frost--but I do. And it's an urge I unfailingly give in to. Only, "walking" barefoot might be a small exaggeration. The effect is more like leaping barefoot upon the corner of the grass, then making a mad dash back to the warmth of the house as fast as my toes can carry me.

We had our first frost this last week. I was up about four a.m. that morning to take Dad to the airport. The world, presumably in all of it's white laced glory, was shrouded in darkness and I just about froze my fingers off scraping the ice off of my car windows. Meanwhile, the much anticipated "first frost" of 2007 lost every last ounce of its proper glory in my sentimental eyes.

Is this part of growing up?

I Also Wonder...

...what a "weak chin" is supposed to look like?

I Wanna Know....

...why my stash of Purell, which is advertised to kill--eliminate, dead, gone!--99.99% of all germs, has an expiration date on it??

Nothing Bargained, Nothing Gained

Personally, I've always been one to drive a hard bargain. Poor Paul--growing up with me made for a childhood of sometimes getting what he wanted, always at a price higher than most open markets would actually sustain. To this day he flatly refuses to play Monopoly if I am playing. And he still groans in distress when the family story recirculates about the time I agreed to let him sniff my chocolate scented marker five times IF he helped me clean my desk.

With my own extensive background and experience, it never fails to amuse me to when John, Abigail, and Peter start negotiating. John, carefully making studying the psychology of his victim. (He never wastes time bribing someone who will do what he wants for free. And he knows his limits before he begins any give'n'take.) Peter, with a quick emotional reaction to help or hinder his cause.

And Abigail. When she wishes, she can mediate the fairest of all fair bargains. When she's being silly, she's winning enough to make you incline to do what she wishes whatever the absurdity of her suggested bargain.

Like when she offers to say nice things about you for five minutes straight, provided you correct her math.

When You Have Nothing To Say....

Or when your voice is a raspy wreck of its normal self....

It is a time to keep silence.

That, or write.

Oh, The Trouble I've Seen

I have always slept very lightly. There are many disadvantages to this, of course. But there is one advantage, viz. I am the one with the story to tell in the morning.

I am the one who knows, for example, when the dogs barked away an hour of the night. And I am always a faithful reporter when it comes to night time storms, night time meteorites dramatizing the local atmosphere, night time discomfort of small siblings, and, well, the whereabouts and status of battery operated products.

It started a long time ago when Dad came home from a business trip and gave Abigail an alarm clock. Dad's employer at that time and some of his clients frequently dispensed complimentary "gifts" of various kinds--to Dad's benefit. These "gifts" ranged from the obligatory coffee cups and pens to such novelties as calculators and alarm clocks. Most of these "gifts" were inherited by Dad's children. Abigail was probably around six at the time she became the proud owner of her very first alarm clock. I suppose when acquired at that age the alarm clock was something in the way of destined to become a toy.

John and Abigail used to spend hours playing "house" in my bedroom. The alarm clock made a useful accessory to the game. At the end of the game, John and Abigail would go to eat a real dinner and the alarm clock would lie forgotten in my bedroom. Sometime in the middle of the night, Katie would awaken to the sound of the alarm clock going off. Somehow, John and Abigail always, always, ALWAYS left it on. AND always left it in a different place in the room. While sound-sleeping Abigail dreamed sweetly, I would spend several minutes at a time fumbling about the dark room trying to find the alarm clock guided only by its insistent, clamoring sound. Usually it ended up being under the bed, behind the books on the bookcase, or deep in the closet. Sometimes, I had to turn on the light to find it. Never, in all the many times this scene was redrawn, did Abigail wake up.

Later, we lived in a large house with very tall, vaulted ceilings. The house met all the required fire safety regulations, including a liberal sprinkling of smoke alarms throughout the house. Grateful as I always am to know when a smoke alarm's batteries are dying, I have never figured out why these batteries always begins to die at night. And how, with the loud "CHIRP" cutting the silence at five minute intervals, everyone else manages to sleep soundly. Worst, there was no hope of a quick, peaceful conclusion it was generally the smoke alarms attached to the highest points of the highest ceilings...the kind that required a twenty foot ladder to access.

Most recently, my night hours have been made most interesting by the antics of Pauls' electronics. Between his interest in computers and all things computerized, and his job at a cell phone company, he has acquired quite a collection of battery operated equipment. And I have spent some portion of some of my nights learning which is which by the sounds they make when their respective batteries die.

Last night, one of his cell phones disturbed an especially quiet night by announcing that its batteries were giving up the ghost. Disgusted, I turned over, schooled myself to ignore the sound, and went back to sleep. I thereby discovered that I have become no more able to be satisfied by sleeping in five minute increments than I ever was.

Finally, giving up on peaceful coexistence, I got up and stumbled out to the main room to find the cell phone. It was only then, as I was shuffling about trying to find it in the dark guided only by its sound, that the battery gasped out its final breath and I heard the phone die. I don't believe there is a moral to this story.

Losers, Loyalties, and Life

So the Seahawks lost again last weekend. At least, so I hear. I'm not all that enamoured with football, so I neither watched the game nor cared to check on the results afterwards. But many of my coworkers are fans with a capital "F." In such an environment, I can only maintain my peaceful ignorance so long.

This morning while I was flipping radio stations, I caught a snatch of an interview with one of the Seahawks players team members. Don't bother ro ask which one. As you may have gathered by now, I generally zip by sports-discussing radio programs with the same rapidity I might scan past a station in some foreign language. But for some reason, I stuck with this interview for an extra minute--and was surprisingly rewarded with the following question and answer:

"So, how are the people you run into on the street & among your friends handling all these losses?" the commentater inquired of the player.

"Oh, it's tough, you know. Everyone has an idea of what you could change--should change," the player chuckled, "I have to deal with myself, even. I mean, I have ideas of things I think we could change. But I have to tell myself, 'that's not my job. ' I'm not the coach. I'm a footabll player on a football team. My job is to do what the coach says, the way he says it, and inspire my team members to be on board with the coach's game plan. That's it."

I wonder how much simpler my life would be if I never tried to infuse my own ideas into the game plan God lays before me? If I focused more on the goals of the moment and less on my (not so) brilliant strategizing for the future?

As John Quincy Adams so aptly summarized, "Duty is ours. Results are God's."

Why?

Picture to yourself a deformed slinky. The kind that has long descended from stair-dancing status to why-am-I-keeping-this status. The kind that seems to exist solely frustrate the occasional attempt to untangle its coils and restore its former glory.

The cord on my work phone looks something like that deformed slinky. Vexing, I call it.

"S" Is For Stumped

(The conversation herein communicated is reproduced from an actual interchange that graced our family conversation not more than two days ago. Names have been withheld to protect the...guilty?)

Progeny 1: "Mom, have you ever eaten sockrot?"

A startled silence fell across the family circle, lasting for some three seconds. The party addressed was appropriately the first to come back to life.

Mom: "Uh...I don't think so....I mean, not on purpose...uh, not that I know of..."

Confusedly sensing that the question hadn't been clear, Progeny 1 hastened to clarify.

"It's a vegetable."

The neighbors could no doubt have heard the combined creaking and wailing that ensued as each person present felt their mental wheels go into high gear.

Sockrot. Vegetable?

Sockrot? Vegetable.

Vegetable (edible?). Sockrot (sp?).

Upon the brilliant mind of Progeny 2 the light suddenly dawned.

Progeny 2: "Sauerkraut! Have you had sauerkraut, Mom???"

Remember to Remember

I suppose my re-association with fall's crisp cool air, variegated foliage, shadowed sky, and saturated grass is to blame for the recent insistent intertwining of memories with my consciousness. As the world says a brilliant farewell to each year's verdancy, I find myself pulled into a remembering that no other season induces. Perhaps it is because much of my deepest personal growth has occured during fall and winter seasons.

As the yellow leaves cling tenuously to the trees outside, I remember the acorn tree that flourished in full view of the bedroom window of my childhood home. Always the first to turn, it was synonymous with fall for me. Fall, with its afternoons of leaf-raking with my family, hats and mittens, board games & legos, and school routine. The family withdrawal to indoor coziness meant a special kind of security to me.

With the falling rain, I remember my early teens. We heated our home with a fireplace insert. I remember the chilly hours of stacking cords and cords of wood while rain dripped & I kept a wary eye out for spiders. I remember hours of watching the flickering flames, interspersed with reading and writing pages and pages and pages of reflection on life.

With the shadowed sky and early dusk, I remember the October days when we first moved everything we owned into storage, with the exception of our suitcases and a little food. When the lights romanticize our neighbors' warm family rooms before their shades are drawn, I remember what it felt like to live through a winter in a one-room shelter we could not call home. I remember dim days of physical & emotional pain when I wondered how my physical ailments would effect my future dreams. And then when I knew how it would effect them.

As the wind picks up, I remember two years of rural living in what I like to think of as our Swiss Family Dwelling. The wind whipped both frequently and strongly through the trees around us and I frequently awakened to its fury. I remember the drawing closer together times our family had as we braved the wind & frozen ground to put grass in. I remember the walks to and from the nearby beach and the nearer church.

I remember, too, the shift in wind direction that meant fall had come to the Oregon coast. I remember the road trip we took there along a rushing river, with the mountains and their dozens of colors reflecting in the water below us. I remember our move there on a brilliantly blue and gold fall day, and our move back to Washington on a drenching, gray winter day. And I remember the changes each of those moves meant in my life.

Intermixed with the practicialities of wind & weather, I remember with a smile the times when I wanted to skip & dance & sing in the knowledge that God was on His throne. And I remember also those times when I cried & clung somehow, dimly to a faith in God's kingship though I couldn't seem to trace His Hand anywhere at all.

Then, as I remember, I always see clearly what I best love to know. Regardless of its color, each memory is pressed with the clear fingerprints of a God Who has promised that the earth will not outlast its seasons, that He will complete the good work He's begun in me, and that He will not change. I don't believe in clinging to the past or living in its memories. Nonetheless, I'll consciously store these memories up for semi-frequent review. Within them I find yet another promise that my life won't outlast His faithfulness.

In Forthright Defense of a Social Dissenter

It was a friendly acquaintance's chipper voice on the other end of the phone. She was suggesting that since I'd be in her area, we should go to Starbucks and enjoy a social half hour.

"We can go get coffee," she proposed, "wait, do you like coffee?" then, without a pause, "Ha,ha! Of course you do! You're from Seattle, after all."

___

The city to which belongs the suburb of my nativity has shaped my existence in many ways. I am more likely to drink water without than with ice. I don't carry an umbrella. I use my parking brake and I know which way to turn my wheels on a hill. I intimately understand the cons of growing blackberries in my yard.

But all Seattle, suburbs, and nativity regardless:

I. do. not. drink. coffee.

You understand the risk I take every time these words cross my lips? Understand that I have no wish to move & have every wish to preserve my life? Here, in the land where the Starbucks to block ratio is approximately 2 to 1. Here where most people consume 2-7 cups of coffee a day. Here where coffee is served at (almost) EVERY social occasion regardless of the level of formality or the time of day.

In self-preservation, therefore, I offer publicly my story. When I was about four, Grandma gave me a taste of her coffee. It tasted horrible. I decided both consciously & seriously that I would never drink coffee. Fast forward to adulthood. I know coffee is bad for me. I feel no need to convince myself to like something that is not good for me anyway. I do not drink coffee. The end.

I can count on three fingers the drinks I've ordered from Starbucks in the last five years. But I don't believe in passing up on pleasant chats with friendly acquaintances.

___

"Starbucks sounds great," I heard myself say.

I truly enjoyed my small-as-it-gets cup of hot cocoa.

Earth To Katie

After fourteen years of close interaction, one would think that I would know Abigail very, very well. In fact, I do know her very, very well. Just not well enough to....

Sunday night, I was getting ready for bed & Abigail was talking. About the arrangement of our bedroom. About how she was getting tired of it. About how she wanted something different. About how much neater and more spacious it might look in some other set-up. About how refreshed she would be made to feel by a new arrangement. About whether I would mind.

I've never been one who felt extremely motivated to change anything that was working just fine, but...yeah, I supposed if it made her happy we could at least think about moving things someday.

I left for work early Monday morning and didn't return home until after an evening training session I attended. It must have been about ten-thirty p.m. before I reentered my room.

What was to me an unmotivated willingness to "think" about moving furniture "someday" was to Abigail all the sisterly approval she needed. Every last scrap of furniture and decor was moved and re-arranged. After I managed to reclose my shocked mouth, I had to laugh. I remembered she had even asked me to leave my room extra neat that morning. How could I know her so well & still miss all the warning signs that could have prepared me? And could I find my bed in the dark, strange looking room without stubbing my toe?

Candid Moments

I enjoyed a long weekend break from work to spend helping host a conference for 12-17 year old girls in our area. It was altogether precisely the sort of thing I would have loved at that age...and the encouragement to focus above all else on a relationship with the Lord & a commitment to please Him no matter what echoes one of the themes of my own walk with the Lord.

~~~~~~

My car battery died last Saturday. I was very tired when I discovered it and my body was so desperate for food that my mind had shut down. Consequently I unlocked my trunk to find my jumper cables & then couldn't find my key. Five or six tired, hungry people searched wildly for my key for five minutes before it was discovered sticking calmly out of the trunk lock.

Duh!

~~~~~~

One of the speakers who flew in from Texas for the weekend conference is an old friend of mine. Obviously, given the distance between us, we haven't spent a lot of time together. It was quite pleasant to spend Monday together.

~~~~~~

I was assigned to help with a jewelry class while at the conference last weekend. If you know me, you may start laughing now.

I was rescued from the class shortly after it began by a call for help in another area. I promise the person who called me away didn't know how much usefulness they were NOT depriving me of being in the jewelry class. Had they known it, perhaps I would have been called away earlier!

~~~~~~

I learned Friday evening that while I had been away for the conference, my family created an amusing spectacle for the neighbors.

"Katie," John informed me, "Dad and Mom spent the afternoon duct-taping their sheets."

"What?" I responded incredulously, "Are they planning to sleep in duct-taped sheets!?"

It turned out it wasn't the sheets. It was the feather comforter. The feather comforter, a gift for my parent's wedding, has lived the last decade only by reason of sentimental strength. We've learned to handle it with care when making the bed, since shaking of any kind emits choking clouds of feathers into the air.

At one time, Mom tried restitching the holes in the comforter, but found that she would have had to restitch nearly every seam to effectively close every hole. Besides, the fabric was too weak to hold a new seam.

John was happy to draw a rather amusing mental picture for me of this newest comforter-fixing venture.

Dad and Mom hauled the comforter outside to the front grass. They shook it vigorously, covering the front grass with fluffy white feathers. The shaking was an attempt to find the holes, which they then duct-taped together.

The electric-meter-reading-guy came just about this time. Imagine the sight he beheld. A white front lawn, and a duct-tape armed group clustered around a twenty-five year old king size comforter.

"Is there a spider in there?" he finally inquired.

I deduce he has spent time around females.

~~~~~~

A good friend & faithful reader of my ramblings here asked after my mop doll when we were visiting together last weekend. She did not, however, agree to give my poor abused doll a loving home.

Fortunately, the sincerity of her friendship has been proved in many other ways before. Therefore, I cannot doubt it now...

~~~~~~

Peter celebrated his 10th birthday this week. For the first time in 22 years, my parents don't have a single-digited child. Now isn't that sad?

~~~~~~

My room at this moment is a royal mess & I am emotionally divided between a distaste for tackling the requisite task and a growing guilt for continuing to put it off.

Bad to Worse

It was cold this morning.

I discovered that my car windows were fogged up when I was ready to go to work.

I did not have extra time, so I needed to defrost the windows quickly.

My heater is broken and my car does not properly defrost.

I rolled down my windows so I could see.

I accidentally opened one of the rear windows instead of the front one I had intended to open.

The rear window is broken and rolls only one direction.

Down.

I appeared in the office with insulated leather gloves and proceeded to wear them for the first fifteen or twenty minutes of work while typing, answering the phone, sorting paperwork, and preparing a mailing.

I was the subject of some amusement to my boss.

I did not achieve a feeling of amusement equal to that which I induced in others.

Never Mind Me, Just Love My Dolly

For Sale:

One mop doll, free to loving home.

Love Me, Love My Dolly

Allow me to recommend that you keep a handkerchief handy. The tale you are about to begin is a very sad one. But it wasn't always sad. No, not always sad...

This story begins long ago on a cheerful day on which my dear Grandmother presented me with a doll made out of a mop head.

I never gave her a name, or if I did I have long forgotten it. Simple though she was, I thought her rather cute. I brought her home and fondly set her upon the top of my bed post where she lived mostly undisturbed for a very long time.

Undisturbed, indeed, until a few short months ago when I decided that she could be set to be better advantage if I gave her a summer resting place upon the top of the wood stove in my room. This was, I think, the first time my darling Brothers and sweet Sister deigned to notice her existence. Alas! She & I have both lived to rue that day!

My lovely brothers and sisters quickly concluded that my poor simple, innocent doll "looked silly" sitting down. Their words, hastily spoken, were even more hastily acted upon. When I was out of the room they "improved" her appearance by standing her up. The "improvement" was more than dubious since she has no legs to stand upon...

The weeks that followed were a trial to all concerned. I never entered my room without sitting my sweet doll back down comfortably and gracefully upon the stove top. I never left the room without a brother or, mayhap, a sister setting my poor doll awkwardly back up. I reentered my room always to set my sweet doll back down comfortably and.... I think you understand. Already, I know your tears are forming! Poor! Why, she was more than "poor"--she was altogether abused!

The worst was yet to be. No sooner had my cruel siblings realized I would not stand for such abuse, and that their every attempt upon my doll's comfort was thus foiled, then they resorted to stronger methods of making their spite known!

I arrived home one day and noticed to my surprise that my lovable doll was sitting comfortably and gracefully just as I'd left her. Pleasantly going to give her cheer, I discovered....

Now, yes, now! your tears may fall unchecked. I cannot always be on guard, and though my lovely doll now always sits most gracefully...it seems she'll never rest again. No matter how frequently I extract the sword from her face, her arms, her heart, or from underneath her, it reappears again. How can I protect her against such malevolence as this? And where now may we hope for comfort, my dolly & I?

To Entreat

I've been thinking about "entreaty" because it is one of the definitions of supplication and supplication is what God commands me to do for "all men" in I Timothy 2:1.

I've been thinking about how much urgency and passion is implied by words like "entreaty" and "supplication"

My prayers for myself are sometimes urgent. Sometimes, too, for a friend they are urgent.

"All men" is another matter entirely. For those same "all men" for whom Christ lived and died, for the "all men" who are dying without Him daily, for "all men" whose time on earth is the only heaven they can expect....for these, "entreaty" is almost too weak a descriptor of the urgent prayers I should make and it is far too strong a representation of the prayers I actually do offer.

Note To Self

* Recommend you not commit a crime in the forseeable future. Even if your family doesn't turn in the very recognizable strands of hair you leave all over the house by way of DNA samples, your fingerprints are impressed all over 1000's of envelopes that sit today in insurance offices, doctor's offices, and patient's homes all over the United States.

Caveat Hosti-potis

There is an orange dart with a black head stuck to the window. It has been there for several hours now. I wonder how long it will stay there and whether it will be reclaimed from the window by its owner, stolen from the window by someone other than its owner, or quietly fall off through natural causes. The answer is more personally important than you might think. When the dart is removed from the window, the probability of an ensuing dart war is rather high. No one in sight during such a war may consider him or herself invulnerable.

So if you're planning to visit here anytime soon, I suggest you bring along a helmet, shield, and breastplate. Or at least a dartgun.

To Everything, A Season

August at our house is the beginning of the end. Of the year, that is. In our family of seven, six birthdays fall between August and November. So does Thanksgiving. By the time we've stopped celebrating, it's a new year.

When Paul was a toddler he killed a spider by covering it with shaving cream. When the suffocating spider staggered out of sight, Paul went to report the incident to Mom. "Where's the spider now?" Mom wanted to know. "I don't know," Paul responded, "In hell, I guess?"

Tomorrow, he will be twenty-one.

When Abigail was a toddler she managed to open a two gallon jar of honey. She was enjoying the experience and all its advantages quite thoroughly until she found herself stuck to the floor.

She will be fourteen tomorrow.

I'd miss my toddler-siblings if I wasn't enjoying the grown up ones so very much!

Google & I

I occasionally get hits on this blog from Google searches. It it is rather amusing sometimes to see what people are looking for online, not to mention the unique word combinations that have actually landed individuals at Katie Speaks.

Curiously enough, my most regular Google-referred hit comes from this frivolous post I wrote over a year ago. Individuals in India seem to be especially keen on searching the web for information on my none-too-original title phrase. I finally became interested enough to run the Google search myself, learning thereby that my post comes up as number 50 out of 501,000 results for the phrase in question.

I've been learning more about the writing industry lately, and I was amused to discover that many professional writers are now expected to master what amounts to a new science called Search Engine Optimization (SEO). SEO requires that a piece be carefully composed with enough words pertinent to a search engine crawl to actually generate readers for a website. Now if I actually knew both how that silly post managed to hit #50 for that search and why anyone would care, I might have something for my resume.

And Life Goes On

I remember reading once a fantasy/sci-fi book with a "mind control" theme In the story, there was an "It" that had captured the minds of an entire village. The subjection of the village was illustrated by all the children coming outside at exactly the same time every day to "play." They each had a ball and they would bounce their balls simultaneously for a pre-specified amount of time before simultaneously catching their respective balls and going back indoors. The adults of the shadowed village explained to visitors in a monotone that life was better with "It." There was nothing to fear because everything about their past, present, and future was entirely known and predictable. There was nothing to fret about because there was never a decision to be made.

My life is not like that.

For one, I don't suppose I could bounce a ball more than a dozen times consecutively without losing it. And I've had a healthy pile of decisions and uncertainties to wade through.

As you know, I've been facing a few decisions just lately. In case you were curious, I'm employed now part time with a medical billing firm. And I have a car. Also an amazingly incredibly trustworthy God and nothing whatsoever to complain of.

Just Today

I woke up this morning at the perfect time to be ready for an early morning appointment. Early for me, that is. I generally don't make pre-8:00 a.m. appointments if I can help it.

Later in the morning, I arrived safely and at the perfect time for yet another job interview. I have nearly had more job interviews in the last three weeks than I have in the rest of my life combined. (That statement is only impressive when I withhold the number of my previous interviews.)

Still later, when I was done setting up another interview for tomorrow, Dad said he only wished he could get interviews as easily as I seem to be able to. I reminded him that my goal really isn't to get interviews.... If thou hast enough interviews to qualify thee for Most Popular Applicant 2007 and still havest not a job, thy interviews are as confetti in a rain storm. Ah well. I don't suppose I would even be considered for Most Witty 2007, so I might as well compete for Most Popular.

This afternoon, I curled up on my bed for a few minutes and read about the early days of NASA and the day-to-day life of a NASA mission controller. Gene Kranz helped pioneer America's space program from the beginning--and sat at a control console through the Apollo missions and beyond. I found myself fascinated by the world of mission control and its racing heart throb of stressful activity that drove America onto the moon.

It alternately dripped and poured down rain all day today. Really, it has been the wettest summer of my recent memory. 'Tis fortunate that I love the rain. Speaking of summer, it is almost gone. Even as I type, I can glimpse a suddenly-yellowing maple tree from my window. Some of it's extremities are painted already in...brown. (Much as I'd like to, I simply can't make myself call it gold.) 'Tis fortunate I love fall.

It is almost time for dinner now. We are having soup and I can smell it. Soup, I think, was invented on a rainy fall day.

Not so very long ago, I sat down to write here. At first, I was looking only at a blank screen, thinking of various topics I might reduce to black specks on your computer screen. I was having trouble deciding between them, though. Then Abigail came by and offered her assistance.

"Write about me," she said, "talk about how nice I am."

Well, she is.

Thank You

...for all the comments you will leave when you find out that today is my birthday. :)

The Million Dollar Question

If I had a million dollars...

I would hire a chauffeur. A super extra-special, extremely practical, directionally sound, mechanically inclined chauffeur. Bonus points if he likes talk radio.

Then again, a chauffeur might take some of the variety out of life. He could effect my reputation for being the kind of person Things Happen To. And he would definitely eliminate some of my continuing education.

I've always been inclined to vehicular adventures. It dates back to my learner's permit days when my brother begged, "Let Katie drive, she's so much fun! She goes 'aah!'and then SLAMS on the brakes!" My first car was a five speed manual transmission. I used to joke about carrying medications with me when I was driving to treat my parents when they had their certainly inevitable heart attack. They didn't laugh.

By the time we moved to a metropolitan area for a short period of time two years ago, I no longer jerked and squealed my way down every road. But I had managed to acquire a new reputation. My always eloquent brother summarized it when he smilingly informed me it was fun to drive with me because he always got to see new places. This was in reference to my exceptional skill at wandering confusedly through locales far distant from those I wished to visit.

Nor have my adventures with cars ended with sudden stops or directional jumbles. In the last three years, I have driven not one but two cars down to their final moment.

Last Friday, since I haven't yet replaced my own car, I drove Paul's car comfortably to the grocery store. The startling racket it made when I tried to start it back up again and go home left me confident in deciding not to drive it home. It also left the ice-cream melting while I patiently waited for someone to come pick me up (yet again!). I have considered carrying a book with me everywhere from now on for emergency purposes...at least I'd have something to do while waiting in obscure places for kind family to come and rescue me.

I've learned, over these last few years, what a timing belt looks like. Radiator, alternator, battery, motor, clutch...one by one I've added basic information to my sketchy knowledge base. As of last Friday, I know a little bit more about starters. Slowly, in the most torturous way possible, I am becoming familiar with what a car really looks like underneath it's deceptively simple shell. Just as I am tortuously becoming familiar with Seattle and its every (single) suburb.

My lovely friends and kind acquaintances are always kind and helpful in their suggestions. At the moment, they are recommending GPS and a bicycle.

I think I'd settle, after all, for that qualified chauffeur.

I Am Not Like This (Am I?)

Usually, normal housework and dishes get done without a wrinkle in our harmonious household.

Really.

Sometimes, they don't.

As the frequent (NOT self-appointed) sibling Mediator in Chief, I sometimes hear from the dishes team.

"Katie, who should wipe the counters? The person who washes dishes, or the one who dries them?" "Katie, who should clean the stove?" "Katie, who puts fresh butter in the dish?"

My all-time favorite was (and I quote): "Katie, who has to close the cupboard after the dishes are put away?"

It had been a while since one of these small turbulences has erupted. But, alas! Our peace was not to be permanent. A couple of days ago, when The Dishes Crew had permission to do the dishes in the dishwasher instead of by hand, they appeared near the end of clean up time, calling my name: "Katie! Who has to start the dishwasher?"

Servant's hearts, I hereby deduce, must be cultivated.

All Said & Done

I need a t-shirt. A t-shirt emblazoned with words indicating:

"I survived July '07"

Oh, I don't mean to indicate that last month wasn't enjoyable. It would take dozens of blog posts to adequately capture a deep contentment and happiness I can only summarize here...silent girls studying Bibles and running tears; laughing children and raucous games; hot meals and hungry tummies; insistent questions and Bible answers; jubilant songs and colorful crafts; midnight sign language lessons and pre-breakfast conducting lessons; silent prayers and souls saved; lemon and honey; frogs, spiders, and high pitched shrieking.

Actually, last month really wasn't "enjoyable"--it was beyond fabulous!

But there is no denying that there were times throughout the month I wasn't sure I could keep putting one foot in front of another. And then there was that red letter day in which I stood on the shoulder of a busy off ramp with a head cold, running late to my parent's surprise 25th anniversary party, restraining my mind from racing to the week of out of town company and Vacation Bible School ahead of me, watching my car steam its life away and wondering where money was going to come from to replace it...

When God wishes to make a point, He has no trouble being unambiguous about it.

I guess as I move on to "the next thing," it's safe to infer that I can't handle life on my own any more than I ever could, and He can handle it just as well as He always has.

To-Do List

1. Staff a local Vacation Bible School.

2. Visit with Grandparents and (lots of) out of town company.

3. Celebrate Dad and Mom's 25th wedding anniversary.

4. Finish putting stuff away from 25th anniversary surprise party.

5. Finish doing laundry from camp.

6. Journal.

7. Sleep. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

8. Recover from cold.

9. Write thank you notes.

10. Assess financial circumstances.

11. Find a job.

12. Buy a new car.

13. Have old car towed to junk yard.

14. Satisfy curiosity and allay concern of all cyber fans with a real-for-sure update as soon as possible.

Brief Interlude

I totally unintentionally woke my sister and I up entirely too early this morning...

By sitting up in bed, holding out my arm conductor style, and insisting, "stand up girls, we're going to sing!"

A pause followed while I oriented my mind--trying to figure out how my whole group of girls could have fallen asleep in the middle of my music class at camp, and why it was so dark...

Abigail too was trying to orient her mind. The plural "girls" puzzled her most so she broke the silence by responding confusedly, "There's only one of me."

Oh.

As you have perhaps guessed, staff training and the first week of summer camp is over. It was good.

We had twenty-seven campers who were exposed to the gospel and learned more about womanhood and Jesus' ways.

In case you were wondering, music class went very well, though "Miss Katie" was stretched to come up with hand motions, learn parts, memorize words and then teach a number of songs in a very short amount of time. Obviously, the aftershocks to my poor brain are still reverbrating in dreamland.

Speaking of which, considering the three weeks of camp, and VBS, and camp, and VBS ahead of me...dreamland is rather inviting!

Please keep praying for the children the Lord will be bringing across my path over these next weeks, as well as others I will be working with and mentoring.

This Crazy Life

It's getting up in the wee hours of the morning. It's pancakes for breakfast and pizza for dinner. It's complaining voices and happy giggles. It's salty tears, salty sweat, and salty swimming. It's rowboats and volleyball. It's songs and laughter. It's Bible study and hungry hearts. It's skits and hilarity. It's preaching and whispering. It's going to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

It's going and going and going until you can't go anymore...and then going some more.

It's where I'll be for much of July.

It's....summer camp!

Lord willing, I'll be sandwiching Vacation Bible School programs with two churches and a wide array of weekend activities between camp commitments.

(It's crazy!)

So if you miss me in July, see if it helps to visualize me applying band aids, explaining why mosquito bites itch, convincing eight year olds to stand in line, raising my eyebrows, teaching music, explaining why Jesus died, cleaning, monitoring bathroom runs, and smiling big.

Oh, and for realism's sake, don't visualize much sleep.

Better than visualizing, please pray for hungry hearts. Some who need to know why Jesus died. Some who need to know how to live righteous lives in this world. And some who just need to be loved.

It's important.

(still) Making Do

Like any good, bad, or mediocre cook, I appreciate the usefulness of a sharp kitchen knife. And like any thoroughly stocked kitchen, ours contains a very lovely knife set. In fact, we have two very lovely sets of different kinds of knives.

The only problem is that as of now, our knife sets are fulfilling very little purpose beyond that of loveliness.

This is your official warning regarding putting belongings in storage for extended lengths of time. Two dull-ish knives have served all purposes from turkey carving to apple paring for two years.... I don't seem to need a whole set any more.

This is a good thing (I think).

On Preconceptions

Among my goals for the summer: make it through a too-daunting list of "serious reads." By "too-daunting" I really mean "too long," but that's normal.

I prefer to read several books at once. So, among other fantastic reads, I've tackled C.S. Lewis's "Screwtape Letters." In addition to joining "Narnia" as the most readable of Lewis's books I've dipped into, I've found a lot of food for thought.

One of the thoughts I keep coming back to is quoted below in the form of "advice" to one who wishes to turn the believer away from God:

"Once you have made the World an end, and faith a means, you have almost won your man..."

Among my thoughts on this book, and this quote in particular, I have come to a deeper understanding of why logic and knowing what we believe and why is so important. No one will, after all, find a voice with any normal, reasonable human being unless there is something that sounds logical in their message. We must understand logic so we can discern between "sounds reasonable" and "is reasonable." And we must understand what we believe because it is possible to believe the wrong thing for logical reasons IF you have started with a false preconception.

That, for example, is why a cultist may teach a system of belief based on the premise that human bodies are vehicles to help us on our journey. As thinking human beings, we must believe something about our bodies. Starting with a philosophical idea of the "correct" view of our bodies, one can easily build a logical sequence such as this:

All human bodies are vehicles.
All vehicles should be dispensed with if a more efficient vehicle comes along. [it's in the economics!]
Therefore, human bodies should be dispensed with if a more efficient vehicle comes along.

The preceding example is a valid logical sequence (syllogism) as illustrated by substituting the words with those in the following:

(if) All cats are carnivores.
(and) All carnivores eat meat.
(then) All cats eat meat.

We know based on Scripture that the idea of a human body being dispensed with at will is wrong. But how many of us, when confronted with the statement, "human bodies should be dispensed with" will begin by arguing that human bodies aren't dispensable? If we do, we risk loss because we are really combating not a single statement but a whole sequence of thought that must be true provided that our premises is true. More wisely in this example, we should identify and take issue with the root premise that "human bodies are vehicles."

Which brings me back to Lewis. How many of the errors we make in Christian life are from our use of false human preconceptions to create a logical sequence in our minds? For example, let's assume that Christians should conquer the world.

All Christians should conquer the world.
The world is conquered by our faith.
Therefore, Christians conquer the world by faith.

We have strings of "conquering verses" to quote and we are ready to prove to anyone that Christians should conquer the world by faith. But, have we examined our root idea? We are saying, after all, that we are responsible for victory over the world.

In fact, though, Scripture clearly teaches that Jesus overcomes the world.

This requires that we redevelop pattern of behavior based on a new sequence of thought:

(if) Jesus conquers the world.
(and) The world is conquered by our faith.
(then) Jesus conquers the world by our faith.

Our new conclusion is not an entirely comprehensive summary either of world-conquering or of faith. But it still dictates a different way of life than our first thought progression. We now realize we are not responsible for utilizing our faith to conquer the world. In fact, we can't do it! He does it! If that's what we understand, then we'd better take world-conquering off our to-do list and move on to doing the things He actually does command us to do!

Where I've Been

As you may have noticed, I've been posting material as promised from my authored archives fast and furiously. Or maybe not.

Last week, I spent a couple of days away when I went to visit a close friend and attend her graduation from a worthy institution of higher learning. Like any two girls of our age and mature, thoughtful (?) character we found it an excellent opportunity to discuss our has beens, is, and (maybe) shall be's.

You don't really want to know.

But I thought you'd like to know that we also found it an excellent opportunity to catch a live theatre production of "Fiddler on The Roof" in which a friend of ours had a part. It made me think of a favorite "has been" of mine. "Fiddler" was the first live theatre production I ever went to; Dad and Mom took Paul and I when we were something like six and seven. I remember how fascinated and drawn into the whole thing I was as people danced, sang, and shouted before my very eyes. I wasn't in the least confused by the plot, but I should have been. It wasn't until several years later that I somehow came to understand that the "matchmaker" was NOT a manufacturer of wooden matches...

From My Past: Testimonies

The earliest writing I have stashed in my files dates from just after my sixth birthday. Several more followed shortly thereafter. I seem to recall drafting them many times before the final product was carefully copied, and also that Mom read and corrected each draft. These carefully composed writings, partialy reproduced here, were stacked between two pieces of purple construction paper and I thought of them as "my journal."

___________
October 1991 (age six)

"My name is Katie.

Every time we had worship [family devotions] God spoke to my heart. When my pastor spoke at my church God spoke, too. The Bible says in Romans 3:23, 'For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.' God said, 'Katie, Katie. You need to accept Jesus.'

Mom told me how to become a Christian. The Bible says in Romans 6:23, 'For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.' I was four years old, almost five. It was June 25, 1990.

I was lying awake in my bed. Mom was up so I went to her room. She helped me to accept Jesus. I said in my prayer, 'Dear Lord, please come into my life.' Then we hugged each other.

After I accepted Jesus I felt like putting fruits in my life. I had a desire to tell others about Jesus. My mind is more clear about knowing what is good and evil. I know I am a Christian.

I hope everyone will get to see this journal so that God's kingdom will be increased.

The Bible says in John 14:6, 'Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father but by me.'"

____________________________
May 15, 1992 (age six)

"One day during our family...[worship time] the Lord caught my attention with a verse out of our daily Psalms. In Psalm 116:14 it says, 'I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his people.' When I heard this I told my Mom, 'I need to do that!' and she described how I could do it. 'I am going to do it Sunday,' I decided.

So on Sunday, March 1, 1992, when I was six and a half years old, my dad and I stood up in front of the congregation at Trinity Baptist Church in Renton, Washington. In the time of invitation I made a public profession that I had become a Christian. Dad added some information about when I accepted the Lord. Then a long line formed of rejoicing people who told me how happy they were for me."

________________________
November 9, 1992 (age seven)

A few months after I believed in Jesus, I developed a hardness in my heart and decided that I would not be kind to my brother, Paul.

At one time Paul asked me if he could have a toy for naptime. I said, "No." This continued for around two months. Every time Paul asked me for things I made excuses so that I would not have to give him anything.

For example, sometimes during naptime I would take out the toy or book that Paul had asked for and play with it or read it. At other times he asked for a toy which I did not want him to have, so I said, 'No.' Then he would ask, 'Why'? I would say, 'Because I do not want you to touch my toys.' I did not know that the toys were God's. Still other times he would ask for a book. I would say, 'No, I love reading,' or 'You don't know how to read.'

At last the Lord convicted me that this was very unkind. So the next time Paul said, 'May I please have a book or toy?' I said, 'Yes!' This made him very happy.

And I got a blessing from the Lord through Paul. This blessing was that Paul started giving me toys for naptime.

By responding properly to the Lord's conviction I am letting God train me up so that when I am older I will not depart from His ways. (Proverbs 22:6)"

_________________________________
December 3, 1992 (age seven)

"I like school the most when we read the Bible or study...[as a family] because I get to sit on a couch with a pillow on each end. Both pillows are the same so it is silly for me to like one more, but I do. I like the left one. One of my brothers likes the very same pillow.

I thought I had a right to sit by the left pillow, so when we sat down on that couch I argued about who would sit by the pillow.

Last Friday, I yielded my right to sit by the left pillow. Today I also purposed to graciously invite him to borrow my toys anytime he wants."

Journey Into My Past

I am on the home stretch of the unpacking, sorting and purging process in my bedroom.

Don't you dare tell me those are "famous last words."

I saved the worst for last, which means I have been undergoing the tedium of sorting through boxes of papers especially over the last week or so. Financial papers. Clipped articles and quotes. Sermon notes. Bulletins and event programs. School papers. Letters. Magazines. Word games played with my brother. And all kinds of doggerel (and maybe a few blots of the more worthy sort) I composed all through my growing up years.

Pity me.

From the day I learned to read I have battled constantly against my tendency to indefinitely save every single piece of paper that came into my possession. I remember when I was seven or eight I would set aside a day every six months or so to go through a desk drawer full of papers and weed the not-so-necessary leftovers of life (gradually) out.

Besides being a die-hard saver of all things paper from the time I could read, I was also a prolific writer from the time I could string together a paragraph. This tendency has given me even more paper to save and more work to do in the last week or so. But I must say that some of the scraps of paper which survived my childhood are good for a laugh--or a sigh.

They may also be just the solution I need to get past my recent "writer's block"...or, more accurately, "blogger's block." The scrawled lines which, mixed generously as they are with memories, give me a laugh may at least bring you a smile. So, if you want a peek into the convoluted functions of my childhood brain visit again soon as I plan to post a wide variety of snippets from the past.

Then again, you may prefer to skip this blog for the next week or two.

Sum Total Of What I Currently Have Worth Saying

These Modern Times

My mouth was surprised today by the latest and greatest in oral technology.

Maybe it's our brand new big-city dentist breaking ground, but then again, maybe I'm just the girl time forgot?

I haven't been to see a dentist in somewhere around six or seven years, so my memories are somewhat dim. But last time I was in a dentist's office, I remember first a long wait in the lobby. (To while away the time, I got to choose between staring at the glass block wall I will always associate with dentistry or reading six month old editions "Highlights for Kids" and "Better Homes and Gardens.") I was eventually escorted into a narrow cubicle, sat down in a plain gray chair, poked for a while, stared at for a few brief moments by an extremely busy man who shot out multisyllabic jargon while a humble assistant hastily scribbled notes on the side, and finally sent home with congratulations on my beautiful smile. I was too old, alas, even to claim a piece of candy for my trouble.

Today, my first toe was hardly over the threshold before I was greeted at the front desk and whisked away to a side office to fill out paperwork. I was inclined to be impressed at the quick service, until I remembered that I was five minutes late for my appointment.

While filling out paperwork, I was offered coffee (!), juice (!), or hot chocolate (!!). This was before a dental exam, with no way to brush my teeth.

I declined.

The next shock was when I was subjected to a rigorous id process--all digitized. A fancy digital camera was used to capture photos of "you, for our records," "your smile, close up," "a bigger smile," "a quick series of close-up snapshots of your teeth from various angles"...that last turned into a ten minute or so ordeal with my lips being stretched in every imaginable direction and even a mirror taking it's turn in the process since the dentist wished to capture a "mirror image of your bite." (!!) All that fuss doesn't even count the xrays.

The digitized xray paraphenalia didn't fit in my mouth as well as the old-fashioned xray film they used to use, requiring them to take and retake the xrays. But in the end they were all lined up neatly on a computer screen in front of me with no processing time required.

I could have cared less. I was ready to be poked and go home already.

("You're sitting on a massage pad right now, would you like that turned on for you?" (!!))

The poking, I must say, was thoroughly old-fashioned. Nothing changed there. The multisyllabic discourse was as thoroughly incomprehensible as usual but the hasty notes of the dental assistant weren't scribbled but typed. When it was all over, I got to see a computerized picture of my mouth, complete with bright red spots wherever a cavity was found.

I was offered a cookie and a water bottle ("room temp or cold?"!!) on my way out the door. Oh, yes, and I was complimented on my beautiful smile. But I think they have to say that, there.

Where We Stand: Candid Conversation

Dad and Katie are in a deep conversation on the subject of theological liberals vs. conservatives.

Peter: "What is a conservative?"

Abigail: "The good guys."

I Bet You Didn't Know....

I was "tagged" with another meme: to tell ten little known facts about myself. Without further ado, here they are. :)

1. I was medically tongue tied when I was born; blessedly it was discovered and corrected in infancy. Nevertheless, my family will tell you that I've been working hard ever since to make up for my early limitations.

2. I've had two different first and middle name pairings. My name was Lauren Michelle for my gestational life. It changed to Katharine Elizabeth on the way to the hospital.

3. My most dramatic accident left me only with three scars and a funny story to tell.

4. One of my least dramatic accidents left me with a fractured pelvis and an embarrasing story to tell

5. I once asked a blind lady what her favorite color was. This falls into the category of embarrasing moments caused by me trying to make up for my early verbal limitations.

6. I do not like to ride roller coasters, I prefer to get my thrills from eating raw lemons.

7. I am highly likely to get literal sympathy pains if someone describes an injury in any detail or if I see someone's injury, however I enjoy murder mysteries and a little detail in that context doesn't bother me in the least.

8. One of my dreams is to someday possess a ship in a bottle.

9. I have a mole on my left hand that I find extremely useful in telling my hands apart. Yes, I'm serious.

10. I love Greenland and all things Greenlandic.

I tag Sara, Abbie, Janel....any other takers?

Let Go (is an incomplete sentence)

I am and always have been a worrying saint. But I am very conscious that those two descriptions don't belong in the same sentence. I can't and don't want to change the saint part. But I'd sure like to change the worrying part.

I think sometimes about the verse in I Peter that commands me to cast my cares upon Christ. A chorus we sometimes sing paraphrases the verse like this, "I cast all my cares upon You, I lay all of my burdens down at your feet..."

That picture of laying whatever worries me at Jesus' feet is one I've carried in my mind for most of my life. It's a picture of letting go. Giving up. Refusing to worry any longer. For each of these concepts, all required by the verse, it is a good picture.

What the chorus doesn't fully illustrate is the second half of Christ's command--the part that is an indirect promise. We give, He takes. He doesn't, after all, stand passively by with an ever-growing pile of my cares at His feet.

No, for He takes it and looks after it from the time I let go ever afterwards...as His own burden. Instead of me. In every way as concerned about its final conclusion as I could be.

And I still go to all the trouble of worrying?

Naturally

"Yes, it's natural."

Those are words I say rather frequently. They are usually in reference to my hair. Sometimes, they are concerning color, sometimes concerning curl. Yes, it's blond. Yes, it's curly. And yes again, it's natural. Usually, the question comes from an acquaintance. Occasionally, it comes from a complete stranger.

Last week, I was exiting the library when I passed a gray haired woman going the other direction. I think I smiled in her direction; perhaps my acknowledgement of her existence was the reason she turned around a second later and called after me,

"Are your curls natural?"

I turned and informed her that they were.

That was all the invitation she needed to tell me Life Story, Chapter XXV, entitled "Curly-Haired Daughter." Curly-haired daughter (CHD) had straight hair until she was between the ages of 10-14. In fact, it was also fine and thin. "Wispy" is an adjective that might come to mind. She had brown hair, chestnut brown hair, "not blond like yours. Brown. Darker than yours."

By the time CHD turned 14, the transformation was complete. Her head was covered with goregous curls, "just like yours." It had also also turned coarse and thick.

From here the story became rather confused. There is a beautician in CHD's family. It is clear that curls are not "in style." (Although I was also informed that none of the celebrities look even a little bit pretty if they don't have just a bit of curl.) CHD has dyed her hair black, straightened it, and cut it just above her shoulders. She looks quite ugly now. In fact, she looks exactly like a witch.

I admit that I have a weakness for listening to people's life stories. People are infinitely fascinating creatures. But sometimes it is unclear how to best respond to some people's admissions. This was certainly one of those times. What should one say upon being informed by an opinionated gray-haired mother that her erstwhile curly-haired daughter looks like a witch?

P&C

...stands for Pomp and Circumstance!!!

Hooray for Dad's commencement ceremony taking place in just an hour! He'll be graduating with a Master of Ministry after eight long years of persistent study while working full time (plus), taking care of his family of seven, and moving eight times!

Yeah, it's been tough sometimes. But I am most awfully grateful for his example of perserverance and keeping his eyes on the goal. And though the goal was always rather larger than a cap and gown, I must say I don't think a dash of P&C will hurt a bit.

(I've been watching "the kids" while Dad and Mom are in Atlanta for Dad's ceremony. Much as I wish I was there, I must admit we've had fun together being here. In case you were wondering, I've denied every request for lemon meringue pie. Some memories are too fresh....)

Gotta' Love It

On days when I am not so much like my heroine, I sometimes use my journal to help me refocus.

As you already know, Monday was such a day. What you didn't know was that journalling was just the escape I attempted.

I went to my room mid-morning and closed the curtain because I don't have a door yet. I sat down on my bed, opened my journal, and wrote my first sentence. That was approximately when I heard John's voice through the doorway. Solitude, alas, rarely lasts long in our house.

"Katie, can I come in?"

"No."

*pause*

"I wanted you to correct my math."

*Katie (rudely) didn't bother to reply.*

It was silent for only a moment afterwards before I heard the remote control trucks start up outside my bedroom. I turned back to my journal, content in the knowledge that John had successfully found something else to do. At least, I was content for a moment....

I had written perhaps a whole two paragraphs when I heard the truck noise slow down and come closer. That was when I saw that one of the trucks was being carefully manuevered back and forth so that it was gradually pushing the curtain open. I rolled my eyes and returned to my work.

I find it relatively easy to cut out noise when necessary. Utilizing my powers of concentration, I was able to ignore the full-scale remote control truck performance that was soon in full swing on my bedroom floor. When I returned to earth, it was to realize that the trucks were gone.

At least, I thought they were gone. A quiet "vroom, vroom" attracted my attention and I looked up again to see the largest truck slowly, cautiously approaching the edge of my bed with a math book, a sheet of math problems, and a pen stuck between the front bumper and the hood.

I corrected his math.

Study In (dis)Similarities

The only parrallel I can think of today between the Proverbs 31 woman and I: we both rose while it was "yet night."

And I went right back to bed!!

Purging

I still haven't decided about the disintegrating pine cones and graying stick, shed from some unknown tree. Nor have I decided about the plain, most ordinary rocks.

I've only decided it's no good being the Queen of Stuff. Most people would probably just call me a pack rat. I prefer the royal title; it sounds so much more graceful.

When the majority of my belongings spent a two year sabbath in a storage unit, I admit that I missed some of it. In fact, I missed some of it a lot. But, really, I missed only a very small "some" of it. Most of it, I quite amazingly lived peacefully without.

Last week I informed a friend that we are settling into our new house and "sorting through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and planning a garage sale." He looked rather incredulous when he responded, "Isn't that the normal thing to do when you're moving OUT?"

Uh, yeah.

But when you successfully survive two years without "stuff" it is rather easier to get rid of it afterwards....

So, lately one of my projects has been sorting through stuff, getting rid of stuff, and planning a garage sale. I hope to cut my belongings down to at least half. I made a good start on my clothes, cutting them down after their retrieval from storage by about 75%. About every item I am trying to ask myself, "Do you want to keep this?" If yes, "How are you going to use this?" If a reasonable answer presents itself, "How are you going to store it?"

A lot of "stuff" is going into the trash and I hope my queenly title is slipping away from under my nose. After all, about all those things "I can maybe use someday"--isn't God big enough to provide a replacement for it if I do need it later? There's a big difference, I'm learning, between wise stewardship and a faithless hoarding of stuff you've never used.

Which brings me back to the disintegrating pinecones, aging stick, and oh-so-ordinary rocks. Eleven and a half years ago we moved away from my childhood home. I can still recall the solemn feeling that overswept me as I went out into the yard all by myself and gathered up a few remembrances of my childhood home to save "forever." I planned to show them to my grandchildren someday. "See, this is a pinecone from the very yard of very house where I grew up..." (I didn't quite foresee the natural disintegration process.)

This memorabilia fails my "keep it" test miserably. Although I want to keep it, I have no reasonable reason why. I really have no conceivable use for it. And I'm not sure exactly how to store it.

But...

I haven't decided yet.

Such is the power of sentimentalism.

'Twill Be Worth It All

Today's mail brought this with my name on it:

It made this totally worth it.

Romans 8 reminds us that every uphill our lives push us into climbing will seem like nothing when we are living our eternity with Christ.

The mail didn't change my life today, but it reminded me that it is a past-overshadowing future I am looking forward to.

Embarrasing Moment

One reason not to:

- Prepare in the dark to go out.

- Stuff socks randomly into your drawer.

- Break the crossed-legs-bent-at-the-knee rule.

- Wear shoes and socks when sandals or hose might do.

- Leave the house in too much of a hurry to look in the mirror.

The reason?

You may notice part way through the Wednesday service at church that your feet are adorned one in a black and one in a navy blue sock.

(Don't be surprised if the discovery causes you some dismay. And please don't say I didn't warn you. )

Love Me, Love Me Not

Some people might label it eavesdropping. I prefer to call it "listening" and I count it (modestly) in my (modest) array of skills. I can stand in a room full of people, pick out a person I'd like to listen to, and tune into their conversation. Everything else in the room dims into background noise, and I can usually follow every word of any conversation I prefer. This is a very dangerous skill to have, for reasons you might prefer not to know.

It didn't take much of my skill to catch part of the discussion flying around my table at a recent potluck. I even shouldered my share of the conversational burden. But at some point I rather suspect my listening radar took off on some tangent and when I came back to my own particular conversation I heard a friend describing the following excerpt from a movie she'd watched:

Character 1: "I love you."

Character 2: "Love me? How can you? I do so many bad things. I don't think anyone should love me."

Character 1: "You don't understand. I love you. And when I choose to love someone, I don't get the option of loving them in pieces. I love you. Or I don't."

This conversation took place a week and a half ago. I've been ruminating on it on and off ever since. I've reflected that this--the love described--is the love God has.

You might take me by way of example. He could have broken me in pieces, seen how my unloveliness overwhelms me at every turn, and decided I wasn't worth the trouble and discomfort. Loving me, after all, means loving someone with acne and jagged toenails. It means loving someone who rarely gets anything done without a to-do list and a deadline and experiences a high frequency of burnt toast. It means loving someone who snaps at her brothers and sister when irritated and whines and complains when asked to do a task she doesn't prefer. It means, worst for Him, loving someone who once hated Him and who now goes through long periods of time where making herself talk to Him is a chore.

His eyes are wide open. He knows all this. And, with a typical, human, piecemeal love, He could have decided, rightfully, that loving me was too thankless a task.

But He didn't.

His love doesn't compartmentalize.

And I think I have an excuse for feeling uncomfortable when I see a beggar on the corner? Grumbling at the guy who cuts me off in traffic? Yes, and snapping when irritated, whining when inconvenienced, and dragging my feet to my prayer closet?

I have not yet learned to love.

To Please The Masses

Cookies. Gotta love 'em.

I was calmly making lunch when one of my brothers recently suggested a cookie baking afternoon. Unexpectedly, a huge wave of some indefinable something washed over me and I had a Need to make cookies. Right then.

Maintaining with difficulty my calm exterior, I inquired if we had the proper ingredients for baking. I ran over a mental checklist of the requirements for concocting my favorite recipe. Then I decided that we had everything we needed except shortening.

With butter for a shortening substitiution, I figured we would do very well. My brother, who had been scurrying about the kitchen searching for ingredients, asked--again--if cookies would be the order of the afternoon.

I shook my head in denial and got out the bowl and mixer. My Need was to be satisfied immediately!

Butter. Sugars. Eggs. All was well.

Baking soda. Salt. Baking powder. Uh, baking powder?

It was not to be found. Lost amid the still-looming towers of boxes that characterize our lives.

I searched online for an appropriate substitute. I was rather too deep into the recipe to turn back. Deciding that cream of tartar and soda would make an adequete substitute, I turned back to the bowl. For the first time, though, a doubt entered my mind as to the perfection of my final result.

My doubts only intensified when I realized that I couldn't find vanilla either. Nor was I exactly comforted by google's #1 hit on the search "substitute for vanilla." These were the words that met my eye....

"Vanilla extract is the simple, everyday kitchen something that you should have on hand for adding flavor to baked goods and desserts. There certainly is nothing simpler that you are likely to have on hand to take its place."

A little further research suggested substituting maple syrup. Unwilling to leave out the flavoring altogether, I grudgingly measured the syrup, wishing it were not too late to reduce the sugar in proportion.

The saddest of all my reflections, having appropriately mourned some of the flattest cookies known to man: I don't even know which substitution to blame for the failure.

It doesn't much matter. I mourned, after all, alone. No one in this corner of the world is inclined to grumble at anything that starts with a C., ends with an E., and has chocolate chips in it.