In Love With Hope...

Possibly one of my biggest design flaws (not counting thunder thighs) is that I truly imagine the world can be perfect.

Logically speaking, I should know better.

I mean, it's not like I don't notice the brokenness around me. I see it every time I turn on the television or read news updates on my computer. I see the irrefutable evidence while driving through my city. I've experienced it within in my own family, within my own heart.

Yet I can't seem to stop myself from imagining that if we all just tried a little harder, loved a little deeper, prayed a little more, then all the suffering would go away. Little children would never have sad eyes. Friends would never be lonely. Sons and daughters would not march off to war. Families would never break apart. Our minds and our bodies would always be healthy.

And then the first of the month rolls around, and my rose-colored glasses are ripped right off my face.

***
Every 30 days I spend time with some very special patients. These are not typical physical therapy patients, in that they are not expected to make significant progress in functional ability. Ever. All are far enough along in their varied disabilities that functional recovery would require nothing short of a miracle. They are referred to by insurance as "maintenance" patients.

Every 30 days – whether I need it or not - I get a heartbreaking reminder that there will always be suffering and brokenness among the oh-so-mortal people who inhabit this oh-so-mortal planet.

And every 30 days, I am humbly reminded of just how perfectly God uses broken people to inspire our broken world. To inspire me.

***
One of my favorite patients (ever!) is a man I will refer to as Joe. He is a total quadriplegic due to the debilitating effects of a progressive neuromuscular disease and has been primarily bed-bound for the past 15 years or so. Joe is able to operate a wheelchair by using an adapted chin mechanism. His chin, his eyes and his mouth are the only parts of his body Joe can move.

As you might imagine, speech is very difficult for him. Joe's vocal cords have become so weakened that he can barely be heard above a whisper. Much of our conversation involves lip reading on my part. And since I suck at lip reading, I very often try to jump ahead of him and wrongly anticipate and interpret his words. He is forevermore patient with me, smiles, and repeats his words over and over until I finally get what he has to say.

And boy, has this guy got a lot to say.

As the owner of a brilliantly quick mind and a wicked sense of humor, he is overflowing with conversation each time we meet. Every time I see him, he has a list of questions that he has saved up for me regarding his disease or a particular topic of interest. These exchanges have somehow morphed into a bit of a game between us. Instead of giving him complete answers to his questions, I always leave him with ‘homework’ to discover the answers on his own and report to me upon my next visit.

I usually forget the topic, but Joe never does.

***
As I walked into his room last week, he couldn't wait to tell me how many muscles comprise the hamstrings and took a great deal of time to painstakingly name each one. I sagely nodded my head, hoping he wouldn't guess that not only had I forgotten about the homework, I had also forgotten the name of that pesky Semimembranosus.

After we had stumbled our way through the hamstrings discussion, I removed Joe's Dallas Cowboys slippers and began exercising his withered legs. I soon noticed that he had grown uncharacteristically quiet.

“What’s up, Joe? Are you feeling bad today?” I asked.

“No. I’m ... okay.” He whispered. “It's Mom. She ... she has ... cancer. Must have ... surgery.”

[Joe receives daily provider care and lives at home with his Mom. Together they have forged a dynamic duo that not only triumphs over Joe's disabilities, but has also carried each other through the recent loss of his Dad.]

“I'm sorry, Joe. I'll put your Mom in my prayers. Are you scared?”

“Yes, I ...” was all Joe could manage before his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak again, but conversation became more and more difficult.

I sat down beside him on the bed, straining with everything in me to understand his trembling whispers.

“She ... she ... she doesn’t. Deserve. She doesn’t deserve this.” He finally replied.

“No, Joe. She absolutely does not. And you don’t deserve it either. Life really sucks, sometimes. But you know what, Joe? Everything is going to be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. We just have to hang on, buddy.”

“I ... like ... that. Will ... do that.” Joe said, with a shadow of a smile.

“And you know what? Maybe old Nostradamus and those Mayans will be right and the world really will end this year.”

“Be ... okay ... with me.” Joe said, really smiling now. “Ready for ... a new ... body.”

“Ah, Joe. Won’t that be great? I mean, yeah, I'll be out of a job - not much demand for physical therapists in heaven - but I'm good with that. I plan on spending my days floating on the clouds and eating red M&Ms. And watching you run, of course.”

Joe rested for awhile, obviously deep in thought. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the unfairness of life. And more than a wee bit angry. Angry that even with a buttload of faith, sometimes life really does seem to be TOO hard. TOO sad. TOO much.

“Thanks ... for prayers” he whispered.

“You’ve always had my prayers.” I replied. “I just need to pray harder for your Mom.”

***
And so I have.

Certainly not because I know God will do what I want Him to do. I pray because I trust God to do what is right.

It's not about getting heaven to do my will. It's about aligning myself to God's will.

And God's will for me is clear.

Clearly, He doesn't want me to get lost in my imaginings of a perfect, unbroken world.

And clearly, He is not a big fan of my snazzy rose-colored glasses. He never ceases to knock those glasses off and force me to look deeply into the eyes of suffering. But in doing so, I learn to trust Him more. God is clever that way.

He's selfish, too. Because God doesn't just want all my faith and all my trust. He also wants me to put all my hope in Him. Somehow He knows - God knows - that if I miss seeing the brokenness, then I will miss the hope.

****
Joe understands hope. His body failed him years ago. Yet he has always trusted that Jesus will not.

I bent to hug him before I left. “Keep the faith,” I whispered in his ear. “God is good.”

“He ... is.”

As I turned to leave, I heard Joe finish his sentence:

“... my ... Everything.”

***************************************************

I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked God for health that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for,
But everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself,
My unspoken prayers were answered.
I am among all men most richly blessed.

THE CREED FOR THE DISABLED (Written by a Confederate Soldier)

WHAT CHRISTMAS MEANS TO ME -or- Why I Love My Brother-in-Law

Nobody does Christmas like my loud and boisterous Cooper-Haney family. Our celebrations are chock full of traditions and extravagant food. (We’re full of crap, too, which makes the revelry all that much more fun.)

This is the third year for our newest tradition – a hearty game of Dirty Santa for the Big Kids. With a $10 gift limit and an obnoxiously creative group of dysfunctional adults, the gifts always range from the ridiculous to the sublime...from Dusty’s thrift store hairless baby dolls to Dale’s handcrafted truck testicles:


As fate would have it, my dear sainted Mom was the schmuck who ended up with the gonads. She lifted them out of the brightly decorated Christmas sack and held them aloft with a questioning look on her face. There was a moment of collective silence before I loudly asked, “Okay…who gave Mom a set of nuts?” Nobody fessed up. Nobody had to because my older brother Dale was doubled over with guilty laughter.

He somehow convinced our sweet, trusting Mom that they were homemade ‘nunchucks’ --- a Chinese weapon of destruction. She was clearly intrigued by the idea and began to swing the ‘weapon’ round and round, for practice. We finally had to tell her the truth, out of fear that she would be toting them all over town for protection.

Dale has a special knack for creating Dirty Santa gifts. He was also responsible for this masterpiece…


I have never known anything but a Christmas that was bursting at the seams with family and fun, yet I have never done a single thing to deserve such a bounty of love. Could never do enough to be so deserving.

Sure, our family makes a concerted effort to stay close and will do whatever is required to maintain the ties that bind. But really, doesn’t it mostly come down to just plain ol’ dumb luck of the draw?

I know that Jesus doesn’t love me one bit more than the neighbor down the road with a foreclosure sign in his yard or the abused single mom seeking refuge in a homeless shelter. I will never understand the imbalance of undeserved blessings. I can only stay humble in my gratitude and diligent about paying it forward.

When I was younger I naively believed that everyone’s Christmas was just as fun and blessed as mine. It took a melancholy young lad named Dickie to make me realize just how charmed my Christmases truly are.

I was 14 years old when I shared my first Christmas with Dickie. I couldn’t possibly tell you what gifts we exchanged those forty (seriously?!) years ago. I’ve forgotten the gifts, but I clearly remember the uncharacteristic sadness that overcame him during the holidays. Although he never spoke of it, I knew his Dad had died suddenly of a heart attack when Dickie was only 10 years old. It became a familiar pattern during our dating years, Dickie becoming quiet and withdrawn during Christmas, only to breathe an obvious sigh of relief on December 26th and the return to normalcy.

It was many years later that he shared with me the story of his family’s first Christmas without his Dad.


His Mom was still very much in a state of depression, and Dickie and his brother Jackie were both acutely aware of their bleak financial situation. Even so, his Mom made an effort to acknowledge the holiday with a little aluminum Christmas tree bearing two wrapped packages underneath. As the still-grieving family gathered together Christmas Eve to unwrap their gifts, the 10-year old boy was beyond disappointed to find he had received nothing more than a tacky pair of argyle socks. Although his wish list of possibilities was very short, it had never included the possibility of ugly socks. What he had really wished for was a pair of super spy x-ray glasses.

The forlorn young boy feigned sleepiness to escape and hurried upstairs to his room, wanting nothing more than to put the unbearably sad evening behind him. He turned out his light and crawled into bed, knowing full well it was hopeless to wait up for a Santa that would never come.

As he lay silently staring at the ceiling, he was startled by the sound of heavy footsteps clomping up the stairs, accompanied by a booming “HO HO HO!” He sat straight up in bed as his 15-year old brother burst into his room and turned on the lights.

"HO HO HO! Here’s your Christmas presents little boy!” said Jackie to his younger brother as he threw an old white duffel bag onto the bed.

Dickie scrambled to open up the bag. As he shook out the contents his eyes grew brighter and brighter and his buck-toothed smile grew wider. An army canteen on a belt. A white sailor’s hat.

“But, Jack! This is your best stuff… stuff I’m not supposed to touch.” Dickie said to his beaming brother.

“Nah. I don’t need ‘em anymore. Merry Christmas, brother. I love you.”

Dickie told me that he fell asleep that Christmas Eve with a heart open to the possibility of hope that everything would be okay.

And that was precisely when I fell in love with Jackie Dean Haney. (Actually, he had me at "HO HO HO"...)


The Dickman is now firmly entrenched in our Christmas traditions and plays an integral role. There is no greater anticipation than wondering what gastronomical sensation he will contribute to our yearly dessert contest. Although it’s almost impossible to top his previous wins of Snicker Balls (took forever to chew) and Peanut Butter Pie (took forever to swallow), he always manages to wreck my kitchen while serving up another unforgettable Christmas memory. Unforgettable.


Still, through all the years of craziness and chaos that we call our annual Cooper-Haney Christmas Extravaganza, I occasionally catch Dickie exchanging a brief, knowing glance with his brother Jackie. A silently poignant remembrance of Christmas Past, with a shared appreciation for the Beautiful Mess of Christmas Present.

Which for me, is the crux of Christmas...this brief season of heightened emotions. Those dual threads of sorrow and hope, which weave in and out through our lives, are never more tangible than during the holidays. Sadness for what is lost and an unquenchable hope for what is to come, tightly twisted together much like the brightly striped candy canes of Christmas.

So why is it that instead of slowing down long enough to acknowledge the unnamed yearnings evoked by Christmas, we allow ourselves to be distracted by irrelevant silliness like self-righteous religious posturing and the semantics of political correctness? Why do we allow ourselves to be pulled into the frenzied mass of mace-carrying shoppers furiously swiping maxed out credit cards in overcrowded malls filled with cynically outsourced Santas?

When really, what we should do is simply just...stop. Stop trying so hard to bring on the ‘merry’, and pause long enough to give a respectful nod to the melancholy. I strongly believe we can’t appreciate one without the other. Isn’t hope the only cure for sorrow...isn't giving the very best way to deal with loss?

My understanding of the true meaning of Christmas came with the realization that Santa doesn’t always appear as a fat jolly man in a funny red suit. He might even appear as pimple-faced teen aged boy carrying a duffel bag. And Christmas gifts don’t have to be shiny or new to be the Best Gift Ever.

Haven’t we learned through the years that long after the presents are forgotten, what we hold on to are the memories shared with our loved ones, and the hopeful possibilities of the New Year to come?

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet
ice cold in the snow,
stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so?
It came without ribbons. It came without tags.
It came without packages, boxes or bags.
And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before.
What if Christmas, he thought,
doesn’t come from a store.
What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”
~ Dr. Seuss ~

TRES AMIGOS IN RIO ROJO

(To the tune of "Walking in a Winter Wonderland")

Taco Villa Green Burrito,
Gassier than the Tahoe.
A beautiful sight,
We're happy tonight.
Walking in a winter wonderland.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Missed the sign, we were talking.
Who knew officer was stalking?
A small price to pay for such a fun day,
Walking in a winter wonderland.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In the cabin we can don our lounge wear.
Lock the door and keep the world away.


I’ll say: Who’s ya sista?
They'll say: You are.
Come sit with us and all will be okay.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Later on, we'll perspire.
Hotflashing by the fire.
(Built that fire with our hands. Ha...who needs a man?)
Walking in a winter wonderland.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *


Drove all the way to Questa for our grills.
We three chicks be bad as we can be.
First World problems wouldn't be a big deal,
If we all had an OWNER'S CLOSET key.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Hidey holes and fried chicken.
Pimento cheese, finger-licking.
We ate and we played, the Dream Catcher way...


Making memories in a winter wonderland.

Merry Christmas to My Outlaw Mom

My Mama is an outlaw. Her crime? Defacing books.

Let me count the ways.

When I was growing up, Mom used to keep a small Bible laying on the edge of the tub for reading at the end of her long, hard day. The only problem was that after taking care of three precocious kids and a demanding husband, she very often fell into exhausted sleep while reading, only to awaken at the sudden splash as her Bible fell into the water. There was always something so comforting and endearing about seeing that misshapen and distorted Bible sitting on the edge of our tub.

The truth about my Mama is this: she leaps feet first into every book she opens. The characters become her friends, if not her family. I don’t know how many times I have called her and she has said, “I gotta get off this phone and finish this book. Except I don’t want it to end because the man in this book is so much like your Daddy.” – or – “The mother in this book is just like you Robin, she doesn’t take any crap off anybody!”

You see, reading is not a passive exercise for my Mom. It is a passionate, emotion-filled journey that requires nothing less than her total focus and interaction, which includes cracking book spines and dog-earing pages. But that's not even the worst of her offenses. (I hope the book police aren’t reading this blog or heaven forbid, any of those silent monks who hand-scribe books in cold, damp monastery basements.) Because - forgive her Baby Jesus - my Mom writes in the margins of her favorite books.

Inherit a book from My Mom the Book Vandal and you will find a graffiti trail of her innermost thoughts scrawled with guiltless abandonment on random pages.

In her defense, she was led into this life of crime by her own Mother, my Flodie.

Flodie was a voracious reader who developed the habit of inscribing a distinctive, properly cursive ‘F’ inside the cover of every book she read. She would also give her handwritten opinion of a book with either: 'Very Good', 'Good', or 'So-So'. Furthermore, Flodie demanded that her daughters also initial each book, so everyone would be in the loop. My Mom would initial a simple 'dc' with beautiful flourishes, while my sweet Aunt Betty Bob would initial 'BBM'. I never see that initial without hearing my Mom's laughter as she taunted her sister with “Big Bowel Movement”. (My Mom and I are just classy that way.)

Growing up surrounded by all these book vandals had quite the opposite effect on me. In compensation for my feloneous matriarichal mentors, I chose to break the cycle by willfully obeying all the rules of Book Etiquette 101: I used bookmarks. I never opened a book to the point of spine-cracking. I never used a book as a coaster for my sweaty glass of sweet tea. I always put my book down before I got sleepy in the tub. And most importantly…I never ever wrote in the margins.

And then one day, my Flodie was gone.

We sifted through her belongings, hoping desperately to find something important...something meaningful and comforting. But it was shocking how little of herself she had left behind for us to hold on to. I kept a hairbrush with strands of her beautiful silver hair. I kept a tube of her favorite ‘lips’. And I kept her Bible...her tattered, well-worn Bible. It wasn’t just a Bible she read, it was clearly the Bible she used. I’ve found loads of comfort and wisdom in the pages of that Bible. And an unexpected treasure of a neatly folded tissue tucked between pages in the Book of Luke...

But for Mom and myself, the gifts that kept on giving were the boxes of books we found with Flodie’s initials and particular stamps of approval. Upon Flodie’s arrival in heaven, I spent days pouring over those books...holding each one in my hands...hoping her beautiful hands had touched the very same places as mine...knowing her mind and heart had absorbed the very same words. I was so grateful for the healing, for the sense of connection.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

I sat down to visit with my Mom the other day and as always, I asked about the latest book she was reading.

“Oh, Robin. I found it. It made me cry.”

“Found what?” I asked in complete bafflement.

“I found the passage you outlined in this book. You know...where you wrote 'My Mama' in the margin”.

“Oh, wow, Mom. I did that ages ago. Will you read it to me, please?”

She did not pick up the book. She picked up her journal.

She said “I copied this in my own little book so I wouldn’t have to hunt for it. I’ve read it a million times. Here it is..."

“I feel my Mom touch my arm. And then I am in her arms, where I have always fit, listening to that incredible heart of hers beat beneath my cheek. Suddenly I can feel her strength, as if resilience was something one can gift to another. “

She looked back up at me with tears in her eyes, my own filled to overflowing.

“Isn't that just perfect, Mom? It says exactly what you are to me. And Mom? Other than Bibles or textbooks, that’s the first time I’ve ever written in the margin.”

Three generations of book outlaws. My Mama was so proud.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

NOTE TO MY MAMA:

Merry Christmas to my BFF. I hope you enjoy my little collection of stories. I hope you scrawl your beautiful graffiti in the margin of every single page. And I hope when you are finished, you will turn to the front cover and write 'Very Good', or at least 'Good'. Anything but 'So-So'. Because we all know, life's too short to read ‘So-So’ books.

Love you much,

Robin In Da Hood

Holidazzzzzzzzzzze...

I woke up in a panic this morning with the realization that THIS IS THE WEEKEND BEFORE FREAKING THANKSGIVING!

How did this happen? When did we start celebrating the holidays more often than we used to? I am still munching on leftover candy corn from Halloween, for Pete's sake. (And I won't stop until it's gone, either. That's the least I can do for those starving kids in Asia.)

Yeah, yeah, I know..."Thanksgiving is supposed to be a special day set aside to give thanks for all our many blessings". Blah, blah, blah. Let's be honest...Thanksgiving is SO much more complicated than just giving thanks.

To be clear, it's not all the cooking and meal preparation that bothers me. I can cook a big ass frozen turkey and dinner for 12 with my eyes closed. What truly bothers me is that in reality, Thanksgiving is a day set aside for sinning.

The sin is gluttony. Every single year I push my engorged belly away from the table after a satisfying Turkey Day feast, only to belatedly realize, yet again, that if gluttony is a sin...and a sin is a sin...I just wasted a sin on gluttony when I coulda been sinning with Robert Redford.

Instead of beautiful memories to warm me in my old age, I have five more pounds to squeeze into Spanx for the upcoming Christmas parties.

And it's not just the sinning that makes me dread Thanksgiving. It's also the sudden realization that Freaking Merry Christmas is just right around the corner. Yea, verily, has already begun.

I know it's wrong for me to look upon Thanksgiving as little more than a warm-up for Christmas, but I do. To me, it is the pre-game meal designed to get me through the marathon of Christmas shopping. And if I was smart...I would load my Thanksgiving plate with proper portions of ham and turkey to provide me with the essential nutrients of muscle-building protein to fight the good fight against the frantic mobs of Christmas shoppers. If I was disciplined...I would eat only the complex carbs to give me endurance and enhance my cognition. And most importantly...I wouldn't gorge.

Well. I think we have established by now that I am neither smart nor disciplined. And I am obviously a gorger. Not only do I eat all the wrong stuff...I eat everything on the menu. Even worse, every single year I make the mistake of combining the turkey and ham with the dressing and mashed potatoes, thereby releasing buckets of coma-inducing Tryptophan into my feeble, undisciplined brain.

I have a theory about Tryptophan. I believe Tryptophan is the reason holiday shoppers trample each other to death on Black Friday. I believe Tryptophan is the reason I spend too much money on too many people buying them too many things they really don't need. Tryptophan is the very reason that, as a child, the day after Thanksgiving I would sit upon Santa's lap and waste my One Christmas Wish on something as worthless as a Magic Eight Ball.

Tryptophan makes me stupid, and basically sabotages Christmas. Every single year.

But not this year. 2011 is gonna be different. This year, I have A Plan. This year I will be sure to get all my Christmas shopping done BEFORE Thanksgiving. It's a beautiful plan. I have made my list, I have checked it twice, and I'm proud to say it is comprised of only the most practical and useful gifts imaginable with some...uh, suggestions from my grandbabies.

These are a few of my favorite things on the list:

(1) A Panasonic Nose Hair Trimmer with Rubberized Non-Slip Grip...

...for the Dickman. Because his 3-year old grandson looked up at him the other day and said, "G-Dad, why do you have spiders in both your noses?"

*******************************************************

(2) My G-girl is responsible for this next gift. Not long ago, I was walking with Mandie Lee, when she turned to look me up and down and said, "Gee, MiMi...you are big!" I smiled at her and said, "Yes, I am. I'm a tall girl - much taller than your Mama". "Yeah, you're REALLY tall." she said. "Cause Daddy told me not tell people they're fat."

A Mexican Tapeworm. Guaranteed to help you lose 2 pounds a week, whilst eating all your favorite foods. Then, when you finally reach your Mandie-Lee approved target goal, you simply take an antibiotic to kill the worm and poop it out. What could be easier?

*********************************************************
(3)

Frownies. One box for me and one for the Dickman. You guessed it. Our G-babes told us that our wrinkled foreheads remind them of...wait for it...YODA.


*******************************************************
(4) This next gift I'm really proud of, and I truly believe it will be the Dickman's favorite. It's not that I'm lazy...

(Okay, so I am a Lazy Gluttonous Woman With Lust For Robert Redford In My Heart.)

But this gift should give me all the redemption points I will ever need...

Take that, you Tryptophan.

...AND A HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO ALL MY FAVORITE TURKEYS ♥

What If God Was One of Us...?

Watching the Texas Rangers give away, uh...lose the World Series was painful. Not as much for me directly as indirectly, having to watch the Dickman suffer through the loss.

Even though he claims to be a grown man, this is a guy who believes in the Rangers like a 4-year old believes in Santa Claus. Who takes responsibility for each win or loss based on the precise combination of clothing he wears (or does not wear) during each critical, earth-shattering game.

As the Cardinals hammered home the final nail in the Rangers' coffin, I expected nothing less than wailing and gnashing of teeth from my grown man. (Who, by the way, was decked out like an escapee from the Texas Rangers Asylum for Insane Athletic Supporters.)

Searching for something, anything that would ease the crushing weight of defeat on the fragile soul of the Dickman, I found the following post on Facebook (written by another equally rabid Rangers fan and friend):

“We need to remember, it’s the end of the World Series...not the end of the world.”

The Dickman was neither placated nor convinced.

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

Saturday evening, Dickie and I were sitting in our respective chairs, our heads simultaneously nodding between our computers and the TV, when I suddenly experienced a gentle rocking motion lasting about ten seconds. As I was trying to come up with a plausible explanation for the extraneous movement (sugar rush from that praline? more menopausal hormone trickery? voices in my head throwing a party?) Dickie loudly blurted, “Look at that! The chandelier just started swinging!”.

Phew! I can’t even tell you how relieved I was to know that all the wackiness was not from within. We quickly resumed our ping-ponging between computers and TV to discover aftershocks from a 5.6 earthquake in Okla-freaking-homa had indeed caused the earth to move under our feet, ala Carole King.

Rangers losing the World Series to St. Louis? Oklahoma and Texas having earthquakes? Kim Kardashian getting a divorce? What in the wide, wide world of sports is happening, folks?

If these are not clear signs of the apocalypse, I don’t know what is.

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

Yesterday I was chatting with my 3-year old Grandson before church began. I had my legs crossed and he was riding my foot like a horsey, random questions spilling out of his mouth faster than I could answer them…especially while giddy-upping. Suddenly his eyes popped wide and he said, “MiMi...do you know my Savior?”

As parts of me melted, whilst other parts of me were charmed, I replied, “I do know your savior, Mattman. He’s my Savior, too.”

“Really?!” He asked excitedly. “I didn’t know you knowed him. Why do you call him ‘MY’ Savior?”

“Because He’s my Savior, too. And G-Dad’s and everybody else's. We all share Him. You do know that 'Savior' is just another name for Jesus or the Lord...right?"

Mattman giggled a little and said, “Oh, MiMi, you’re so silly. Jesus is Jesus and da Lord is da Lord.” My friend is just Savior. His name is just Savior. He’s wearing a brown shirt, just like me. Hahahaha! No he’s not, I’m just kidding. It’s not brown...but it does has two buttons like mine.”

[Ahhh...an open door to a teachable moment. Of course I stepped right on in.]

“Well, your Savior could be wearing a shirt just like yours Mattman. He could be anywhere in this room. He could be that little boy over there, or the old man we saw walking with a backpack on the way to church. And do you know what's really cool? I even see Jesus in you. When we love each other, when we help each othet...we are being Jesus.”

“Oh.” He said with a politely dismissive little smile. “Can I go to class now?”

As I was walking him to his class, he suddenly jerked his hand free from mine and took off running towards a little boy waiting for him in the classroom.

“Hey Savior! Do you know my MiMi? She says she knows you!” my G-boy shouted as he ran to his little friend, who was indeed sporting a shirt with two buttons...just like Matthew’s.

He was also wearing a name tag with his name spelled out in big, bold letters: Xavier.

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I’m not sure if my Savior and Xavier are one in the same.

I'm not even sure if God is still a Rangers fan.

What I am sure of is this: it’s not easy being Jesus in this crazy world of ours. A world that seems to be getting more off-balance and crazier by the minute.

And I’m more than a little humbled it took my favorite 3-year old to remind me that I should be much more concerned about walking right past Jesus without seeing Him today, than wondering whether or not He’s coming tomorrow.

OCTOBER-FREAKING-FEST

Here I sit --- wearing the same shirt I slept in last night, so completely behind on laundry that I'm down to my oldest/biggest/holiest panties --- thanking God that the marathon called October only comes around once a year.

Life is busy. I am old. Let's review:

*OCTOBER 15 - GEEZERS GET WILD AT THE AMERICAN LEGION HALL

There is no better time to be had than can be had at a Geezer Gig. These music-filled gatherings are all about connecting with your tribe...some of who were with you in the trenches of high school...all of who love oldie's music and have made a commitment to suffer through joint pain the following morning. (Never mind the fact that the Dickman would rather play drums with these guys than to spend five minutes with Toni Tennille. Without the Captain.)

We were all looking forward to the Fall dance which was being hosted for the first time with the American Legion Veterans. I had convincingly assured the cynical Commander of the local American Legion Hall what a happy, fun-loving, non-violent group of Geezers we are. Apparently, he didn't quite take me at my word. It wasn't so much anything he said, but more of a feeling I got when I noticed the outline of the bulletproof vest under his dress shirt. (Have you ever noticed how hard it is to make eye contact with a guy that's packing heat?) Sheesh.

I've come to the conclusion that each Geezer get-together adds at least three years to Dora B. Haney's life. Even though macular degeneration keeps her from recognizing faces from long ago, her 86-year old feets still know how to boogie.


Otherwise, the only violations that occurred were committed by a guilty few of us who probably watch waaaaay too much Dancing With The Stars and fancy ourselves to be dancing fools. Fools even worthy of a stage name. Okay, okay, 'Urethra and the Monistats' isn't exactly a real stage name, but hey...it fits.

It's only AFTER the dances - when I'm looking at pictures posted on Facebook - that I realize I am not 26 and I really don't look like Beyonce when I'm shaking my tailfeather. In actuality, I look more like my tailfeather got caught in a cement mixer. (Hindsight is not 20/20 when it is your hind that is being sighted.)

***********OCTOBER 14-22 --- BIRTHDAY MARATHON***********

With so many October birthdays in our family occurring within a span of nine days, I've gotta wonder: Whassa going on in Mid-January that puts everybody in the mood for making babies? Speaking for myself and my own donation to Birthday Week, it was a frolicking ski trip to Red River that resulted in the birth of my son Lucas nine months later, 31 years ago.



Now that we're up to five birthdays, we've found it easier to combine them all into one night of revelry and debauchery. Which in our family means lots of ADHD adults who have given birth to lots of ADHD children, eating lots of cake. A sure-fire recipe for chaos.

In a stroke of genius, I hired a Game Truck for the male portion of the ADHD-afflicted family members. For one glorious hour, they sat spellbound with their remote controls, either blowing each other to smithereens (while their babies sat next to them, innocently enthralled by the Mario Bros)...

...or pretended they were Rock Stars, in the worst way. Really. The worst way.

************OCTOBER 22 --- GEEZER ROAD TRIP!!************

No sooner had Jackie sucked all the helium out of the birthday balloons, than we found ourselves loading up the drums and guitars and hitting the road for Mansfield, where the Geezers had been invited to play for a reunion of Borger graduates from the '60's.

Please allow me to share some random thoughts from our Very First Geezer Road Trip:

1) Men's prostates tend to enlarge as they get older, therefore requiring more frequent bathroom stops. I'd like to think this is nature's way of leveling the playing field for us girls and our dysfunctional uteri and tiny bladders. Guys are never happy about this uh,...development, and will expend a great deal of energy trying to convince us that the size of their prostate has nothing to do with the degree of their machismo. Unless, of course, they happen to meet up with John Wayne, sitting proudly astride his horse at a Sonic Drive-In in Memphis, Texas. There's no fooling John Wayne.

2) Texas is large and restrooms are nasty. The sign outside of this station in Bellevue should have been a warning. It might just as easily have read "Don’t even think about using this bathroom unless you have really strong thighs for squatting or ninja-like hovering skills."

3) Mexican food makes me stupid. Even though dinner was amazing, the company sublime, I was so bloated with tortilla chips and overdosed on salsa that in the excitement of getting my picture taken with Awesome Waiter David and some band groupies....

...I left my not-so-smart phone on the table. Apparently the pimple-faced bus boy mistook my sturdy little flip-phone for an eating utensil and scooped it right on into the tub of water for a good soaking. The management was nice enough to give me a bag filled with hope and rice for reviving my stupid phone. The phone never revived, but hey...anybody hungry for rice?

4) Borger Bulldogs Rock. Maybe it's the effect of all the carbon black we inhaled, or all those hours we spent dancing in lines at Teen Town...but nobody knows how to party better than a bunch of Borgans. The cherry on top? The Borger High football team whooped up on the Pampa Harvesters whilst the band played on...

5) Everyone is a winner in the World Series. While Dickie and crew cheered the Rangers on to a win in Game Four...

I spent the evening with one of my favorite Borger Bulldogs solving First World Problems. We finally concluded that we must find us a plot of land and call it The Peace Farm. We already have the cute t-shirt. Now if we can only figure out how to erect a barrier that will keep out anything that destroys our peace. Kinda like a bug zapper, but without causing death or permanent scarring. A force field that will identify say...people that make us want to pull our eyelashes out one-by-one.

*********OCTOBER 31 --- TRICK OR TREAT***********

Do I really need to state the obvious: by the time Halloween rolled around I was done for, depleted, fingers worn to a nub and sitting in a bowl of Ranch dip.

But I was quickly revived by a visit from the Butterfly Princess, Yoda and a short, blue-eyed whiskered male of unknown species.

It was a fun-filled night --- except for the parts where Dickie kept getting mad at the toddling trick or treaters for choosing the Kit-Kat bars over the candy corn. He has vowed that next year we will only hand out pieces of that nasty taffy stuff. You know what I'm talking about - the cockroach candy of Halloween that would undoubtedly survive the apocalypse.

But today...ahhhhh...today is a new day. A new beginning. The date itself is even hopeful: 11-1-11. October is nine whole months away. Plenty of time to catch my breath, wash my undies and figure out what to do with all those uneaten carrots.

Hey! Maybe I can give them to the Dickman while he's watching old episodes of Captain and Tenille...