Driving Miss Crazy While Turning 100,000

I'm not a nerd or a big fan of numerology, but I am a sucker for symmetry.  And milestones.

You can imagine my excitement when I realized that the odometer on my car was just a few hundred miles away from turning to 100,000. Hugely exciting for me, as I've never been able to hold on to a car long enough to witness such a momentous marking of mileage.

My biggest worry was that I would be too busy having road rage or putting on my lip gloss or eating a taco to catch the notable event as it happened. Worse, that I would be alone in the car with no one around to share the memory.

I find it more than fitting that the Big Moment happened on a road trip with my Mom and my husband...two of my favorite people. Oh yeah, and that OnStar GPS chick. Of course that bimbo had to tag along.

We headed out early Thursday morning, optimistically dreading the long trip from Amarillo to Houston, though none of us dreading it with less optimism than the Dickman. (And really, who could blame him? What man in his right mind would look forward to being locked in a car for nine hours with three chattering chicks...a Twittering Trifecta of Insanity?)

A lesser man would have at least brought along ear plugs. But not the Dickman. Armed with only a fistful of 5-Hour Energy Drinks, one lead foot and a determined smile...he bravely set off on the journey.

As the odometer ticked away the miles, my sainted Mama blessed us with her nuggets full o' wisdom...the highlights of which I recorded.

Here is just a smattering of Mama's Ramblings from the Road:

MILE 99741: “Don't you just love Tom Selleck, Robin? I loooooove Tom Selleck. I have always loved him. I mean, I love to just look at him. I don't really want to do anything with him.  Except maybe feel him a little. Don't tell me you don't want to feel Tom Selleck, Robin. Surely there's somebody you wish you could feel...”

MILE 99811: “I've done a few things I'm sure God didn't approve of. Not as many as Dick, but a few.  It's easier not to sin when you get older.  Let's face it – it's just easier to be a Christian when you get old.”

MILE 99896: “Hey Dick? Aren't you proud of me for doing my Spiegels so that you don't have to stop as often for me to tinkle? Robin told me to do those exercises 10 times a day and hold for like...3 seconds.  But I hold 'em at least 64 seconds. Hey Dick? How many times does 3 go into 64?”

MILE #99923: “Hey Dick? You shoulda seen the hand dryer in that bathroom. It sounded like a B-14 taking off. Is that the right number, B-14?  I can't feel my hands.”

MILE #99952: “I would not want to live on waterfront property - even if they were giving it away. I'm scared to get in the water anymore. What if my head went under and my false teeth floated out? I guess I would just stay underwater until I stopped breathing.”

MILE#99993: “Hey Dick...remember when you were 15 and dating Robin and her brother asked you how your hammer was hanging? Did that really embarrass you?”

And then...

And then It Happened.

The clouds parted and the angels trumpeted and the odometer rolled over to 100,000!!!  Even Mama hushed for a moment of silence. It was a brief moment, but Dickie and his bleeding ears truly appreciated the effort.

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Other than hitting 100,000 miles, Mom's funny banter was the most entertaining part of the trip. Right up 'til we passed the city limits of Houston-Freaking-Texas.

IMPORTANT FACT: The Dickman cannot multitask.

That little factoid, coupled with the reality of Houston's highway infrastructure being just a few concrete blocks short of a demolition zone, mixed in with Mama's droning, my back-seat driving and that obnoxious OnStar beeyotch...and you have nothing less than a recipe for disaster.

Envision with me, if you will...Houston, Texas during rush hour. My Mama is talking LOUDLY with my brother on the phone, I'm screaming directions at Dickie because that blasted OnStar chick WILL NOT shut up, while he is staring in utter panic at the octopus of freeways and off ramps looming ahead. But because Dickie is a man and can only do ONE THING AT A TIME...he exits off the main freeway onto a highway of 90-mile-an-hour-bumper-to-bumper traffic.

OnStar robot bimbo says: “You have left the planned route. Do you need directions to get back on route? I'm listening.”

With eyes popping and veins bulging, Dickie squawked, “Yes!”.

“Speak slower, please.  Do you need new directions? I'm listening.” 

“NO!!” says Mom loudly to my brother on the phone.

“Okay.  Your route will be cancelled.” said lil Miss OnStar.

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Everything that happened afterward is pretty much a blur. Suffice it to say that I don't know who was more lost...OnStar or us. All I know is that it took 9 hours to drive to Houston and 2 hours to find our hotel.

On the trip back home, Mom promised to be quiet.  She seemed to have no trouble adjusting to breathing through her new  muzzle.  And we both quickly learned to appreciate the convenient absorbency of adult undergarments.

As for Dickie, he loaded up with whatever comes after 5-hour energy drinks, bought a shiny new laminated map of Texas, and fired that OnStar chick.

Anyhoo...here's to the next 100,000 miles.  And to remembering:  it's not the destination, it's the journey.

“You got to be careful if you don’t know where you’re going, because you might not get there.”

~ Yogi Berra ~ 

LUMPY MIRACLES

M4 has slid into place with hardly a whimper.

I will never get over how one minute they're just a wriggling mass kicking at their Mommy's ribcage and then, PLOP! Here they are…a living, breathing, sweet-smelling lump of love that you could never imagine living without.

My highest goal in life right now is to make him grin.  At anything...the ceiling, the light...hopefully, at me.

 

I struggle for words to tell him all he needs to know about this amazing life he has inherited. Even though he clearly shows signs of being the SMARTEST BABY EVER, he's not talking yet.  So for now, we communicate telepathically. Our conversations go something like this:

MiMi: Hey there, Baby Marcus...welcome to our big, round, wet, overcrowded ball.

M4: Hey, MiMi. Whaddya call this place?

MiMi: We call it 'home', and it takes a little getting used to. There is much to learn about surviving on this strange planet, but don't worry. We'll teach you everything you need to know.

M4: Gee thanks, MiMi. But all I really want to know is this: where did that pretty lady with the milk jugs go?

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Speaking of boobs...

Smack in the midst of grandbabies dropping from the sky, I managed to convince myself that I had breast cancer.

Seriously.

Just before our 35th anniversary trip to Dallas, I felt a strange lump. I tried to blow it off and enjoy the trip, but while cheering on the Texas Rangers, I felt a sharp *snap*  under my breast.  Right there in the Rangers Ballpark, amongst tens of thousands of fans, the underwire in my bra broke apart...ON THE SAME SIDE AS THE LUMP!!! It completely weirded me out. I took it as a sign, tossed out the rest of my Diet DP and resumed cheering with my left arm only.

When we got back home, I promptly called my doc who set me up for a diagnostic mammogram. In the meantime, I imagined all the ways my life would be changed when the doctor said those three words I have always expected to hear, "You Have Cancer". 

I didn't tell anyone about The Cancer. I didn't even buy a new bra to replace my broken one. Why bother?

I was amazingly brave and spectacularly stoic...until I wasn't.

The night before my mammogram, everything came rushing out and spewed onto the Dickman in one big messy pile of emo-vomit.

It had been a bad day of dealing with a rude patient, running out of Fritos before running out of bean dip, fires in Colorado...you get the picture. Poor, unwitting Dickman came through the door and asked something completely inane like, “Did you use my razor to shave your armpits again?”

And I exploded.

“You are so selfish and inconsiderate and I PROBABLY HAVE BREAST CANCER!!”

[Poor guy. Nothing in life prepared him for Menopausal Robin. Nothing in life prepared ME for Menopausal Robin.]

The Dickman was scared sh*tless. Or at least he acted as though he was. (I strongly suspect that when I wasn't around, he was trolling the internet for my replacement. Probably for a woman in perfect hormonal balance who owned her own razor.)

The next day, he called me every 30 minutes. As I pulled up to the clinic, I picked up my ringing phone and answered with, “Will you please leave me alone?” He said, “Never.”

After all the poking and prodding and sadistic squeezing of my poor aching breast, the results were in:

I did not have cancer. I had a fibrocystic flare-up likely due to hormones and/or too much Diet DP.

Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much I REALLY did not want to have breast cancer. As I walked out through the waiting room, I smiled reassuringly into the concerned eyes of kind strangers, realizing as never before the spirit of sisterhood that exists in such a place.

I made it all the way to my car before I started crying. And then...I couldn't stop.

I cried for all the people I've loved and lost to cancer, for my friend Karne's Mom who fought so bravely, for my young colleague Shayla who just completed her last round of radiation, for the ladies (and men) in that waiting room who on that very day, were not so lucky as I.

I knew I had to suck it up and call my Dickman.  I knew if he heard me crying he would think the worst. I pulled myself together, and he answered on the first ring.

“Seriously. Will you just leave me alone?” I said.

“Never.” He replied.

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There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle; you can live as if everything is a miracle.

 Albert Einstein

More Than 50 Shades of Gray

When I make it to church on Sunday mornings, my G-girl is usually the first to jump aboard my lap. Not only is she faster than her baby brothers, she's also more possessive. Which means if they happen to get to me first, she is absolutely not above pushing them off of my lap.

I'm crazy about this tiny force of nature. She has a unique way of tugging on my heartstrings while simultaneously putting me in my place, unlike any other who has come before. Even as she leans in for Butterfly Kisses, she's poking at my fat roll with playful giggles.

Then, because she is made of equal parts sugar and spice, she will sit back and look deep into my eyes, assuring herself that my feelings have not been hurt, that I am laughing with her. Of course I am laughing. I know her heart completely. So much of she is me.

Confident that she has not yet gone too far, she then inevitably goes too far. She reaches up and swipes her fingers across my cheek. Hard. Hard enough to steal the youthful, glowing makeup right off my face.

Still giggling, she brushes her fingers across her own cheeks and unfailingly asks, “Am I shiny?”

<<<<<<<< >>>>>>>

For some reason, the fact that the shiny comes off my face so easily is much more unsettling than having fat rolls large enough to accommodate the fingers of a precocious 6-year old.

How did I get to this strange place...old enough to have lost my 'shiny' but too young to be truly wise?

With a 30-something brain inhabiting a 55-year old body...how can middle-age be anything but confusing and unsettling?

My friends are not only becoming grandparents, they are taking blood pressure meds and having surgeries to replace worn out body parts. When we spend time together, our conversations unfailingly erode to bowel movements and leaky bladders.

Sheesh.

Gone is the boundless optimism of my 20's, the abundant opportunity of my 30's, the endless confidence of my 40's. I'm not sure where it all went, but it has somehow been replaced with gray hair, an extra 35 pounds and myopic eyesight.

Even as a society, we celebrate beginnings and immortalize endings. But the middle? Meh.

Exhibit A: The Oreo

(Although sweet and tasty, let's be honest.  The middle is the messiest and most fattening part of the cookie.)

 <<<<<<<< >>>>>>>

Middle age means remembering to suck in my chin when taking pictures. 

Midde age means I am just One Weak Kegel away from wearing Depends.

Middle age means my body has a mind of it's own and my mind doesn't mind at all.

And yet...

My friends and I have not spent the past fifty plus years consuming oxygen for nothing.  We. Are. Boomers.

We came into this world with a BANG! With a SPLASH! With a BOOM!!

Give us a few days with some ibuprofen and an ice pack and by golly, we'll spend the rest of our lives going out exactly the same way we came in. Except, well...slower.  Maybe not so much of a boom. And much more careful...less banging. 

But still... 

 SPLASH.

IT ALL COMES DOWN TO GRACE

I sure have enjoyed seeing pictures of the fresh-faced 2012 graduates in my mail and on Facebook over the past few weeks. From kindergarten to college, there is something so special about a beaming smile shining beneath mortar board and tassel.  Family, friends, and spouses peeking over their shoulders. Everyone bursting with pride and accomplishment.

And rightly so. Graduation is one of the Rites of Life. Passage from one stage to the next. Victory worth celebrating.

So why is it when graduation rolls around each year, my palms get all sweaty and my stomach gets queasy???

It's a conditioned response that goes back to the years when I was responsible for orchestrating the slide show for our church's High School Senior Banquet.

Creating a slide show today is a virtual walk in the park, what with all the digital tools at our disposal. But in the 80's and early 90's...? Not so much.

Old school slide shows consisted of turning photographs into 35 mm slides which were placed one by one in a Kodak carousel and projected onto a large screen, hopefully in some semblance of synchronicity with the the sappy pre-recorded music blasting from a jam box cassette. The entire production was unbelievably time consuming and full of potential glitches.

All because of those pesky little 35 mm cardboard slides.

I would spend hours collecting the photos, getting the slides developed, putting them in order and selecting just the right music to tug at the fragile hearts of parents who would be watching their sons and daughters bloom to life on a projector screen.

Yet, no matter how much love and hard work I put into those slide shows, there remained the ever-present threat of a rogue slide sticking in the carousel and stopping the show. Slideshow Interruptus became my greatest fear.

I went through so many trial runs that my eyes looked as though they were bleeding. I made sure beyond a shadow of a doubt there were no upside down slides, or worse...an empty slot in the carousel which would create a burst of light bright enough to burn the retina right off your eyeball.

Regardless of my preparation, I unfailingly developed a case of the 'trots' on banquet night. While the seniors and their families enjoyed the lovely meal, I would check and re-check the equipment between mad dashes to the restroom.

And then, the Big Moment would arrive. The lights would dim and the room would hush in anticipatory silence as I nervously pushed the 'play' button on the jam box. As the syrupy sounds of child-rearing songs filled the air, I would cross my fingers, toss up a prayer and slowly squeeze the remote of the projector.

I had 'em from the first slide. Few things get to a Mama like seeing the face of her Pride and Joy immortalized on a 15-foot screen. Sentimental slices of life captured in Kodachrome. An idealized past shining from a snaggle-toothed photograph.

Egged on by the “ooooohs and awwwws”, I would continue to methodically click the remote from slide to slide in perfect unison with the music. The strains of “Friends Are Friends Forever...” played to the background accompaniment of parental sniffles. My confidence built as graduate after graduate grew up before our eyes.

And then...

And Then.....

AND THEN, THE NEXT FREAKING SLIDE GOT STUCK IN THE CAROUSEL!  NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Just like that, the love spell was broken. The audience would giggle nervously.

Like a pissed-off ninja, I would quickly grab my trusty butter knife and frantically dig the renegade slide from the carousel. Gouged and bent, the insolent slide would be chucked to the floor as I frantically whispered another prayer and shakily resumed the slide-show. At which point, the audience would usually applaud politely, having more faith than me in my ability to get the show back on track.

Grace shining through.

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

As my thoughts wandered back to those perilous days of High School Senior Banquets, from the perspective of distance I couldn't help but view the entire production as a metaphor for life.

How clearly those slides represent the times we would like to 'freeze-frame' for a moment. Stop and examine. Give the appreciation it deserves.

Appreciate it, then go onto the Next Phase.

Go on to the Next Phase.

Go on.

GO!!

Hmmmm...it seems we have somehow gotten STUCK. Crap. Completely inconvenient and totally annoying. And a HUGE waste of time until we finally come to the realization that we are not going to get UNSTUCK without some help. No way. No how.

OOWWWWIEEE! OUCH! Why were we NOT informed that getting unstuck could be painful? Could even leave a scar?

Permanent reminders of tough times in the carousel of life.

The applause goes to those who don't stay stuck. Big, big applause to those who keep on going – scars and all. Slightly damaged, but oh so brave.

Metaphor, indeed.

And here's the kicker:  Throughout this arduous, unpredictable process, some of us are just silly enough to keep on believing that our story will end in Happily Ever After.

Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but eventually...happily.  Ever after.

Because even though we ride like fools through the carousel of life with our sweaty palms and our trusty butter knives...even though we want to believe that we are producing this show, that WE are in control...

When the carousel stops...

                And the lights come on...

                                    We suddenly remember...

                                                       It all comes down to...
                                                                    

                                                                                  GRACE.

A Legacy of Love

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. A day set aside to honor all mothers, be they living in this world or beyond, be they young or old or carrying an itty bitty zygote.  A day to celebrate women and their capacity for love.

How ironic is it then, that our deepest, truest lessons of love are learned in retrospect?

When I was 11 years old, my Aunt Betty Bob gifted me with a little golden razor. She took me into her bathroom, taught me how to lather up my legs with soap and gently glide the razor along the skin of my embarrassingly hairy legs. Left to my own devices, I cut the crap out of my legs with that razor. But I will never forget how grown-up and feminine my Aunt Bob made me feel.

We were the best of buddies and loved to go shopping together. She was always on top of the latest trends and fashion. She was that person who always made me feel infinitely special.

When Dickie asked me to marry him, my Aunt Bob was the first call I made after telling my parents. She whooped and hollered her congratulations across the phone. A few days later I received a beautiful and outrageously expensive crystal cake pedestal from her in the mail. She said she wanted to give me a totally impractical gift, one that would remind me of her each time I used it. It was my favorite wedding gift of all. In 35 years of marriage, I've never even glanced at that cake pedestal without thinking of her.

Still, I didn't realized how much my Aunt Bob loved me until I became an aunt, as well.

I remember peeking around the corner of the living room, spying on Mama as she visited and sipped coffee with her friends. I would wait until she was totally absorbed by the conversation, then I would stealthily make my way to her chair and sit at her feet. I knew that if I sat very still and was as quiet as a mouse, before too long Mom would put her hand on my head and begin playing with my hair, distractedly running her fingers through the length of it. I coveted the touch of my Mom's hands in my hair.

Though I always felt her approval, she seldom gave me compliments. One afternoon, I came busting through the screen door after a busy day at school. I couldn't wait to show her my new note from the cutest boy in 3^rd grade, telling me I was a 'pretty gril '(his spelling, not mine).

“Do you think I'm pretty, Mama?”

“You're cute enough,” She said. “Pretty Is As Pretty Does.”

I understood that it was more important to her that I be pretty on the inside rather than the outside. Therefore, it became more important to me as well.

The day Dickie and I found out we were pregnant, we didn't know whether to be scared or ecstatic. On the drive home from the doctor's office, we decided to wait awhile before sharing the news, just so we could absorb our little secret in private. As we walked into the house, the phone was ringing off the hook. I answered “Hello?” in my best trying-not-to-sound pregnant voice.  Mom's loud voice blurted out, “Are you pregnant? I just have this feeling that you might be pregnant?”

Clairvoyance aside, I never realized how much my Mama really loved me until I had children of my own.

As Mom tells it, the bond between my Grandmother Flodie and I was immediate and true. In fact, Flodie was the one who suggested I be named Robin. It was the name of a beloved character in a book she happened to be reading at the time.  Thus, Robin In Da Hood was born.

She let me make funny shaped biscuits out of her leftover pie dough. She made tiny little dresses for my dolls and taught me the basics of sewing. She was the best listener I have ever known, and had a way of making you feel as though you were the most interesting person on the planet.

In her last few years, she developed senile dementia and was often confused when taken from her familiar environment. On her last earthly birthday, we loaded her in the car to take her out for dinner. As we drove away from her group home, Flodie reached for my hand and nervously asked, “Robin, do we know where I am?”

“Yes, we know exactly where you are Flodie. You're here with us. You are safe.”

“Oh, goodie.” She replied. “I wouldn't want us to get me lost.”

I always knew I inhabited a special place in Flodie's heart. But I never knew how much she loved me until I had Grandchildren of my own.

I have only one Mama. And she's an awfully good one. But the essence of  who I am has been greatly influenced by three beautiful strong, and amazing women. A trinity of estrogen that shaped my soul.

I have always been gratefully aware of how blessed I was to have them in my corner. And as life has progressed, I have become even more in awe of the rarefied air that surrounded their presence...the gifts of strength and kindness and humor and love that they bestowed unto me.

Thankfully, I am not the only beneficiary of their largesse. I am not the only woman whose life has been shaped by this extraordinary League of Ladies.

Her name is Camille. She is my second cousin and Betty Bob's beloved Granddaughter.

Out of Flodie's nine Great-Grandchildren, she is the only girl. But she is enough.

The epitome of a girlie-girl, Camille was a cheerleader for the  infamous 'Friday Night Lights' Odessa Permian Panthers...a Mojo Princess who competed in beauty pageants and modeled for Teen Magazine, when she wasn't dressed in designer cammo and taking out an 8-point buck. 

And then, she went off to Baylor University and fell in love with a cowboy.

There was nothing in Camille's pre-marital resume that would have ever caused me to believe her life would turn out like this:

(Yes, I know...they are all ridiculously gorgeous.  I swear they have not been photoshopped.)

After having two beautiful (and very girlie) daughters, Camille and John went on to adopt a son from Guatemala, a son from the state foster system, and a daughter who had grown up in a Ukrainian orphanage. For all practical purposes, their lives were complete – or at least filled to the brim.  But God had other plans....

...and they named him Will Jackson.

On this Mother's Day, I especially want to honor my sweet cousin Camille...the one woman who shares with me the glorious distinction and dynamic DNA of the Fabulous Flodie and her daughters.

Camille and I both know exactly how blessed we have been to stand upon the shoulders of these incredible women who went before us.

My heart sings and my whole face smiles when I imagine how proud they must be of the legacy that lives on in Camille...the adoption ministry she helped establish...the amazing six-pack of children she has collected and nurtured into a family...the beautiful Godly woman she is today.

Happy Mother's Day to my Camilla Vanilla.  If you don't already know know how much you are loved, someday you surely will.

Birthday Blessings...

There are few events more affirming than birthdays on Facebook.  Never mind that 95% of my friends who posted greetings would have been clueless about my birthday had they not noticed the little reminder at the top of their Facebook page.  I choose to believe that every single greeting was sent with compassionate thought and heartfelt tenderness.  Especially the ones written in all caps and emphasized by exclamation points. 

Gratifying as Facebook birthday greetings may be, I am an even bigger sucker for Hallmark cards.  Particularly the sappy ones. It matters not that thousands of people all over the world might be opening the very same  card. The minute a carefully chosen Hallmark card is in my hand, I give over to the belief that it was written especially for me.

Some of my friends and family have Hallmarking down to an art. The Dickman is a card-giving maestro who never disappoints.   This year he gave me a birthday card with a photo on the front showing a tiny little boy kissing a tiny little girl, and inside were the words: 

I need ya. I got ya. I'm keeping ya. Love ya.

My Mama also has the golden Hallmark touch.  I have a big box filled with my very favorite birthday cards she's given to me over the years.  I love to pull them out and reread them...paying particular attention to the words she underlined or crossed out to replace with words of her own. 

The card she gave me this year may be my all-time favorite...strike outs, underlines, added exclamation points and all: 

HOW TO MAKE

A Beautiful Life...

Love yourself.

MAKE PEACE with who you are

and where you are

at this moment in time.

 

Listen to your heart.

If you can't hear what it's saying in this noisy world,

MAKE TIME for yourself.

Enjoy your own company.

Let your mind wander among the stars.

 

Try.

Take chances.

MAKE MISTAKES.

Life can be is messy

and confusing at times,

but it's also full of surprises.

The next rock in your path

might be a stepping-stone.

 

Be happy!!!

When you don't have what you want,

want what you have.

MAKE DO.

That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

 

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.

You have to MAKE YOUR OWN WAY.

To know where you're going

is only part of it.

You need to know where you've been, too.

And if you ever get lost, don't worry.

The people who love you will find you.

Count on it!!!

 

Life isn't days and years.

It's what you do with time

and with all the goodness and grace

that's inside you.

MAKE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE...

The kind of life you deserve.

(Thanks, Mom.)

EGGED ON...

Consider the egg...the incredible edible egg...one of the finest miracles of nature. Irrefutable proof of God's love for His creation.

Eggs, though exquisitely simple, are enormously complex. They not only contain the perfect ratio of protein, fats and carbs, but are jam-packed with vitamins. They are inexpensive and delicious. They are versatile as a food source, whimsical in an Easter basket and wonderfully explosive when thrown at an opponent.

Boiled, scrambled, poached or tossed...eggs make life better. Just as they are.

But...mash up the middle, add a few choice ingredients, put them on a pretty platter and BAM! Those tasty orbs of goodness become nothing less than everybody's favorite hors d'ourves.

I should know. I happen to be the holder of a blue ribbon that I won in the 3rd grade for my prize deviled eggs. Which, if I do say so myself, makes me kind of a big deal...


When I was 8 years old, my friend's Mom committed to leading a Junior 4H club for girls. We called ourselves the 4H Eager Beavers. I'm not sure who gets the blame but I swear, that was really our name.

Our sponsor, Mrs. Christian, said her intention was to teach us how to cook and sew. Looking back, I'm sure she also intended to keep us off the dusty roads of Goldsmith, thereby protecting us from rattlesnake bites or getting stuck in a cattle guard in our tiny West Texas oilfield camp. (Although, with a name like Eager Beavers, we could have just as easily fallen into a life of prostitution.)

Anyhoo...we spent all summer learning how to cook.

One day, Mrs. Christian informed our little group that we were to take part in a cooking contest with other 4H clubs around the area. She sent us home to decide with our Moms what food item we would enter in the competition. She also told us to keep in mind: not only were we to be judged on the taste and appearance of the food item, we would also be judged on table presentation.

I thought I was a goner.

My Mom absolutely hated to cook (which in retrospect, was probably why she signed me up for cooking class). Not only that, when I told her we had to make the table look all 'fancy', she started faking a seizure. Fancy was simply not in Mom's vocabulary.

We hurriedly called in reinforcements. My grandmother Flodie was the Cooking Queen. My Aunt Bob knew everything there was to know about being Fancy. We put our collective heads together and decided to blow the competition away with deviled eggs.

Mom brought home carton after carton of eggs for me to practice on. Deviled egg prototypes that did not end up in the trash, wound up in my Daddy's belly. It was a toss-up as to who produced more smelly gas during that summer: Dad or the Phillips Petroleum plant outside our back door.

Finally, the Big Day of the contest arrived. Mom woke me up early and helped me with the dangerously complicated task of boiling eggs. From that point on, she could only supervise. I remember stomping my foot with each hard-to-peel shell that dared to leave even so much as a divot on my egg. After all the prep work, I painstakingly placed each filled egg on the fancy dimpled platter borrowed from my Aunt Bob. I sprinkled the eggs lightly with paprika, gently tapping the little can of spice while Mom coached from the sidelines. Then I tucked parsley in and around the eggs, just as Flodie had taught me. Finally, I carefully dressed in my brand new deviled-egg-presenting blazer Mom had bought especially for the championship competition.

When we arrived at the contest site, I fussily set my table using Flodie's hand-embroidered linen tablecloth, Aunt Bob's china and very best golden vase filled with Mom's lovely artificial flowers. Then, I nervously waited, hoping the judges would choose one of the few eggs I had managed to peel without mangling.

They went around the room, stopping to nibble and mumble incoherently at each hopeful offering. Finally, the judges came to my table. I knew I had done my very best, given my all to those deviled eggs. The rest was up to fate...and taste buds.

As the judges went off to compare notes with one another, my co-chefs and I wiggled impatiently beside our tables, anxiously awaiting the all-important verdicts.

I am ashamed to say I truly don't remember if any other Eager Beavers were victorious on that fateful day. I only remember the burst of pride that filled my soul and the Very Big Smile that split my face when one of the judges laid a beautiful blue ribbon upon my table, declaring my eggs a winner.

At the ripe old age of 8, I had found my special purpose in life. I was the Eggman. Goo goo goo joob.

I basked in the gloriously misguided belief that I was a culinary wizard, convinced that without my wondrous skills, one less carton of eggs would have never achieved their ultimate prize-winning potential.


A few days ago, I stumbled upon the photo of me and my eggs. As I looked into the smiling face of that little girl with the crooked bangs, a flood of memories washed over me. For the first time, I realized with startling clarity just how much effort had gone into winning the blue ribbon that I claimed as my very own.

Truth is, it took a village to help me win that blue ribbon. At the tender age of 8, I would have never been able to reach my full deviled egg potential all by perfectly ordinary self.

My 4H leader provided the inspiration. Flodie gave me confidence to believe that both me and my deviled eggs were worthy. Without Aunt Bob, I wouldn't have found my fancy. Without Mom I would have burned the kitchen down and gone to the competition egg-less AND barefooted. And Dad...well, let's just say that without my flatulent father, I would have never known for certain where deviled eggs got their name.



I believe that our lives are a series of parables...ordinary circumstances that become divine opportunities for God to shape and form our souls in ways we can't perceive or imagine. But if we are wise enough to trust Him and to seek His truths, the message will always find its way into our hearts.

I learned two very important lessons from that prize-winning platter of eggs:

1) Nobody wins a blue ribbon all by themselves.
2) Eggs were never meant to remain just eggs.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139