Nothing

Over the past few months, I've developed the capacity to sit for long amounts of time and do absolutely nothing. Not watch TV. Not listen to music. Not knit an afghan. Not plot my world domination. Absolutely nothing.

I don't know what I'm doing when I'm sitting and doing nothing, but I feel like I'm wasting my life.

Unemployment is sometimes annoying

I like* it when people ask me, "Well, where have you looked for a job?"

But let me clarify something. Most people don't ask as if they are actually concerned about my well-being.

Most people who have asked me that particular question, phrased in about that particular way, have been asking in the tone of voice that suggests they are about to catch me in a lie, and that all I've really been doing for three weeks is shuffling around my apartment in pajama pants and playing with my dog, all while expecting a job to magically rain down from the sky like heavenly paycheck manna. 

It's the tone of voice that suggests only idiots and lazy people can't find meaningful work** after a whole three weeks of job searching during the winter holidays, when Santa's arrival is nigh. They're waiting to see how long your list is, and it must include the following:  Northrop Grumman, school districts, municipalities/governments, Northrop Grumman, Chevron, and Northrop Grumman.

Secondly, it would be a pretty inefficient use of our time if I were to really go through the list of all the places I've at least looked for work. How about you just trust that I'm doing my part in the process and tell me if you have a quality suggestion, because your suggestion list is definitely going to be shorter than my job-seeking list. 

Thanks,

Your unemployed buddy

* Like = Hate

** meaningful work = something full time that pays more than $10 an hour. I have such high standards, I suppose.

Unemployment is still boring

I applied for a job as a library clerk today, and I discovered that anyone who can read is pretty much overqualified to be a library clerk. That's probably why it pays less about $10 an hour. 

The application process included a literacy/computer skills test that probably wouldn't baffle a 9-year-old. I had to answer 9 questions, type the answers out in a Microsoft Word document, bold each answer, save the document to the "My Documents" folder in Windows and then e-mail the document to someone using a Yahoo! account. We also had to print the document.

To answer the questions, you had to visit specific Web sites--the question sheet told you which ones to visit. (The library Web site, Wikipedia, the state's site, WebMD.) The URLs were still saved in the Internet Explorer browser history, so I didn't even have to type them out. The "My Documents" folder was the default save location for the file, so you'd have to be really special to screw that up.

We were given an hour to do this. I was finished in less than 20 minutes...and that was after I physically double-checked all my answers...and wrote all of my answers out on the "scratch" sheet of paper (I realized after I finished typing my answers that I didn't know if writing them down also was part of the test, so I didn't want to risk turning in a blank scratch piece of paper). 

I glanced over at the lady next to me who had started the test before I sat down to my computer. She hadn't typed out an answer yet, but I think she was filling out all the answers on her scratch sheet first.

I lingered for another 5 minutes before printing, just so I didn't seem too eager. My resume already shows I'm overqualified, and I know they won't want to hire someone likely to get bored and leave, although if the job is as challenging as the employment test, I'll scratch my eyeballs out after about four hours. Plus, there's the whole, "I can't really afford to live on $10 an hour" thing to deal with, too.

The second phase of the employment test measured my ability to arrange things in numerical and alphabetical order. I had two stacks of cards, one with titles and another with numbers. I was finished with both in 20 minutes, and that was after I double-checked both stacks. I was told there was "no time limit" for that test.

So, all in all, a fun day.

For reals?

I'm filling out a job application for a full time job that would pay $10,000 less than I was making before I got canned. It's a salaried position that, if you divide the salary by the number of hours per week, would pay just under $10 an hour.

Despite the very low pay, you have to provide an extensive work history, including the starting and ending salaries for your last four jobs, four references (that's one more than the typical three--and two of them must be professional and two must be personal), and AN ESSAY on "the major challenge(s) facing XYZ Industry." 

For reals? 

Seems a bit excessive for a job that pays about as much as working at Home Depot. And I know providing my previous salaries will likely bump me out of the running, since it'll be obvious I'm only interested in that job until I find one that pays more money.

And, really, when you get right down to it, the basic requirements of the job are literacy, basic knowledge of how to use a computer, and the ability to deal with annoying customers.

I've got all that. I don't need to write an essay to prove it to you.

A conversation with my mom

The phone rings. It's my mom. I cringe. I haven't told her that I was fired from my job last week, but I'm Facebook friends with her best friend and some people who attend her church, so it was only a matter of time before she found out.

"Hello."

"Hi, Amber. I was cleaning out some stuff, and I need to know if I can give this UNO game to Goodwill."

"Yeah, I guess so. I don't even know what you're talking about."

"It's UNO, and Jenga...and a doll."

"A doll?"

"It's a doll in a box."

"Keep the doll. I think Grandma gave that to me. She wanted to leave one for each of her granddaughters."

"OK, I'll keep the doll."

There's an awkward silence here. We both know this call isn't about some games. I think she's waiting for me to fess up about the job situation, but I'm not budging. She makes her move.

"Are you looking for a job?" 

"Yeah."

"Were you laid off?"

"Yeah." Lie. I was fired.

"When did it happen?

"A few days ago." If "a few days" = "a week."

"So it was just a layoff?"

"No. I was fired."

"Why? What did you do?"

"I didn't *do* anything. They just told me they didn't like the job I was doing and they fired me. I don't really--" I mean to say "I don't really want to talk about it," but I stop short. 

"That's it? They just told you they didn't like the work you were doing?" Translation:  "Why aren't you telling me the whole story?"

"Yeah, that's pretty much it." Translation:  "I don't owe you the whole story. You wouldn't understand."

"Are you going to stay there, or are you coming back this way?"

"I don't know! It's only been a few days."  Translation:  I'm doing everything I can to avoid "coming back this way," but I can't tell you that, because you wouldn't understand why.

"How long will you last in your apartment?"

"Probably through February." Possibly a lie. I won't know until I receive the rest of my pay, but probably not that long. I don't want her to freak out on my behalf. I do enough of that on my own.

"Well, let us know if you're coming back this way. I can try to clean out the bedroom..."

"OK."  

Another awkward silence. I think she's giving me one last chance to elaborate or explain myself or cry. I'm thinking of an exit strategy for this phone call when she breaks the silence. 

"I'm sorry."  

"Yeah, well, it's life."

"OK, well, I'll leave the doll here. You can look at it when you visit. Talk to you later."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Conundrum

This year I was supposed to be working on Christmas Day and the following weekend. I was going to have to stay here in Mississippi at least until Monday. I was going to miss being with my family on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Well, getting canned from my job has suddenly freed up much of my schedule and it means it's certain I won't be working any holidays, unless I miraculously land a job before then that requires me to work those days.

And yet, because I was fired, I don't really *want* to go home for Christmas this year.

Discouraged.

On Saturday, I attended this event at church for ladies. I'm not usually a "lady," but I decided to go on a whim (and because a friend was going to be there).

My friend and I both won a prize for being the least excited about the holidays. 

Later, one of the ladies came up to me and asked if I was lacking holiday spirit because I was stressed out about being unemployed. I confirmed that was *part* of the reason.

"You aren't going to find a job before the new year, so you may as well enjoy the holidays," she replied.

Now, that thought has been in the back of my mind since I was fired, but I had never said it aloud or had anyone tell me that. 

I almost burst into tears right there.

I'm vanishing.

I weighed myself when I visited my parents' house in Lafayette last weekend, and the scale said I weighed about 88 pounds--four pounds fewer than I weighed in August when I saw the doctor.

I'm about 5'4" (I think? No shorter than 5'3", that's for sure), so that would give me a BMI of about 15.1.

Normally I'd have to *try* to stay this skinny, but nowadays, it just naturally happens. My pants fit looser and my tummy's flatter. I forget to eat meals. Don't ask me how.

I guess I'd be more concerned about this if I weren't trying to find a job during the worst economic slump since the Great Depression.

I was canned

It rained the day I got fired.

I know. That sounds *so* cliche, like watching a rainy funeral on a movie, realizing that the director only called for the rain to insert a too-obvious symbol. As if a funeral itself isn't sufficiently depressing.

It wasn't raining when I was on my way to work Monday morning. I walked in about 9:15 a.m., and before I could check my backlog of e-mails that had accumulated over the weekend, I was summoned to the boss' office.

To make a very long story short, there was a fancier, more important boss sitting in my boss' office, and with one swoop of the axe, my services at the local newspaper were no longer needed. The firing itself involved a story about an inability to play the guitar and "you're a good person, really" and the review of documents and blah blah blah...but, in the end, I was fired.

Tell mom I didn't cry. (I didn't.) 

I walked out of the newsroom feeling numb. I fumbled around in my purse for my cell phone and slammed it on the desk without even saying goodbye. I was going to be back later that afternoon anyway. I got into my car and drove about two blocks to my attorney friend's office, so he could review documents before I signed anything.

By the way, here's some friendly advice from the recently unemployed--don't go to your attorney friend's office less than five minutes after being fired if you're a semi-depressed emotional baby like I am. 

I hadn't even had time to process what had happened, and there was a point in the brief meeting where the attorney friend was on the phone talking with another attorney, and I suddenly realized, "Oh, crap. People need money for food and shelter and doggie medicine and electricity and NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

So I cried, and he prayed the Holy Ghost down, and I left with my papers and some snotty Kleenex. 

I sat in my car for a minute, replying to fifty million texts asking me what had happened--less than an hour after it had happened. Word gets around fast in Pascagoula. I had parked under a tree, and my car's windshield was covered in yellow leaves. That's when it began to rain. I remember, because the windshield wipers swept the leaves away.

I forgot to get the attorney's office to notarize the papers, so instead of embarrassing myself, I drove to ANOTHER friend to get the papers notarized, but I had to wait an hour before he would be in his office, so I drove to the beach and sat in a parking lot and fielded phone calls from concerned friends. I thought about walking on the pier over the water and just jumping off, but it began to sprinkle, and I figured I would risk becoming a vegetable instead of a suicide victim. The height was not great enough, I concluded, "and, besides, it's sprinkling. I'll get wet."

Then I drove to the library and sat in a parking lot and fielded more phone calls from concerned friends. A train passed on the tracks in front of me. Rain poured down, like a cheesy metaphor of my life that day.

I eventually had my papers notarized. I felt kind of embarrassed, really, but I hid that feeling with a little too much cheer. It feels embarrassing to be unemployed.

Then, I drove back to my former office. I was going to get it all done today, I said. I wasn't ever going to step foot in that office again.

I worked in a small newsroom. My filing cabinet was in a room shared by four other people. They were all there to watch me fish out those things that were mine and listen to me make jokes about all the junk I was leaving behind for the company to clean up and all the stupid junk I thought was worth taking with me. The new intern who was using my desk when I arrived leav

I walked out with a bag and a box of stuff. A co-worker carried the box out for me. It wasn't raining anymore, but the skies were gray. Another co-worker followed. I shook hands with them and said goodbye and drove away.

I spent the night at the home of some friends. I ate a yummy pulled pork sandwich and watched children decorate a Christmas tree, so being unemployed didn't hit me until about 11 o'clock that night when I looked at the clock and--for a moment--told myself that I really needed to go to bed, because I had to get up early in the morning.

Obviously, I didn't have to get up early. I had no appointments the next day. No real plans. Nowhere to go and nothing I had to do. My life felt like my employment situation--nothing.

It hit me again the next morning about 10 a.m., when I realized that the work day had begun, but I had not begun with it. I was in my oversized hooded sweatshirt and track pants. My gainfully employed co-workers were wearing work clothes and being productive. I, on the other hand, had to look forward to busy work with no immediate payoff. Updating a resume, sending it out, scouring the web for jobs, calling friends to "network," convincing the apartment management to let me renew my lease for 3 months instead of 6--just in case I have to move away soon, confirming to fifty million people that, "Yes, I really was canned."

Now, a day later, I've made at least 34 jokes about being unemployed and said "I was canned" at least 20 times, but it's still weird to be sitting here at 7 p.m. with the realization that I have no reason to wake up tomorrow. If I didn't wake up tomorrow, nobody would notice except my dog, who depends on me for food and water and pee breaks.

Hope?

I've seen glimpses of hope this weekend, popping in short bursts at least once or twice a day and breaking through the storm in my head that has otherwise isolated me from the rest of the world for the past couple of months.

I felt it when I reached the 30-minute mark on my daily walk with Dodger for the first time in months even though all I wanted to be doing was lying on the couch. Or when I laughed when I caught him Friday red-pawed and guilty-looking with a mouthful of dirty socks that were too much for his little mouth. Instead of scowling, I laughed.

I felt it very briefly when I opened my journal and wrote a line here and there. Then I remembered how much I used to love writing and how, once upon a time, my dream of writing a book didn't feel like a dream deferred by hopelessness. I wrote a couple of thoughts I'll probably never finish before slowly closing the cover on the moment of inspiration and staring into nothingness for another half hour.

I was driving home Sunday singing happy songs instead of letting my bored mind wander and review all the people I don't want to forgive and all the situations I'm convinced will never get any better.  But as I was about to leave Pascagoula, I spotted a Christmas decoration and suddenly I was crying all the way home. 

As I said, glimpses of hope. I knew it was hope, because in those moments I could see my life outside of my tunnel vision as something that God cares intimately about and that is made up of the good and the bad. Those moments remind me of all those times people tell me that these circumstances are temporary. 

Against my better judgment, I've been convinced by certain people that gettinghelp from a counselor would be beneficial, because apparently crying multiple times a day every day for no reason, skipping meals because I was always "too tired" to get up and make them and Googling suicide methods and the locations of local pawn shops that sell guns are all indicators that my better judgment isn't even adequate, let alone "better." 

I was prepared to stick it out by myself, but that's probably even more stupid than it sounds written on this blog. 

So now I'm supposed to trust God, stop listening to Satan, take a multivitamin, find some version of fish oil that I can swallow (since I have never been physically able to swallow pills), try not to waste hours staring into space, go into the grocery store instead of sitting in my car for 10 minutes before "giving up" and going home, exerciseregularly, do social things even when I don't want to.

I have hope that, somehow, hope in God will eventually turn everything around.

But as for me, I will always have hope; I will praise you more and more.
- Psalm 71:14

I was wrong

I was so close to feeling like I was going to be a part of something great.

Sunday Digest

Today is the best day I've had in awhile.  It's the first day in weeks where I haven't felt like a helpless spectator of my own life as it passes me by. It was nice to have the sun peek through the clouds.

I'm not who I am.

I cry in the bathroom at work. I cry when I get home from work. I cry when the dog won't quit licking my face. I cry when dinner turns out below mediocre. I cry when friends text me or leave me voicemails that I'll never return, because I just don't have it in me. I cry when I think about all the things I need to do that I'm not doing. I cry when I think about all the people I'm disappointing by not doing what I need to be doing. I cry because some people don't realize all the balls I'm dropping and can't find the strength to pick up right now.

When I'm not crying, my body is lead and my mind feels like that weird moment between when you press the power button on your television remote and the moment when the picture finally shows up. It feels like my mind is always just waking up, clumsily reaching out and searching for something it can't find.

This all basically means I'm tired and lazy. I often find myself apologizing to my 9-month old ridiculously energetic puppy. "I'm sorry Dodger," I'll say as I trudge up the stairs to the apartment after a walk cut short. "I just can't." We used to walk together for at least 45 minutes each day--20 minutes here, 20 minutes there. Now we do good to get in 20 minutes total for the day.

And then I cry when he sits and stares at me while I lie on the couch. At least he's not a real child, is all I can say.

This isn't all for lack of trying. I try so hard. Oh, happy day. Joy to the world, the Lord has come. Rejoice in the Lord always. I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart! (Where?) 

I (halfheartedly) sing songs. I (try to) pray. I (try to) read my Bible. I still go (drag myself) to church, surrounded by the good example of happy people who obviously love Jesus more than I do, but these days it feels more like an obligation than a joy. But, despite all of that, I tell myself I need to live out the joy of my salvation and let my little light shine and all that other happy stuff that should make me smile incessantly. I don't think I ever believe myself. It always feels like a little girl talking back to a 7-foot man wielding a chainsaw. Futile.

So, instead, I curse the sun's rising. I can't get out of bed. I'm irritated by everyone I know (sorry, guys.) I Google suicide methods (out of curiosity). I nurse headaches and stomach aches I never had in sunnier days. 

I try to tell myself that I don't really need to take a bath, because it takes a lot of energy to take a bath (I end up doing it, BTW. I'm not running around with last week's dirt behind my ears). I skip meals if I'm too lazy to put them together. (I know. It's such a struggle even to pour cereal and milk.)

I'm not fun to be around anymore. I can't even make myself laugh these days, so I don't see anyone else enjoying my company. I'm five steps behind instead of 10 steps ahead. I don't look forward to anything. I don't see anything in the future.

I'm not who I am.  I'm sorry.

Almost as scary as a bill.

It makes me a wee bit nervous when I see a letter in my mailbox from my church. 

I always imagine it's a letter, more like a written notice, telling me that I'm no longer welcome to attend Church on the Boulder* because I (pick one) made a joke so off-color there's not an HTML code for it/accidentally referred to "God" as "Dog" in every reference in the church newsletter/talked back too loudly at the preacher during his sermon/sang a *really* bad note on stage/never bring my Bible inside the sanctuary. 

The only way I know I'm safe is when I read the greeting. I know I'm safe when it says, "Dear COTB Family."

"Whew!" I say to myself at that point while uncorking a bottle of wine and cleaning my gun in preparation for a night of sinful debauchery. "They didn't revoke my non-membership!"** 

(Another indication of a safe letter? Thickness. If it's thicker than one or two pages, it's safe, because it's probably a long explanation, with pictures and forms, of some building project thing.  Nobody would waste all that paper on something just for me. Unless it's a lawsuit.)

* Not actual name of church

** I'm not one of those "afraid to commit" people. I'm just too lazy to attend the membership class after church on the Sunday when it comes up every other month. I mean, formal membership is not necessary to participate in anything...well, nothing that I've wanted to get my grubby hands involved in, anyway. The only difference is that, if I die while I live here in Gautier, Miss., and attend that church, my obituary should state that "She attended Church on the Boulder" instead of "She was a member of Church on the Boulder." 

Covenant-keeping God

I'm going to bed super early tonight and would love to blog so much more today, but I have all kinds of flu-like symptoms and feel like death warmed over.

But...I will post this song. :O)

Exodus 6

¹ Then the LORD said to Moses, "Now you will see what I will do to Pharaoh: Because of my mighty hand he will let them go; because of my mighty hand he will drive them out of his country."

 ² God also said to Moses, "I am the LORD. ³ I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob as God Almighty, but by my name the LORD  I did not make myself known to them.  ⁴ I also established my covenant with them to give them the land of Canaan, where they lived as aliens. ⁵Moreover, I have heard the groaning of the Israelites, whom the Egyptians are enslaving, and I have remembered my covenant.

 ⁶ "Therefore, say to the Israelites: 'I am the LORD, and I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. I will free you from being slaves to them, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with mighty acts of judgment. ⁷ I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God. Then you will know that I am the LORD your God, who brought you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. ⁸ And I will bring you to the land I swore with uplifted hand to give to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob. I will give it to you as a possession. I am the LORD.' "

Favorite song of the week

"You are my strength, strength like no other..."

I sang this song in my head while I was in the MRI machine for an hour and had to pee and wasn't supposed to move or even swallow too hard

My eye and MRI

I had an MRI done today, so doctors can figure out what's causing my eye to turn red (more than usual) and protrude (more than usual).

When the symptoms first popped up last week, I assumed I'd just given myself an eye infection. I touch my bum eye a lot, because it requires "maintenance." (It creates a lot of eye boogers and leaks a lot of water.) So when I went to the optometrist Monday, I assumed I'd be sent home with a prescription and a warning to quit touching my eye so much.

Instead, I was referred to an ocular surgeon and scheduled an MRI, because apparently an eye infection doesn't cause the eye to protrude, and the redness is an eye bruise. As the optometrist said, it's possible something is growing behind the eye.

My mom knows what's going on, only because I had to call her for some of my medical history. And she's already assured me that she'll come down "when something is scheduled."

(Hold on, Mom. We don't know anything yet. Park the horse and buggy...)

If I have to make a guess based on no years in medical school and the occasional episode of ER, I'd guess that if there's any growth behind my eye, it's part of the lymphatic malformation/lymphatic hemangioma/cystic hygroma/whatever people are calling it these days that already exists as part of my birth defect. It's not unheard of for that particular birth defect to grow, and I had parts of it removed from around my eye when I was a child.

I guess I should be thankful if it turns out to be just part of my birth defect. I mean, after all, it's not cancerous and might not even require surgery, if I could live with the idea of a more protruded eyeball. ("More protruded"? Whatever.)

On the other hand, if it *is* part of my birth defect, it's like the birth defect wins another point on the score card of life.

Of course, I could be wrong and it could be a random cyst or absolutely nothing.

P.S. I wiped out my entire HRA account to pay the $1,000 deductible required under my health insurance plan, because an MRI costs $5452! Gee whiz...so much for rolling that money over to next year's plan!

This made me LOL

If you grew up in church in the late 90s/earlu 2000s, you know who Jennifer Knapp is.

She was a highly regarded singer/songwriter, released several albums, then dropped off the face of the earth with no explanation. Her Web site languished without an update for years. Her record label released a couple of greatest hits/live albums after she disappeared. 

It was even rumored that she had dropped out of Christian music because she had...teh gayness!

But her longtime fans can rejoice. It appears Jen has returned.

Rerun of the desire to have a train solve my problems for me

I once posted an entry about how I was having such a crappy day that I wished a train would kill me.

This is pretty much a rerun of that post, except amended to say that, as I was walking Dodger tonight, a truck passed us on the road and I remember thinking, "I kinda wish that truck would swerve and kill me." 

(Geez, I'm pretty dramatic, aren't I?)

In a completely related note, I got a signed "final warning" letter from the major boss that says my performance has not been up to par. (Long story. I'm not even going into it now, or my anger will flare up and I will sin in all kinds of ways just short of cursing and throwing up my trusty middle fingers.)

So, basically, it appears I will be kicked to the curb soon. Luckily, I'm on vacation next week, so I have plenty of time to decide if it's smarter to quit or be fired, and what kinds of cheeky things I'll say on the way out if I do get the boot of doom.

Oh, I guess I can also job hunt for jobs that don't exist.

P.S. Other positive? Maybe I *won't* have to work this Christmas! *insert eyeroll here*

Crop.

This is a picture of me and my brother.

 This is how the picture looks on my brother's MySpace, with me cropped out of it...

Such is life.

Confessions of a church-goer.

The 10 things I can't confess at church. Well, I probably could, but I won't. Inspired by this post at Stuff Christians Like. There were at least two Ambers in the reply last time I checked, but I'm not either of them.

These are in no particular order: 

10. There's a few things that people say at churches that I just don't understand (or I might understand, but I'm not sure). "Filled with the anointing" (or the "anointed preaching/teaching/singing/insert church verb here").  "Prophetic word." Anything that involves "moving to a new level." I'm sure I'll think of some more the second I publish this.

9. I've never read the book of Revelation. I have no idea what I believe about Jesus' return to earth.

8. Sometimes it only takes me a few hours to forget the topic of the Sunday sermon. Usually by 5 p.m., I have to do a lot of work to recall the message.

7. If you counted the number of scriptures I've memorized (scripture reference AND text), it's not nearly as much as it should be.

6. I roll my eyes at sermons geared toward families. I know those messages are important, but marriage is nowhere on my horizon, and sermons about family topics just remind me that I don't feel like a wholly complete member of society.

5. I hate the announcements section at the end of service. I'm at the end of my "being good and quiet" rope, and I'm ready to be free. Shut up. Let's go. 

4. One time the pastor caught me talking loudly to myself. He was all, "Who are you talking to?" and I said that I was talking to God, but, in actuality, I think I was talking to myself and, at the moment I was interrupted, I had *no idea* what I was saying. I still have no idea what I was saying, but it was probably very exciting.

3. I don't think I'll ever get to a place where the phrase "Jesus, lover of my soul" doesn't sound dirty or weird. 

2. Every time someone (usually the pastor) reads to the congregation one of those e-mails that list cute and precocious things children have supposedly said, I always want to yell out, "You know, I don't think kids really said any of that stuff! I think some adult was bored one day and made up a bunch of junk with fake kids' ages and names!" I never do it, but I'm always tempted.

1. There are a good number of people I see every Sunday at church whose names I should know, but I don't because I forgot after the first time they introduced themselves. I can't ask them at this point in the game, because I've been attending church there for two years and they all know my name.

I forgot to post this here last week...

I have nothing to say except...Oh, crap.

And I even wore a bright yellow sweater today...

I was driving home tonight from church, and I went over a set of train tracks. I slowed down as I was rolling over them, and the only thing I thought was, "It would be kind of nice if a train was coming and just slammed into my car and killed me."

I don't really know what to do with that thought. 

(It's been a long year.)

Sunday Digest

I didn't get to go to Church on the Boulder* today. I was visiting my parents in Lafayette this weekend, so I visited my mom's church in Lafayette--The Non-Closed Door*  It's technically a Southern Baptist church, although the word "Baptist" isn't anywhere in the church name, nor have I ever heard the Baptist Faith and Message referenced at any time, so I have my doubts about its Southern Baptist identity. 

This was Sunday's lineup of songs, in form of YouTube videos. Enjoy!

"Praise Adonai"--Haven't heard this one in probably 7 years. It's something we tried at my old Baptist church in Scott, and it never really caught on with the congregation. 

"Arise" by Don Moen. This song is great for this church, because they have a mini-choir (about 10 people) along with three or four people holding microphones, so the chorus sounds great when the voices split into different parts.

OK, I'll admit that at this part, I don't exactly remember how it went...so I'm guessing here...

I think next was "At the Cross" by Hillsong. I've heard this once or twice. I really get excited about the chorus, when it soars into "You tore the veil/You made a way/When you said that it is done." I get the Holy Ghost tingle at that line. (I don't know what else to call it? Also, I guess this proves that I technically believe in the Holy Ghost/Holy Spirit, although I'll never admit it in public. Ha!)

Then I think it transitioned into a hallelujah chorus that I didn't really know...

Then I think we went to "The Beauty of the Lord" by Desperation Band/Jared Anderson, which I had hard maybe one other time before. Maybe at this church the last time I had visited.

Then, if I'm remembering correctly, we went into "Potter's Hand" by Hillsong. 

That was it, more or less.

*Not actual names of churches

At the risk of sounding like a lush...

I started craving a mimosa about 30 minutes ago. Like, a craving so bad that for a split second I considered going to a casino and ordering a few. I mean, I assume a casino would make that for me while I wasted away $20 on a penny slot machine.

How random. I haven't drank anything with alcohol in nearly two years. I haven't had a mimosa in at least five years. 

DumbNewsNow

I found this link to a story about a mother who fears that Obama's speech to children on Tuesday will be "indoctrination into socialism" (despite no evidence pointing to that at all.)

I thought it was satire until three-fourths of the way down, when I saw an ad for a "Take Back America" conference. Then I realized it was that One News Now is the "news" outlet that's advertised on Christian radio, which is one reason why I don't listen to Christian radio. (I put the Christian music on a CD and forego the useless political banter.)

I love Jesus; I hate his news organization. There. I said it. My blog might never survive an AFR boycott, but I'll risk it.

WWJD?

What would Jesus do if he found out another old man neighbor in his apartment complex might be in love with him?

I'm hoping the answer includes flipping someone off, because I'm ready.

Religion wants women to die.

What's Wrong with Male Gynecologists?

I notice there's no condemnation of men getting prostate exams, not in this essay or any of the other writings on the church Web site. If you have your prostate felt up by a same-sex doctor, isn't that a form of FILTHY GAY INTERACTION THAT WILL SEND YOU STRAIGHT TO HELL WITH ALL THE OTHER SODOMITES???

And people wonder why women feel oppressed by religion.

Sunday Digest

1. I had someone who's been attending my church at least long enough to have her own name tag (for whatever reason) ask me if my eye was swollen. 

Yeah. I guess it is. :O)

Maybe today was the first time we ever got a close-up look at each other and she can't see my face while I'm singing on the worship team from where she is in the congregation. I just thought that was kinda funny. It made me smile, anyway.

2. Not only did I pray at the stupid altar, but I WAS THE LAST ONE UP THERE!!! Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!! THE ALTAR IS NOT MY FRIEND AND NEITHER IS BEING UP THERE LAST. WHY, GOD, WHY???

3. I'm not really a small group Bible study kind of person, but apparently my church is a small group church, so I'm going to give it a shot. I like large Bible studies where I can be anonymous and nobody asks me to say anything. I'm not a good sharer.

4. Best line of the day:  "They just prayed for my headache to go away, but Amber's still here." LOL! So true. Ten points for the man known on here as Bris Earwig. :O)

5. Oh, goodness, I'm pretty sure I hopped a few times while singing on stage this morning. As someone with a solid Southern Baptist background, I know that's leading down the pathway to destruction.

6. I threatened to cut a whole bunch of people today. I need grace.

7. In between services I took a solid 15-minute power nap on that love seat that sits in front of the pastor's office. He probably thought it was a little weird, but whatever. You gotta be flexible when you stay for both services but don't have your own office. :O)

I learn so much from the youth of today

My brother's MySpace page is off of "private" again, and I learned some great new drug terminology.

Blowing trees = smoking marijuana

reggie = regular or even low-grade marijuana

top flight = a strain of "good" marijuana, high in THC

Also, apparently kids like to mix whiskey and Coke, but that's a timeless trick...

Sunday Digest (really long)

So I sat through both services today (I know, I suffer so much for Jesus. *lol* ), and I heard this quote twice, and I can't get it out of my head:  "My prayer is that when He wipes the tears from my eyes He'll also have to wipe the sweat from my brow." 

(BTW-My pastor doesn't get credit for that quote. He was quoting something he heard from some leadership conference thingie.)

I like quotes about leaving it all on the field. I don't know why. I'm not a great athlete. The pinnacle of my athletic achievement came during that one basketball game in the sixth grade when I made two free-throws in a row. (I tended to be dead-on, as far as aim, but the first shot would *ALWAYS* fall short.) Now, all I do is run, but not for very long or far. Just enough to keep in shape. Not enough to kill me. I don't sweat easily, so I don't get a lot of that awesome brow sweat unless I really push it (or wear a sweatshirt and sweat pants in the summer--did that once just to see what it was like. STUPID ME.)

But, anyway, back to the quotes. I have this file on my computer of inspirational quotes (cheesy, I know) and I've got these quotes that I want to be reflected in my life. You know some of the classics:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat." 

-- Theodore Roosevelt

"Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible."

-- William Shakespeare

My whole life I've been afraid to strive with things *possible*  It's not that I'm afraid of the work itself. I'm just afraid that I'll do all of that work, and I'll still fail. Don't you know that sometimes even hard work and a lot of wishing can't save something from failing?

There's dreams I have that I haven't even attempted because I don't want to be left on the field by myself, the armor getting heavier with every valiant try. Sometimes I want to try something bold, but it would require stepping out into the arena instead of just sitting in the audience and watching everyone else succeed or fail. If I had a guarantee that I'd succeed in the end and show them all, then that would be one thing, but I don't remember seeing that guarantee written on a contract anywhere.

And then at the end of your life, what if Jesus wipes that sweat off your brow--but not in the way you'd hoped? What if it happens more like a disgruntled parent cleaning up a dirty child who should have known better than to get *that* dirty and skin his knees and rip the pocket on his new pair of jeans? 

And yet...yet lately I've felt the urge to say, "Let's try" when I'd normally want to say, "I can't." I've felt the urge to take risks, to attempt something harder than I've ever attempted before in my life. I've felt the urge to spend my life more on the important things that will last an eternity than the things that have no eternal value. 

I don't know where these crazy thoughts are coming from. Maybe it's because I'm getting older, and I realize that my presence on this earth as a 20-something isn't eternal. Maybe it's because now, more than ever, I'm recognizing that whole "harvest is plenty but laborers are few" concept. Maybe I'm just feeling the presence of God in my life now more than I ever have in my life and can't help but want to be used, even in the ways I would never have picked for myself, if it'll bring others to Him.

So, when I get to heaven, if He says, "Well done good and faithful servant," that'll be amazing. 

But if he decides to just wipe the sweat off my brow, that'll be just as amazing. I'll get it.

__________________________________

Now for your regular Sunday Digest

1. I almost tripped over the cross of Jesus Christ, which we left on the stage for me to trip over, apparently. Maybe if I wouldn't wander from my worship stool.

2. I briefly danced during the last song we sang. Don't freak out. It won't happen again. I promise.

3. I ate a country fried chicken steak for lunch that did not agree with me at all. I think it's because I haven't eaten a huge fried thing in awhile. My friend wondered why I didn't want to take the other half home with me...

4. The sermon was a rerun from a couple of Wednesday nights ago. Just another reason why being in the ministry is such a cushy job. :O) 

Rational thoughts on singleness

I'm being left behind.

I realized it (again) tonight when an old friend five years younger than I announced on her Facebook profile that she's pregnant.

For the second time.

She just had her first baby in May. She turned 20 three days later. She's going to have a husband and two kids by the time she's 21.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not *jealous.* I don't want kids, and I don't even know if I really want a husband. 

It's just that it all feels like a competition that I'm losing, and I hate losing. 

I thought about something just a few minutes ago:  I've never been on a date. That freaks me out.

Yes, it's shocking that a facially deformed girl doesn't date. I know. *insert eyeroll here*

I think the idea that a 25-year-old girl has never kissed or dated anyone can still be kind of cute and endearing. Like, "aaaaaaw...she's waiting for THE ONE." 

But as the years go by, it's going to become less and less cute, and eventually it'll just be assumed that I've never dated because I'm mean or insane or collect all my old toenails in a Ziploc bag. I mean, the one-ton man on that TLC documentary had a girlfriend. He couldn't do anything but lie in a bed and eat 10,000 calories in one day. I can walk and talk and do things, and I got nuthin'. (BTW, I don't want to think about what this says about my personality.) 

Then I have, like, three other friends who were single last year, and they're all dating now. Thanks, guys. (Jerks)

The clock is ticking. Not the biological clock. The "If I don't start dating soon, guys are going to assume I'm not dating because I'm an awful human being, and then I'll die lonely and without having gotten to consummate anything, if you know what I mean" clock.

Amen?

So we at Church on the Boulder in Pascagoula* just finished a Wednesday night series on The Lord's Prayer. Pretty much every line or so got its own sermon. I might even buy the sermon series, which is a big leap for me. I rarely buy sermons. (Although I think I've ordered one or two that I've never bought. LOL. I should check on that.)

After each sermon in the series, I always found I had something to write. Not the brilliant writings of a tortured soul destined to make a lot of money from a bestseller. Just thoughts. 

The last sermon was "Amen." It's agreeing with God. But, as we probably all know by this point, sometimes it's easy to say "Amen"...sometimes you're liable to choke on the word. :O)

Amen to prayers answered

...to landing the job you've always wanted

...to finding the boy of your dreams

...to meeting everyone's expectations

...to being the life of the party

...to running miles without stopping

...to inspiration that wows you

...to hearing "I love you" every day

...to being crowned prom queen

...to to getting along with everyone

...to seeing justice done here on earth

Amen to a dream deferred

...to holding on to the job that bores you

...to groping for the spark in a dead marriage

...to the art of stumbling and climbing

...to being the wallflower at the party

...to walking the only mile you can go

...to the unfinished poem and the rest of the page

...to saying "I love you" and never hearing it returned

...to never wearing the crown

...to mending the wounds that you've torn open

...to waiting for the Judge to make his ruling 

Amen to the God who takes away.

...to being fired at the moment you felt most secure

...to the lifetime of singleness that wrecks all your plans

...to falling at the one moment when everyone was watching

...to being the only one not invited to the party

...to sitting still and knowing He is God

...to the 20 ideas that didn't work...and the one that might

...to returning every "I hate you" with "I love you"

...to being the ugliest duckling who never turns into a swan

...to having more enemies than friends and blessing them all

...to setting your debtor free 70 times 7

* Not actual name of church

Obsessed with obsessions

This season I've been watching a new A&E show called "Obsessed," a reality show about people who have been diagnosed with obsessive-compulsive disorder as they go through treatment.

Life is so fragile. 

There's extreme hoarders and skin pickers and hair pullers and obsessions with teeth and fears that the foundation of your house will crumble and crush you. There's people who can't walk farther than a block in any direction from their house. Some can't drive, because they panic when they get stuck in traffic.

The obsessions are so different, but most of them follow a common pattern, at least in how they start. Most of these people say their obsessions flared up immediately following a tragedy or sudden loss. They usually showed symptoms as kids, but they always managed to get along until that one day when everything changed and nothing seemed certain or secure.

Then I start to think about when I was about 9 years old or so. By then, my baby brother was a year old and was sleeping through the night. My dad worked 7/7, meaning he was home seven days straight and gone to work in another city for seven days. I didn't really have much of a bedtime when he was gone. As soon as my brother was laid to rest in his crib, my mom would lay down on the chair, couch or bed and just pass out. Most of the time she wouldn't turn off the lights or television or anything.

So, as a child who had watched way too many episodes of "COPS" and the nightly news, I was afraid that a burglar or a rapist or a serial killer would walk through our unlocked doors and rob us, rape us or kill us all. Those are the kinds of images that would keep me awake at night (gee, and I wonder why I've always had trouble falling asleep...)

I soon figured out that the only way I could alleviate any of my stress was to get out of bed and walk through the house myself and make sure all the lights were off and the garage door was closed and the doors were locked. 

There were three doors and a garage door. A total of four things to check. So I had to get up once, turn off all the nights and lock all the doors and close the garage door, and then I'd go back to bed.

When I first started my nightly ritual, I was satisfied with just walking through once, but then after a few weeks I started to doubt my work by the time I got back to bed. When that happened, I'd get out of bed and I'd do another inspection. Then I'd get back in bed.

But sometimes I needed a third walk-through, just to make sure I hadn't missed anything. Then I'd go back to bed.

And then it got to the point where I'd need a fourth inspection, just in case.

I had to do it four times. I had to get in my bed and under the covers in between each time. I didn't realize at first that I was doing it the same number of times every time. 

I never did it when my dad was home, because he would turn off all the lights and lock the doors and stay awake until past my bedtime, so I guess I felt safe.

Another story:  When I was in college I drove nearly every day. To work, to school, to church, to friends' houses and fun parties. I can't even explain how or why, but somewhere along the way I temporarily developed this "thing" where I wouldn't exit my car without going through all the radio stations and making sure I wasn't missing any songs I liked. If I hit a song I liked, I wouldn't get out until it was over. And then, when that song was over, I had to go through the process again...until I went through all the radio stations once and didn't find a song I liked.

There was a year where I couldn't play the radio if I was "on time" or "late" for an event...because if I hit one or two or three songs in a row, I would be late for whatever I was supposed to do. I would get very anxious when I turned off the car if I was in the middle of a "good" song or hadn't checked the other stations for their songs. My breathing would become shallow, my heart would race, and I couldn't think about anything else but that stupid car radio. And to this day, I have no idea why. I had no particular problem the car radio thing was supposed to prevent. I didn't believe I was going to get in a car crash or break my mother's back if I didn't do the radio thing, but I had to do it because my mind wouldn't let me think about anything else until I did it.

 

(Aside:  Luckily, I didn't have this problem when I was driving other people, probably because I don't play the radio when I have passengers. If I started out driving somewhere with the radio off, I wasn't affected. Also, this weird thing didn't apply to CDs or when I was a passenger in other people's cars.)

Don't get me wrong. These weren't major obsessions that interfered with my life in a major way. Plus, I'm not like that any more. I check the door once. I get out of the car whenever I want, as long as it's not in motion.

But then I think:  What if my oddities are a sign that, aside from the grace of God, I'm only one tragedy away from wanting to wash my hands hundreds of times a day because I'm afraid I'll give someone a deadly virus or visiting a dentist 50 times a year because I'm afraid all my teeth are going to fall out? 

There's an old cliche commonly attributed to English Reformer and martyr John Bradford that says "There but for the grace of God, go I." (although he most likely actually said, "There but for the grace of God, goes John Bradford," but that's a moot point.)

And I have at least a few friends who love to quote Isaiah 26:3. (I wonder if they only do that while I'm around).  

You will keep him in perfect peace, 

Whose mind is stayed on You,
Because he trusts in You. 

But, just in case, if anyone sees me touching a doorknob 15 times in a row, you might want to check on me. Thanks.

Hosanna

I sat in the back row during church today. I was in a skit that day, so I planned to leave during the last song of the "worship" portion to make my way toward the front, so that I'd be ready when the band and singers left the stage.

The ushers were passing out communion, and the worship team was singing "Hosanna." A middle-aged gentleman walked up and asked if the seat two spots to my right was taken. I told him it wasn't, and he gratefully sat down. I could see the plates holding the elements of communion being passed in the rows ahead of me, and the worship team was singing the chorus: "Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna in the highest."

The man continued to speak, though:  "I was sitting over there," he said, indicating somewhere on the right side of the room, "but a group of people sat down next to me, and the stench was so bad that I couldn't take it. I know we're at church, and we love everybody, but the smell was just so bad I had to move."

I imagine maybe a group of homeless people came in late and sat next to him. Not a shocking event at my church. Suddenly, this moment that was supposed to feel worshipful didn't feel that way at all. The communion ceremony that was about to take place, in part honoring our unity as a body in Christ, felt just a little bit tainted and false.

I thought about all those times when I was a kid and someone--child or adult--would sit next to me, look at my face and then...go sit somewhere else. Or turn their back to me. I thought about how I'll never feel beautiful because of all these moments piled on top of each other that told me who I was and who I would always be. I thought about how smelly people and I might be alike in that way.

An usher came by and handed me a plate of "bread" (i.e. a wafer smaller than my pinky fingernail). I took it and passed the plate to the man, trying to think of a retort in that moment. Something witty or profound. At least something you'd see in a crappy made-for-TV movie. Anything.

I took a small cup of generic grape juice from another plate, and the worship team was surging into the bridge of the song at this part. I came up empty, offering nothing more than a repeat of the only thing I'd said to him:  The seat was empty, take it if you want it. I didn't know what else to say.

Hosanna, as I have learned from the last few Sundays, is a declaration to God meaning, "Save us, NOW." It's an urgent plea.

Hosanna. Save us Christians from sending people the wrong message about how Jesus loved people. It's impossible to share the gospel with people when you're sharing the wrong one.

Hosanna. Save us from physically taking communion but denying the meaning and purpose.

Hosanna. Save *me* from ever making a child of God feel unworthy, because I know what it's like to feel that way.

Let's all work on it together.

Usher/janitor at preschool

This is the church where I would never, ever want to be named an usher.

What is needed by Ushers to control the situation.
i.    Plastic bowls in case of vomiting
ii.   Tissue papers to clean saliva on the floor
iii.  Mats to lay people down.
iv.  Covering materials to prevent the display of the nakedness of women.
v.   All Usher should manage or carry female and vice versa

Vomiting? Saliva? Womanly nakedness? No, thanks. I'd just rather make their newsletter...

Sunday Digest

I'm supposed to be working on a newsletter right now, but I'm so tired I think I'm about to crash. Thought I'd post my weekly Sunday Digest instead and work on the newsletter manana. Pretend there's a squiggly line over the first "n."

1. I wore an outfit that looked like a rainbow threw up on me.

2. I prayed out loud even though I'm pretty sure I signed a statement in blood saying I shouldn't be asked to do that unless absolutely necessary. ;OP  OK, It's not that I'm shy or scared. It's just that my prayers just don't sound pretty enough for public consumption. But, when it gets right down to it, I'm not going to say no to having a conversation with God, even if it sounds like a conversation initiated by a stupid girl. But, anyway, I thought I would mention it because it hasn't happened in...years?

3. I stayed closer to my worship stool this time. I wasn't even trying.

4. This morning I was offered the choice of a tag that said "Church Member" or "Fully Devoted Follower." I went with "Church Member," because it was the rebellious "wrong" answer. Then for second service, I wrote "Heathen" on one...and sang on the worship team with it like that. Ooops!!!

5. God, the Holy Spirit--whatever you want to call him--He showed up today, at least for me. I'm not going to speak for anyone else, though. 

You know, when you have a really upsetting experience the week before, and all you want to do is be angry and anxious, and then you sing, "The Lord has promised good to me/ His word my hope secures/ He will my shield and portion be/ As long as life endures," it really kind of shifts everything around in your spirit, if that makes any sense.

(Let's just say there was a lot of murdering going on in my heart this past few days.)

6. My mommy was there!

 

Facial deformity nerd moment

I'm always on the prowl for documentaries about facial deformities, and I found a new one I missed a couple of months ago on MSNBC.

The only thing that completed my joy? THERE'S A LYMPHATIC MALFORMATION STORY! BE STILL MY HEART! It's not often we're represented. We're not as easy to find as the common hemangioma or cleft palate.

Although I don't have any of those weird symptoms Romane has, except sometimes when I get sick. My worst problem is that it leaks lymph fluid when I eat or talk a lot, and it's gross and sticky. I know. I suffer so much. :OP

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

OK. Nerd moment over.

So I decided to creatively respond in my journal to tonight's Bible study...

Psalm 130

I've danced in your presence 

on worn and tired feet

I've sang your praises for so long

in the midst of my defeat

From the bottom of this lonely pit

I've cried out to you for days

to reach down and rescue me

And yet you make me wait

Still I dance another dance

Sing another song

reach one more time

for the heart of my Father God

Pray another prayer

and trust your word is true

More than a watchman awaits the sun

Lord, my soul waits for you

I know you said that rescue is near

But I can't hear you coming my way

And I wonder if I'll ever see 

The warrior save the day.

You've stripped me of myself and my tools

Left a desperate heart and a weary soul

This doesn't feel like a moment for praise 

But I have nowhere else to go.

So I'll dance another dance

Sing another song

Reach one more time

for the heart of my Father God

Pray another prayer

and trust your word is true

More than a watchman awaits the sun

Lord, my soul waits for you.

Sunday Digest

1. So I wish I could wear a sign at church that says, "The worship team is trying this new rotating schedule thing. I haven't dropped out or been kicked off due to embarrassing moral failure." 

2. I continue to wander from my worship stool. Lord, help me stick near my worship stool. Amen.

3. I took a picture with a snake.

4. Get on the ark, even if there's a pair of stinky elephants! 

5. I ran into my dentist today at the grocery store. Yeah. I have an appointment with him this month, and I never, ever look forward to them. 

Sunday Digest

1. So for one of the only times in the past six months, I wasn't at both services, which means I got to rise at the blissfully late hour of 9 a.m. instead of 6:30 a.m.

2. At one point, Kim and I were a two-person standing ovation. Oh, well. I can't help it if the rest of the congregation doesn't jump on board. Losers.

3. I went running for the first time in, like, a month and nearly threw up on Beach Park. Gotta start back slower, Amber...

4. "Happy Day" by Tim Hughes is a very fun running song, BTW. Listened to it six times in a row.

Post Secret reflection

I just finished reading "The Shack" and I *still* have to blog about the Willow Creek arts conference...but I found something Sunday that I have to briefly blog about before all of that.

You should know by now that I love Post Secret.

I was looking at Sunday's newest secrets and just *had* to save this one:

If you're having a hard time reading it, it says "I got my birthmark removed because I thought it was UGLY. But the only change it made was making ME LESS ME. I regret having the surgery everyday."

I think this Post Secret the kind of thing that most people will read and not understand. 

When I was 14 I agreed to undergo surgeries number 3 and 4 to remove and change all kinds of nonsense on my face. Something about taking muscle gristle from my leg and putting it in my face, lifting my right eye, removing some junk from my cheek...just all kinds of fun stuff.

I remember being at home in my bedroom after the first surgery, staring at my swollen and bruised face and feeling very...unsettled...realizing that I wasn't going to look the same as when I'd gone in. Even when all the swelling went down and the fifty bajillion stitches from one ear to the other fell out of the top of my head, I wouldn't look exactly the same as I'd looked before.

I still have that feeling in a small way every time I look at a baby picture or even a preteen picture of myself. 

I definitely don't *regret* any of my surgeries...I just think deep down inside there's something in me that wishes the solution wouldn't be something that makes me less me.

Sunday Digest (about two days too late...)

1. I was spectacularly, ridiculously late for worship team practice. I mean, I woke up five minutes after I'm usually at church. My alarm went off at its normal time, and I turned it completely off...then rolled over for "five more minutes" that ended up being an hour. 

2. I scraped off several layers skin on BOTH knees and an elbow while throwing myself at the pastor's office door, because some of us were joking around and pretending it was the Holy of Holies. I was wearing white capris, so I required some work and two bandages from the Church on the Boulder* First Aid Team, because I didn't want the ooze to stain my pants. Out of the group of us, I (of course) was the only one who went to such lengths in the game and was the only one who required medical attention. 

3.  Someone called me their "thorn in the flesh." I can believe it. That's basically spiritual-talk for what my dad used to call me:  Pain in the...well...you know...

4. The Home of Grace men's choir helped lead worship. This was great, because the choir has some hotties, for real. In fact, I think God is calling me to serve over at the men's home in a way that involves me having to live on campus and have lots of contact with the men and such... ;O)

5. So our greeters were having people fill out cards asking them "What would you do differently if you knew this was your last day on earth?" or something similar. I filled mine out with something sassy, and it was one of the cards that got read in front of the whole church. I was kind of assuming my sass would have gotten filtered out.

* Not actual name of church

My Michael Jackson memory

Warning:  This blog mentions the word "sex" and acknowledges that I know what sex is and is not. It also briefly mentions childhood shenanigans involving me and the neighbor boy at age 8 that initially sound A LOT worse than they are...until you read what we did, and then it usually just makes people roll their eyes. It doesn't describe sex at all, but I wanted to give you a heads up in case you're squeamish, but half of you probably already know this story, because I tell it a lot. And don't laugh because the first words right after this warning about sex are "Michael Jackson." I noticed that already.

Michael Jackson will always be a part of one of my defining childhood memories.

In 1993 I was 9 years old. I had a baby brother, an ugly permed hairstyle and a neighbor named Stephen. He was 9, too. 

The movie Free Willy had come out that year, and I had it on VHS, which is how people watched videos before DVDs. I went over to Stephen's house one day and we watched it together. 

Now, Stephen and I...we had a history of *ahem* exploration together. In particular, one day we made a deal that if I peed once and let him watch that he would pee and let me watch. (For the record, I had a baby brother and I'd read several of those medical books people keep around their houses, so I already knew what to expect, more or less, but I still agreed.) 

We ended up going through with the deal outside, on the side of my house where the AC unit whirred constantly in the summer time.

On the day we watched Free Willy, we decided to pretend to have sex. I don't know whose idea it was. I remember thinking that it was somehow wrong, but I wanted to do it anyway.

So, as the credits rolled and the movie's theme song--Michael Jackson's "Will You Be There"--played, Stephen and I held hands and walked to his mom's bedroom...where we lay on our backs, my head on one pillow and his head on another pillow, and held hands and shook our bodies like we were being electrocuted. The only parts of our bodies that touched were my right hand and his very sweaty left hand.

Now, I'd known the basic idea of sex since kindergarten, and I knew we weren't even close to the actual thing, but I was content with lots of hand-holding and shaking. I knew I couldn't get in *too* much trouble for hand-holding and shaking.

So now every time I think of Michael Jackson or Free Willy, I think of pretending to have sex with Stephen.