It is finished takes on a new meaning

I took on this project in May and finished about a week ago. Unfortunately, I forgot to take pictures before I stripped it, but I do have a couple of shots cropped out of other photos that can give you somewhat of what it looked like before. As you can see, it was white and had a blue top

The following are pictures after it was stripped, but before it was stained.

Finally, the finished product, with the Christmas tree atop.

from creepy to cold in less than 24 hours

I've waited in anticipation all week for a real sign of winter...for the Christmas feeling to take hold in my soul as the white fluff floated through the sky. There I was, standing on the balcony of my friend Raina's apartment in the 31 degree midnight air, skillfully manuevering blue rope lights around the poles and belting out "Wonderful Christmastime" (you know the most love to hate song "simply having a wonderful christmastime"), when a small cold wet thing landed on my exposed fingertip. SNOW! Oh, the elation of it!

My day did not start out so wonderfully cold. In fact, it began while on a field trip of sorts. The other class at one of the schools I teach at has been studying the original "Pinocchio". The teacher found this place in town that makes Marionnettes and does shows. What a wonderfully practical and unordinary idea for an outing. At least until we pulled up in front of this three story house. The neighborhood was not creepy, but this house was set back just further then it's neighbors. The front yard bared many dead potted plants, a clue that mother nature had done her winter thing; also a clue that we should turn around? The day was sunny, but this house really looked like it should have clouds...not black ones, but gray ones, looming overhead.

Once inside, the house did little resemble a house. There were beautiful hand-carved puppets and marionnettes in glass cases along a hallway that opened up into a little black box-style theater. We were greeted by one of the two owners, seated, and soon a moose named Marvin was directing us through a winter wonderland where Peppermint babies, very fuzzy caterpillars, donut men, and other such creatures made us even hungrier for snow and Christmas. The kids had a great time, their eyes awe-filled as they waved to something they though real; excited for a chance to touch what was before them. I, on the other hand, found the whole thing a little creepy in the same way that some people find clowns creepy. Clowns have never had that effect on me; in fact, I've been known to think people who find clowns odd, a bit strange themselves. But now I know how they feel...I don't really know how to verbalize why I felt the way I did, I just know that the creepy feelings existed. Maybe it was the big house....maybe it was the life like eyes on the puppets. I will say however, that the men who make the marionnettes do a beautiful job! They were truely art!

Ironically, I ended the day with a much different spirit. The snow came down on Raina and I for an hour and a half as we decorated her balcony for an apartment complex competiton. We sang that "Wonderful Christmastime" song (surprisingly written by Paul McCartney) until we had to force ourselves to sing something else for fear our heads would explode. Raina is one of those friends that you make long-lasting memories with..such as this one. As the clock neared 2am , we stood on the front lawn staring up into the snow streaked sky, taking in the candy-stripped poles on her third story balcony, and feeling the closeness of the memory we had just made...

simply having a wonderful christmastime.

sprinting uphill for one minute

Often throughout a week, I find myself attempting to do this thing called "working out". One of my friends used to be a trainer and has graciously shown me some ways to make my work out "work" to my advantage. One such way involves a rotation of speeds so to speak while doing a cardio machine of some sort. Interpretation: I get on a machine, choose a program, go at normal speed for 3 minutes, and then go really hard...as in a sprint...for 1 minute. Then back to normal speed for 3 minutes. I often choose a program that consists of intervals which means that at some point during my time on the machine, I'm sprinting uphill.
It was a moment such as this that led to this blog.

Imagine, I'm sprinting...uphill...and feeling as though I could die after about 15 seconds. Sweat dripping down my face (and everywhere else), muscles yelling, lungs about burst! Everything in me wanted to quit, to drop back to normal speed. Instead my hands only gripped the handles tighter and my legs worked faster as I pressed on through the last 45 seconds.

That minute was only a minute portion of my workout, but it felt like an hour. As I returned to normal speed, I was brushed with the thought that struggles in life are similar. I was recently shown a picture of a place in my heart that I've been subconsciously ignoring for a long time. It was not fun to look at - like standing before a long steep hill knowing you will have to sprint to the top. I could tell that there would be aches and pains; that if I continued to look at and conquer what was facing me, my lungs would explode. There would be no more living the usual life.

God didn't design us to do things alone. That's a huge reason why Eve was created for Adam. That's also the reason that God desires relationship with us. I'm about to sprint up a really steep hill. All that I want to do is sit down and watch people run by me, but all that I can get my body to do is hold on tighter to God's hand and put one foot in front of the other.

My five year old student began a story like this: "A long long time ago, when I was four..."

pain in the corners revisited

I turned another year older this week. For some reason, I feel I should be blogging about the significance of life, contemplations of the past year, and the fun ways that people celebrated with me. Instead my mood fits the entry I wrote on August 14 - pain in the corners. It really says everything that I want to say.

when birthdays no longer matter

The day after Thanksgiving. The day we eat turkey sandwiches and Grandpa’s cranberries. The day we pick at the leftover pie. The day we cheer on our favorite football team (okay..well at least some of us). It’s just another day in the series of holidays, except for one minor tradition: the celebration of life. More specifically, my life. Yes, my birthday is coming up really soon, but it falls on a day when I don’t see my family. For the last seven years, we have been carving a new tradition. This year Mom made my favorite oatmeal cake; a member of our family for over one hundred years. The smell of it baking beckoned me out of slumber and into the kitchen one morning. It disappeared for Thanksgiving Day, but returned this morning. It’s silver pan taunting me…just one smell…just one taste.

6:00pm rolled around, and I could hold off no longer. My need for the oatmeal cake was too great. Grandma gathered all of the family together while Mom dug in the drawer for candles, which ended up being more difficult than you can imagine. Mom doesn’t really keep candles around anymore so in her digging came up with two white candles and six yellow candles, one of which was only one inch long. She laughed a little as she said, “I’m a bad mommy.” Then she reached for the matches. The matches that weren’t there. Apparently, Mom also doesn’t keep any matches around. This is the first time that Dad’s smoking could have been helpful (he quit smoking two years ago). Dad ran upstairs to look for a lighter; Grandpa ran to his car. Meanwhile, Mom found a box that contained exactly two matches. I lit one and it immediately went out. Mom lit the second and started in on the candles. She topped off the last candle and blew it out, taking out half of the candles with it. After two attempts to relit a match, we successfully had all 6 candles lit and the singing commenced. The troubles were over….or not so much. My sister sang in German, my dad sang off key, and Mom made up some random verse about candles. Grandma and Grandpa sang tride and true…at least I think they were singing.

I think this whole thing is a sign that my birthdays will no longer matter.

the mourning of a room once had

I’ve returned to the bed that holds me a few times a year. To the house that was once my home…still is my home…becomes my home in this transient life. The walls are yellow, not white. A request I made in honor of my late grandma. I used to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the yellow room back when it was her painting room. She did such lovely art. Except for the yellow walls and the rocker, the room is void of what was her. It’s void of what was me as well. Somehow I like it better…cleaner…less cluttered.

This room was once mine. It was once my home. The place I went for rest and comfort. In my mind, it still is mine. I grew up sleeping in this bed; read thousands of books using only the light from the street, the real reason I now wear glasses. The quilts, handmade by my mother, protected me from the cold-weather and the snakes that used to crawl around on my floorJ In the summer heat, they became my nemesis as I tried to stop the sweat from dripping down my back. I used to sit in my grandma’s rocker and watch the rain pour down the window outside caught in dreams of a world beyond. I would watch as people cruised…from Dave’s to the end of Main Street…from the end of Main Street to Dave’s, a pleasurable waste of a night.

Somehow, as I became transient, my room morphed into my less transient sister’s room. Then it became a guest room. Now it is referred to as “Emily’s sitting room.” Emily is the sister chilling out at home before she becomes transient. Each evening, after work, yoga, and dinner, she sits in her sitting room and knits. Her eyes see different things out the window…the bed is a different character in her story…the room carries a different meaning.

Tonight, the rain is replaced by snow and the rocker is too far from the window, but the bed embraces me as I drift into dreams of a world beyond. For just a few short hours, the yellow walls become my haven, the quilts my protector, and the room… mine.

My friend Chris says that I should blog more (see comment on October 24th post). I blog everyday (dramatic pause) in my head. Between three jobs, friends and family, and sleeping, I don't really have time to get my blogs from head to web. Maybe it's actually just a matter of being more disciplined.

I'm currently hanging out in one of the ritzier hotels in the Lou with some of the coolest people I know...my IV coworkers. One of the things I love about this job is the fact that my coworkers are really my friends. I share the same alma mater with many of them. We didn't all join staff at the same time, but gradually over the past 6 years. It has been really powerful to see how the Lord meshed our experiences together in college into a vocational ministry. For example, this weekend we are doing a manuscript/inductive study of the Gospel of Mark. I learned how to do inductive Bible Study from a man named Jon, who is my coworker. When I learned it from him, we were both students. I remember sitting in Jordan Hall with my Mark manuscript in front me totally in awe of the way Jon (and his coteacher Barat) could pull apart the scripture. And now, almost eight years later, I'm sitting next to him studying the same passage.

I also love this job because it isn't really work to be around these people. We have a lot of fun. There is always a competitive game of basketball during free time, jokes that travel with us from conference to conference, and really creative games (last year we did Project Runway with the five eldest men being our models).

Another thing I like about being in a vocational ministry environment is that individuals are always trying to challenge me to grow. There is one man in particular, Bum, who likes to push people's buttons - in an almost healthy way. Many of you already know that I am a "J" on the Myers-Briggs, or maybe a bit anal....organized, particular, and such. Since living with Tanya, I have lightened up qutie a bit. BUT apparently not enough for Bum. He strategically placed himself beside during our study of Mark this morning which was what caused the following events to unfold:

1) After helping my boss set up some easels, I return to my spot to find Bum eating my half-eaten bagel. Just for the record, that was my breakfast.

2) When manuscripting, one often uses several colored markers. I happen to use the fine tipped Sharpies. Bum proceded to break the little clip-thingy on one of my markers and then when I told him not to do that went for a jump at the rest of my markers....and then attempted to steal the rest of my bagel.

3) As we were breaking into small groups to discuss our observations of the passage, I noticed some pink marker underlining on a page we had yet to do. At first I thought maybe my marker had leaked through the paper, but my investigations proved otherwise. BUM!! marking on my clean paper.

4) At the end of our study, we broke into pairs to discuss what part of our lives we needed to allow the Lord to have authority over. Bum, of course, was my partner. He said, "I can answer for you. You need to give up control of your manuscript."

I think I just shouldn't sit by him anymore:)

a quote from my favorite movie

I always thought of myself as a house. That was always what I lived in. It didn’t need to be big. It didn’t need to be beautiful. It just needed to be mine. I became what I was meant to be. I built myself a life. I built myself a house.

With every crash of every wave, I hear something now. I never listened before. I’m on the edge of a cliff. Listening. Almost finished.

If you were a house, Sam, this is where you would want to be built. On a rock, facing the sea, listening. Listening.

a letter unwritten

You know how sometimes you just get into one of those moods? It’s been a long day, but a whirlwind at the same time. A lot was expected of you. A million conversations were had. Not only is your body fatigued, but you also can’t get your mind to stop working long enough to sleep. That’s how I feel tonight. I left BSF early (before the lecture) because I was fairly certain I would fall asleep while the poor substitute leader was talking. I walked into the night that had once been rainy. The ground was still wet and drops remained on my car. Rain always sends me into a nostalgic, pensive state. Last year, I often found myself thinking of you on those Mondays after deep discussions on Romans. Not much has changed. The discussions now revolve around Matthew, but often the thought of you still exists as I saunter from the church door to my car.

During that short walk tonight, I was especially pensive. Rain often does that to me. Tiredness contributes to that. Tonight I picked up my phone to call, but you were not there. Of course, I didn’t really try to call. That would have been silly as you would not have been, will not be, at the other end.

I’ve got some direction for my life. I want to share it with you. I want to know what you think. If I could get on a place…or just call you. To hear the sound of your voice…I miss your voice.
I’m floating into a dream-filled state now. Maybe I will see you there. Maybe that will satisfy the part of me that longs for you. But it will only be temporary. Monday will come again, and it might even be raining.

My grandparents live in a wonderfully beautiful place. There is a massive lake in their back yard (1800 shoreline miles, 95 water miles) complete with hummingbirds, spiders that actually aren't creepy, bats, fish that jump out of the water just as the pinks of sunset are appearing (or disappearing) behind the trees of the cliff.

A friend and I spent the weekend in this little piece of heaven. We rode the jet skies, took in the beauty, had good conversation with my grandparents, and ate a lot...at Maxine's and Charley's. The one thing about this place is that when you step off of my grandparent's property, you step into a very odd world...that of southern Missouri.

One evening, we went to dinner at Charley's. It takes about a 1/2 hour to get there from my grandparent's house. It is so much in the middle of nowhere that we even took a gravel road. Now you would not think that with it being in the middle of nowhere that it would get any business. Let me tell you we arrived there at 4:25 for the 4:30 opening...and we ended up in line...the part of the line that had curved AROUND the side of the building. After eating at Charley's, one can understand why. His food is a spread of comfort for the "homegrown" soul.

After eating at Charley's we decided to take a drive to the old cabin. Along the way, Grandma was reminded of a new restaurant in the area that she had heard of. The name? Bucknaked. The billboard we passed had a picture of a buck (for those of you city folk, a buck is a male deer), however, when we found the restaurant it was a naked man that graced the sign. We made some observations and had a few giggles, then made our way up from the lakeside restaurant to the main road via a gravel road named "Washed Out Road." Can you imagine the address? Can you deliver that pizza to 223457 Washed Out Road? HA. I was silently pondering this as we crept up the hill when my attention was drawn to something white hanging on the trees. In the forest, white is easy to see amongst the browns and greens. It had caught my too late, but I caught enough of a picture of it to realize it was underwear! As I was saying "Did you see that underwear in the tree?" it came to my attention that there was underwear, particularly women's, hanging ALL OVER! We drove by a green pair that bore the words "Hot Tomato Eve" and a red pair that said "Sizzling Sue." Seriously?!

That is some kind of messed up fairyland...where there is also a restaurant called "The Cow Pattie."

hollywood portrait of a small town

Preface:
In a previous blog entry, I believe I mentioned the fact that I feel as though I'm always blogging in my head...their's a narrator that lives up there...and I can hear her speaking as I go throughout life. I just fail to share this with the general public (which is probably OK). I've been dying to get this blog out, but have been waiting for the roll in my camera to be developed because it is much better with visual aids. But first, let me put on my hat...the one that takes me back into the small town frame of mind...
okay that's much better...
now for the REAL blog entry...






When Hollywood wants to portray a small town, what do they usually show you? They open with THE stoplight ticking...dust blowing across the deserted street. The motel that only has six rooms. Pick-up trucks and cowboy boots...country music....a least one ruggedly hot man with an accent. Being an expert in growing up in small towns, I can vouch that many of these are true (I should specify that my experience is just in rural Midwest). Granted our small town tried to keep buildings up, the cowboy boots were minimal..at least on my feet..and I'm not sure that there were ever an ruggedly hot men...although there were plenty of daydreams about them. The one thing that Hollywood uses to lure your mind to the small town setting that I never thought I'd see, I saw on my last trip home. Imagine my surprise....
the sign hanging by one chain,
squeakily swinging in the wind...