My Newest Friends

This story came as quite a surprise to me. I walked away grinning from ear to ear. My hope is you will smile too. Friends are a treasure.

For lots of reasons, some valid and some not, I don't cook a whole lot anymore. That said, when  the new Chinese restaurant opened right down the street, I was one of their first customers. It's less than a minute from the house. Foodies aren't the customers here. It's more the Panda Express/Taco Bell crowd.  I go at least once a week. I can eat for less there than at Wendy's. On days when I'm feeling particularly bad about being a loser mom who feeds her child fast food too much, we get take out at my new restaurant  Sadly, I cannot even tell you the name. I think it might be The Lucky Panda. Then again it might be Oriental Gardens. It doesn't matter. I know where it is.

I admire the owners so much. They are lovely people and I want their efforts to risk what I'm assuming would be everything plus  to open this place be rewarded. For the life of me, I cannot imagine going to China and thinking, "Hey, let me open an American Diner! I don't really speak Chinese; but, I'm bright, I can cook, and I can smile." I truly admire their tenacity and courage. They know that I appreciate their efforts because I'm a regular who tips generously. I strongly believe in rewarding the under appreciated and the risk takers. If I've got money and time, I always brake for lemonade stands.

Last Thursday, Annie Beth and I stopped by to order take out. Efficiency was the goal. Place order. Go to Wal-Mart Market. Buy two items. Get food. Go home. Eat.

Except the sweet woman who is normally standing alone at the check-out area was joined by two adorable little boys. They were sitting at a Thomas the Train table nestled within the confines of that small space. Children are game changers for me, especially cute little boys with shaved heads of coarse black hair. Their backs were facing me. I noticed that their heads were almost identical. If standing up against the wall, their heads could almost be flush with the drywall. I knew immediately they belonged to the owner because he has the same head.

Whether I started my conversation with the boys first or placed my order, I cannot be sure. I can tell you, for sure, that when they turned their heads I was utterly charmed that the fronts of their adorable faces could also lie flush with a wall  and they could breathe easily. I am continually amazed at God's creativity and how beautifully different human beings are.

I learned quickly that the boys were ages 5 and 6. Both, with the nodding approval of their parents, spoke to me. Before we left, with promise to return within 10 minutes, Annie Beth and I learned that they were practicing Chinese characters, loved trains, especially Thomas, and that the older one's favorite crayon was, "All of them!!"

Upon our return, Annie Beth and I were greeted by the whole family in the diminutive cash register area. The boys' black eyes were hidden inside almond shaped slivers forced into place because of their toothy grins. I praised the boys once again and purposely told the parents what a great job they were doing in raising such fine boys. As I turned to give Annie Beth the bag of food, I noticed the little one getting up from his tiny blue folding chair. I reached over the counter to touch him on the shoulder or head. Before I could do so, he, with great five year old authority, put out his right hand. He shook my hand with great firmness. He looked directly into my eyes. And with rhythmic shaking and perfectly enunciated words he said with all earnest sincerity,

"I am going to be your friend."

I am thrilled beyond belief with my newly formed friendships. I am alone today and felt the need for a lesson in Chinese character writing. Much more, I wanted to experience the unabashed enthusiasm of a two little boys who are delighted to share their world with a lady who talks with a crazy accent and pays money to have watermelons painted on her toes.

Before I left, while looking for approval from their proud, but ever watchful mother, I asked the boys if they would join me at my table the next time I'm their guest at the restaurant. With her approval, they solemnly said, "Yes." As I left I heard giggles from below the counter top.

Chicken and snow peas sounds like a great lunch tomorrow.

An Edgy Example of Sacrificial Love

I have an ever increasing love and appreciation for my dad. I'm so excited that this event happened right before a day when I can honor him by telling others about who he is. This time his actions illuminate his very core.

In the Hudgins' home men did the lawn. Women took care of inside duties. I probably would have carried on that tradition into marriage; but, my spouse was terribly allergic to grass. I'm no stranger to hard work and having helped my brother and Dad from time to time, I willingly took on the role of Lawn Girl. (To be clear, helping Dad and Scott meant money was involved. Besides, driving a lawnmower was fun.)

Lawn Girl discovered the thrill of starting a cold lawnmower engine. It was empowering to change the oil and spark plugs. Had Facebook existed the first time I was able to cut a perfectly straight line with my weed eater, I'd have been incredibly obnoxious and posted multiple pictures. 

And deeply disappointed if people did not pump me full of positive comments and likes.

My neighbors can attest that I have a temper and often spew awful phrases when my machines don't cooperate. I did NOT learn that from my dad. He is steadfast, methodical, and ever the gentleman. 

A few weeks ago I decided that I really needed an old school edger--the one with three wheels. I didn't plan on using it every week. Just a couple of times each season to get a nice, clean edge. I've got Bermuda grass and it just eats up weed eater line when the trench isn't quite deep enough. I was shocked that those edgers are far more expensive than a lawnmower. I decided to buy one off of Craig's List. I wanted to pay 50 bucks. I found one within days. Upon pick up, the man, with one decisive pull started it right up. It worked.

Until I tried to start it a week later. I remembered that at the beginning of each season, Dad would always change the spark plug and the air filter. I also had a can of something to spray in the carburetor if the engine still wouldn't start. I followed his example. I even watched some YouTube videos on starting an old pull-cord edger. Even after what had been hours of time, I still couldn't get that blasted edger started. I was hoping one of my neighbors would hear me grumbling and rescue me. 

Didn't happen.

Mom and Dad were coming over the following Monday. Dad made a special call and said, "Lori, I'll work on your new edger and see if I can get it started for you." I knew also that he'd edge my yard, even if I insisted that I'd do it later. 

That morning he called and said, "Lori, I decided to go ahead and bring my edger so that if I can't get yours started, I can still get a nice edge for your yard." He thinks of everything.

My schedule was a little busy that morning and so I told him to be sure and wait for me to work on my edger. I learned the hard way as a spoiled, entitled teenage girl that there are some skills my Dad was offering to teach me that I would need to know someday. I always ask to watch what he's doing now and I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty. Even if I was never planning on changing a tire or a battery, or jump starting a car, I would do it more times than I can count since I left home. Most of those times I was being directed via phone by Dad. There was even that time when he was in The Hague and I was in McMinnville, Oregon on a payphone!

Without fanfare or any fuss, Dad, in his work Stetson, belted khaki pants, plaid short sleeved shirt, and work boots, edged my grass. His edger is probably about a year old, if that. It has a brand new blade. It also has one of those easy pull cords. One pull and you're off! He used the weedeater next and then edged one more time for a pristine finish. Did I mention that my yard is about a third of an acre? Big for my area.

He'd worked on my edger before I got home. Once home I helped him sweep up and do the final touches.

As Mom and Dad were leaving, this is what he said, "Lori, I decided to trade edgers with you. I think you'll like mine a lot better. I've got several of this old kind in the barn from ones Scott has given me over the years. (My brother ran a lawn service.) I can use those for spare parts when I need them."

And that's exactly what my sacrificially generous father will do. He'll use my second hand Craftsman edger and the frustrations that may accompany it. Meanwhile, I'll be enjoying the top of the line edger he left in my shed.

Each time I relive that story I think of Christ. It's about as literal a retelling of the Gospel there is in my life. Like Christ, Dad took my junk and gave me the best he had to offer. All I had to do was accept the gift. And why? Because he loves me. How could I respond with anything else but love and gratitude?

How grateful I am for a dad who loves me in tangible ways that point me straight towards my Heavenly Father. 

I continually learn what it means to be generous in spirit and resources from Dad. I also know that Dad will finish every task he is asked to do. His yes means yes. His no means no. As a parent, I now appreciate that the no was for my benefit, not my demise. I also know that when he signed me and Carol up for those auto-mechanic for girls classes at the junior college, we BOTH should have gone. (I won't be so nice to Annie Beth. She'll hate me until she breaks down on the highway. She'll have a cell phone, though...oh, the things these kids don't appreciate. wink) 

Dad has modeled for me what kind of grandparent I want to be. I never imagined that Dad could put together a great Barbie outfit and know what to say when told by another Barbie that his Barbie was "the bomb". He delights in every opportunity to love and be loved by his beloved.

Most of all, I know that my dad loves me and would give up his last breath if it meant mine would continue. It's what Christ did and continues to do through the life message of my dad.

John 15:13

The Message (MSG)

This is my command: Love one another the way I loved you. This is the very best way to love. Put your life on the line for your friends.

What a privilege that I get to call Rex Hudgins, "Dad".

I love you, Dad! Happy Father's Day!!!

Lesson from my Lesser Self

My lesser self is always present. Sometimes her voice is louder than others and most often, the darkest thoughts never get aired to anyone. This time, because there was a valuable lesson I learned midstream (with help of a gut-punch from God), it's worth sharing.

I'd bought box seats for the Kristin Chenoweth concert. She's such a tiny little 'thang that I wanted to make sure someone's head wasn't obscuring our view. Once seated, I was pleased.. I was concerned about how to get Patty quickly down to the stage and took the time to discover a speedy way downstairs. (See previous blog if you don't understand what I just said.) I was more than just excited about a wonderful show. I was nervous about the potential of having a sold out crowd stare directly at me while I sold my star to Kristin at the appropriate moment. (Again. see previous blog.)

It's important to point out that I have three serious peeves during indoor performances:

1. People who smack their gum. To be really honest, that bugs me all the time. A lot.

2. People who talk loudly and often.

3. People that sing along with the soloist or group. I've been known to turn around and with a smile say, "If I'd wanted to hear you sing, I'd have bought tickets to your concert."

The lights were down, the intro video had aired and Kristin was onstage in all her tiny glory. Even with her Dolly sized wig, she couldn't have weighed more than 85 pounds. Darling. I was in awe of the power of the voice blasting out of that body when I heard loud talking. 

#2!

#2 can be forgivable if it happens early and just once. Patty noticed too and we shared concerned frowns. The next few times I gave the "over the shoulder slight grimaced look" to the offender. 

When #3 peeve began, I was only slightly relieved that Patty couldn't hear the voice. It was monotone and consistent.

I did my best to focus so fully on the good things of the concert, that I'd "rise above" the uncivilized person behind me. 

I was more than annoyed before intermission and I told Patty I was ready to "pummel the person behind me." Not kidding.

There were two particularly moving songs that I was focusing on when I heard in my heart, "Lori, consider the other person's story before you open your mouth." Just after, I heard an elderly woman's voice say, "Don't sing so loudly." The voice was loving, yet firm. I had that aha moment. "There is something wrong there, Lori. Stop judging and acting like an idiot."

As we were getting up for intermission, I told Patty my suspicion. I bent down to get my 20 pound purse and glanced over to see a grey haired woman with a worn face and the sweetest eyes smiling at me. My guess was she was in her late 70's or early 80's. Sitting next to her was a young man, probably 20-something. His eyes had the familiar double folds of a person with Down Syndrome. 

The young man was abeam with joy. I heard him say, "Momma, thanks for bringing me to see April." I remembered at once that I'd heard that same voice say during an ovation, "Way to go April." I won't air my thought at the time because it's too snarky and rude, especially in light of my new information.

April is a character that Kristin Chenoweth plays intermittently on Glee. Based on his comment, it's possible that Glee may have been this man's introduction to the talent of Kristin.

I'm sure the mother is no stranger to rude people and their inappropriate behavior to her child--even those who can look at him and recognize by sight that he has limitations. If I'd have been that mother, I'd have flashed a "go to Hades look" my way at intermission. She smiled at me, though.

I'm so grateful that I listened to God's instruction. Not simply because it altered my negative attitude; but, because knowing something of this woman and man's story enhanced the remainder of the show. Instead of feeling angry and annoyed, I was teary eyed with joy and tenderness. 

I listened as he sang with joy and intensity. His volume would be adjusted after I heard a quick "shhh" from his mother. He couldn't contain his excitement. I understood. 

I'd posted numerous times on Facebook about my evening. I'd told everyone who'd listen. I was downright giddy. In addition, before even considering whom I would be seated beside, I fully intended to do whatever was necessary to get Patty on the stage. Would this have been any less annoying to my fellow box seat patrons? Would I have been #2 on someone else's peeve list? I didn't want to contain my excitement about seeing my friend sing with a legend. I wanted to be a part of the story-telling that would get bolder and funnier over the years.

We're all limited. This young man's physical characteristics helped me understand something of his limitations. Yet, what about those who do not have tell-tale signs of a physical or mental issue? My limitations may not be so obvious to those seated around me in a public arena. But in a quiet place in my heart that night, I realized that I'm limited by myopic expectation for others to enhance my life experiences. I'm limited by my poor choices. I'm also limited because of my humanness. We all are. We can never know the full story of others, even those we know intimately. 

My lesser self taught me that grace is always the best response. I give God the credit for pulling me out of a shameful event if I hadn't listened. I'm so very grateful for a God who understand limitations like none other.

Philippians 2

Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB)

5 Make your own attitude that of Christ Jesus,

6 who, existing in the form of God,

did not consider equality with God 

as something to be used for His own advantage.

7 Instead He emptied Himself 

by assuming the form of a slave, 

taking on the likeness of men. 

And when He had come as a man

in His external form,

8 He humbled Himself by becoming obedient

to the point of death—

even to death on a cross.

The part I can never wrap my head around is that He did that for a woman who, without thought, would be willing to pummel an unseen, unknown stranger for potentially ruining her night out at the theater. On top of that He offers me a chance to become more like Him and less like the lesser me. That's astounding. 

With an eye towards lavishing more grace and more love to those around me, scattering dust that will be everlasting. ~lori

A Lesson from a Non-Diva

For some reason, my muse is writing several blogs at once....(no, I do not believe in literal muses.)

Just for fun, though, let me update you on my sugar ants. They have been GONE for two months! I tried Keila's suggestion about a sugar solution mixed with Borax. It works so well and very quickly. Such relief.

It's very possible they've just moved next door to my neighbor's house. Maybe I should slip the recipe for sugar ant destruction in her mailbox?

Here's what I've been composing in my heart and head since last night. A little background is necessary-- especially for the other blog that the muse is writing.

I've been a fan of musical theater my whole life. If I could live my life as a musical, I would. Sometimes there is a pause in conversation that simply begs for a musical cue and melody. I'm quite positive that my life would have been without blemish if during the darkest of moments dancers had simply appeared and lifted me without effort. I would belt out my tune and simultaneously solve my momentary dilemma.

As a season subscriber to a Dallas theater company, I received advance opportunity back in March to purchase Kristin Chenoweth tickets. Kristin is a Jedi Master in musical theater. Without hesitation I bought the best seats available. (Yes, Mom, they were very expensive.) I immediately texted my dear friend Patty Breckenridge and invited her.

Patty was my instant choice because she is truly a star in her own right, not only as an accomplished, award winning actor and singer; more, as a stellar human being. I knew that she would match or surpass my enthusiasm--that's a task.

I've known Patty since she was in elementary school. I cherish time with her. My face and abs will often hurt after I've been with her because I've laughed so hard at her spot on impersonations of her family, even me. I'll often have learned an important life lesson or have something profound to chew on based on a comment she has made.

Another dear friend who knows Patty well saw Kristin in Houston the night before us. She texted and said, "Tell Patty to brush up on Elphaba's part in "For Good" for a duet with Kristin. They had four people near the front and Kristen picked the one who answered with confidence that she knew the part!" That text was copied and sent to Patty post haste.

I made up my mind that I would do whatever necessary to get Patty on that stage. That would include losing all sense of dignity and squandering meager self esteem to be noticed, loud, and oddly charming enough to convince Kristin that Patty was her girl.

I only needed to convince Patty. Much more, I wanted to make sure she really wanted me to risk my public humiliation to sing with Kristin.

Tunnel vision and creativity are both my friends and enemies. I chose to employ every method possible to convince Patty. These included, but were not limited to manipulation and strong arming. Although I had no input on her wardrobe choice, we both laughed aloud when I let her know I was glad she was Dallas snappy casual. L- "You won't look like you were planning to be on stage." (Which, of course she wasn't.)

True Kristin fans always have Wicked downloaded on their phones ready for car sing alongs. Patty humored me and "warmed up" in the car. At one point, I got to be Glinda and she was Elphaba. That, folks was the highlight of my night. Really.

Just as we'd been apprised, after intermission, Kristin asked for a volunteer to sing with her. Before Kristin had completed her invitation, a young girl catapulted herself from her seat to her sandals. Patty, ever so gently, but firmly, grabbed my right arm and shook her head with a firm "no". With hesitation, but the heart of a mother, I relented.

Kristin, with her arm wrapped tightly around the girl sang the first verse, offering support and confidence to a girl whose knees were trembling slightly. When the duet partner opened her mouth, we were all stunned. She had real talent. Jackie was so talented that Kristin felt compelled to tell the audience that her duet partner wasn't a "plant". At the end, while Kristin was smothering Jackie with a motherly bear hug, the audience rose to its feet and erupted with thunderous applause. It was easy to see that Kristin remembered what it was like to be a dreaming 14 year old. In darling diva fashion after having told the audience to remember Jackie's name she said, "Now. Get off the stage." Perfect.

Assuming I'd been successful--which frankly, I WOULD HAVE BEEN! Patty gave Jackie, the 14 year old Broadway wannabe the pinnacle experience of her life. Patty also offered her old friend Lori a gift in return. I was able to relish the moments of watching a dream come true for a little girl--a little girl with this memory and only dreams ahead of her. I also witnessed the stars in Patty's eyes twinkle as she leapt to her feet with a loud whoop. Patty remembered too.

See, this is a perfect Life is a Musical moment. Cue strings.

 "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

What happens before a Scar?

I'm sitting in carpool line. If I time it just right, I can park directly in front of my daughter's classroom door. We are most often the first ones out of the gauntlet. I won't waste your time explaining the illogical rationale for this daily frenzy at 2:50. I will say only that I must arrive at least 40 minutes early to get my spot.

I told you it was illogical.

I spend that time reading, writing, or napping. The only blog I read daily is http://www.aholyexperience.com/. It arrives about the time I pull into my elite spot. If I'm not too cranky or tired, I read it. Some days I don't want to hear or think about pure or holy things. I can never grasp everything she is saying. Ever. I try to contemplate just one idea.

Anne is talking about scars today. As always, it's lyrical, lovely, and profound. After reading this, I have the odd desire to have more scars.

I have scars. There's the one on my bottom lip that juts out and makes a fabulous pout which I'm still inclined to use. This is my first lasting scar occurring just before my first birthday. It's a reminder that I've always, always been clumsy. Then there's the large one on my shin. The summer before 6th grade I was absolutely DONE with dark, long hairs on my legs. Dressed in jeans --in Houston, no less--to conceal my gash, I asked Mom if I could shave the day after my introduction to razors. She replied in no uncertain terms, "NO!" That scar is a reminder that my uninformed, impulsive behavior can cause injury. As a seamstress, I was mad as a hornet when a C-section was performed during my hysterectomy. Any self respecting sewer knows what happens when a straight line seam is sewn below an area with a curve. I didn't need a stitch to create a band for the excess to fold over, thank you. I cannot see that large scar, so it doesn't count.

For about a year after I took off the wedding band I'd worn perpetually for over 22 years, I had a white, atrophied circle on my left finger. I called it my scar. It was the only physical evidence of a gaping wound within.

Aside from my ring finger, I can touch any of the scars I've mentioned and I have no sensation whatsoever. They are painless.

If you are a visual reader and are grossed out easily, just click the red box and be done now.

Right now I'm pondering what happens before a scar forms a monument to a past wound. Obviously there is a wound first. The depth of the wound and the source of the wounding are critical to the care administered. If things go awry, bad stuff happens. Garden variety cuts and scrapes form a scab. That scab, when ready, will simply fall away revealing a white or pink layer of new skin. Sometimes there are accidents and the scab is ripped off before it's ready. Ouch. Then there are people like me, who, bless my stupid heart will pick that scab away. Mom still keeps band-aids at the ready. (Apparently there is a "picker" gene.) I cannot imagine how much worse I'd been if Hello Kitty and Micky Mouse band-aids had been in every cabinet in our home in the 70's. Even with the knowledge gained that picked scabs delay healing, I still did it. I will, in mindless moments, still pick at a scab. (I'm pondering that on an emotional level too, now. Hmmmm.)

I'm astonished at the mystery of watching something jagged, with dimension transform itself into new skin. New life. I'm even more fascinated by emotional healing.

This week I had this thought, "I think I'm recovering." Instead of being mired with impatience, anger, and worry, my days are filled with daily minutiae, joy, possibilities, and the normal frustrations of living in a broken world. My potty mouth has even improved. I considered, quite briefly, if I'm forming scar tissue.

Until one email from my ex-husband ripped the scab off the wound and I was oozing with rage, disbelief, even shame. That's why I'm thinking about scabs.

I'm wondering aloud if some wounds never heal completely in this life? Particularly ones involving loss and children. Ask anyone who has buried a child or someone who lives with a disability. I truly don't know.

I've been mad for several days that my scab was ripped off. I'm mad that I have an enemy. I hate that I have to keep an attorney on retainer. I'm incensed that co-parenting is not possible for me.

In the past, I would have directed that fear and anger inwardly and sat down like a bunny--blinded and scared by an oncoming car. That was then. This is now.

I'm directing my anger and frustration into the power that can thrust 30 pounds of steel weight over my head for the fourth set of 10. I'm using my electric sander on chairs bought at thrift stores and garage sales that will give my house a face lift. More importantly, I'm asking God to continue the work He started in me. I long for wholeness-which for me will include lots of scars. No doubt, more to come.

I love the passages of scripture that speak of Christ's resurrected body. Even that perfect new body had scars. It's because of His scars I know that, one day, I will be complete. For the time being, I find comfort that as Anne says, "He knows. He knows."

And so this afternoon I offer back my wounds and my scars and ask, "Lord, make me more like you."

**Full disclosure- I feel compelled to correct the idea that if available in the 70's I'd had smiley faces or Mighty Mouse adorning my body. My mother, in a million years would NEVER have bought those. If hidden cameras were available at the Cleburne Kroger, I'd bet the farm that EDaddy buys the fun band-aids available at Star Ranch. If I'm wrong, I'll agree to never to pick a scab again.

1st, 3rd, and 5th

First, Third, and Fifth had no relevance to me until the early part of this century. No one in my family had been divorced with children prior to that time. It's as familiar to me now as my iPhone. 

You may be the only person left in America still in the dark regarding that term. I have two things to say to you:

1. Congratulations! You don't live with the consequences of divorce in your world. I'll broadly define world as you or someone you know well enough to know his/her schedule. 

2.  1st, 3rd, and 5th is slang for standard possession for the parent that doesn't have the children living with them full time. (I'm trying very hard not to use legal jargon. I know it now; but, I think it can be confusing and unnecessary. And pompous.)

The judge in our case gave my ex husband the option of expanded possession. This means he gets our daughter every Thursday night overnight and returns her to school on Friday mornings. On, (fill in the blank) 1st, 3rd, and 5th weekends he returns her to school on Monday mornings. Holidays are alternated between parents. During even years, the father gets Spring Break. The expanded schedule, over the course of the year is a couple of points away from a 50/50 time split. 

March had Spring Break and a 5th weekend. A cursory counting on the calendar and I'm counting 18 days that I've spent with my 10 year old since March 1st. Most of those are school days. It's a consequence and reality of my life that stinks. I'm grateful, truly grateful that she enjoys being with her father. On days when I don't hear from her, I've learned to be content knowing that she is busy and happy. 

This is the our first weekend together in eons and I had all kinds of wonderful plans for the two of us. I enjoy her. I'm particularly enjoying conversations with her now. She's witty and has some surprisingly mature insight.  Of course, I'm already informed regularly of my ignorance and am being taught the real ways things should be done.

And so I sit here alone in our house.

Her clear choice for the evening was for she and her "best cousin" Emma to attend Friday Nite Live. It's sponsored by the Lewisville School District and is a "total blast". My plans were never mentioned. Instead, I made the arrangements. I savored the moments of listening to them laugh and talk in the back of the van during the transport from our rendezvous spot with the other van driver and money provider, Carol. There are few things that satisfy my soul more than hearing two little girls whom I love passionately enjoy one another. Their laughter resonates within my marrow. 

Neither child will even consider what I'm doing right now. If by some freak of nature one of them asks me what I did, my guess is that it will only be out of Southern courtesy. They don't care that I'd rather be with them listening, participating, sharing in their world(s). They have no idea that I would think staring at the TV when they are watching A Pair of Kings would be fun because I could relish watching them crack up over silly humor. They'd assume my laughter was based on the line delivered by a Disney child actor.

If either of them would have been concerned about my loneliness and offered to forgo their plans, I'd be vastly more despondent tonight. My heart is pleased that they are making memories together. I'll hear about the pie eating contest, the Cheeto relays, and what they bought with their tickets on the drive back to Richardson. Their neon hair will glow in the rearview mirror. Their location jokes will not translate well and yet, I am positive that I will engage my genuine laugh at several points in the telling. They are living the lives of little girls. I can't believe they are 10 and 11 now. I'll blink and I'll no longer be told in detail the events of the evening. I won't be needed to chauffeur and I'll be even dumber and more embarrassing than I am now. Grace will be there then, as it is this night.

It's made me ponder.  I wonder how many times God has really looked forward to spending time with me, only for me to choose differently? In the past, I'd have immediately felt shame. Old tapes would say, "Lori you have hurt God's feelings....you are unloving and selfish." Tonight I am able to ask the question and consider a wholly different possibility. Maybe God feels pleased that two of His beloved are growing up. Lori can sit with her loneliness and make healthy choices about how to manage those feelings. It's not Annie Beth's job to fill the lonely spaces within me. As parent, I delight, sometimes, (wink) in my child and who she is becoming. I am confident that Annie Beth made the best choice tonight. She's with her cousin and her friends in a safe, supervised environment. Even without omniscience or omnipresence, I can enjoy her from afar. How grateful I am for the profound gift of parenthood. Even with creature-ly limitations, I can glimpse a bit of how my Father might feel about me. 

I am lonely tonight, but I am never alone. Grace abounds.

Only two more hours and I get to pick them up.

 

Physics, Who Cares?

In the perfect logic of a 19 year old, I chose Social Work as a major for two reasons:

1. One math class was required  

2. Football Physics could count as a science requirement.

Okay, three reasons:

3. Once I got married and had kids, social work would surely help me be a better wife and parent. 

I'm not kidding. And I'm embarrassed to admit number three was absolutely something I'd say aloud. Note to self, "congratulate yourself for learning to filter some truths."

I graduated from Baylor in 1987 with a Bachelors Degree in Social Work. I did not, however, leave with better math skills or one iota of concern for physics or science, really. 

Whether or not I intended to become intimately involved with two physical laws, is hard to estimate. But with a needed shove from a friend--pretty sure there's a physics term for that--force?, I joined a gym and hired a trainer. I think of physics constantly now. Particularly, these two laws:

1. Inertia-in·er·tia/iˈnərSHə/

Noun:

A tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged.

*A property of matter by which it continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is...

2. Gravity

grav·i·ty/ˈgravitē/

Noun:

The force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass. 

I can also add, free of charge, that Inertia makes Gravity FAR worse in the mirror. Back to that defintion...If inertia is a uniform motion in a straight line, explain cellulite! I see no straight lines.  I actually understand that another law of physics is involved in that process, so don't lecture me about that law. I earned  my hail damage through this equation:

Buttercream Icing + Intertia = Cellulite.

Let me share what I know about physics after about a month in the gym. I'm a word girl, not a symbol or equation person. I'll keep this simple.

Intertia- Something that hasn't moved in years will hurt when you move it again. It can make you dizzy, sick, and utterly exhausted. All day. 

Gravity is unavoidable.

If something hangs lower because it's older and bigger, it hurts trying to lose it or reposition it. A lot. It will cause profuse sweating, muscle fatigue, and can trigger sounds you never knew you were capable of making. By the time you get that doggie lifted towards the imaginary hydrant, the beat of the music is no concern.

I take this moment to apologize to every adult I ever sneered or laughed at when he or she grunted while rising from any position. I also apologize to those "old ladies" my Mom's age who faithfully attended the aerobics class I helped Carol teach. I understand your problem was not lack of rhythm. 

Annie Beth asked me the other day, "Momma, when will you stop grunting everytime you get up or walk?" L- "Sweetie, it's permanent. It's penance for scoffing at physics."

If you're at my Neighborhood Wal-Mart and hear groaning or grunting, holler, "Hi, Lori!" I'll be on the next aisle silently cursing the 16 year old stock boy for putting my Ozarka water bottles on the top shelf. I picked those because they required only arm forward motion.

PS...I vow not to be obsessed with weight loss and calories in this blog. I just want to be healthier and enjoy living in my body more. I will not give up buttercream frosting for a lifetime. Or banana laffy taffy.