Can’t wait for sunset and fireworks on Sunday!  Have a great weekend, everyone!

I’m a whiner.  I have a tendency to complain about discomforts big and small.  Really.  You have no idea.

I’m too hot.
My Achilles tendon hurts.
I’m bored.
My jeans don’t fit.
The carpet’s dirty again.
I have to cook dinner again.
I’m tired.

And, believe me, I’ve also complained about the bigger things in life.  The terrain of my life has been shaped by divorce, death, infertility, financial strains, cancer, adoption, and other stuff so crazy you might not believe me if I told you.  How is that fair?

But now, I’m forty-five.  I’m old enough to (almost!) need reading glasses, yet I see more clearly than I have ever before.  I’ve climbed the rocky terrain of my life and find I can see farther than I could before I needed contact lenses to see the television screen.

No matter what trial or tragedy I have faced, someone has experienced something worse.

It’s hard to quantify sorrow and loss.  Is the death of my 47-year old dad worse than the loss of your elderly grandpa?  Is the heartbreak of miscarriage worse than the despair of infertility?  Is is really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?  Is my pain worse than yours?

All I have to do is listen and look to see that no one is exempt from pain.  We all suffer.

I’m ashamed of my petty complaints when I consider the widowed young mom, the battered wife, the parents who bury their children, the displaced families in Third World countries, the mothers who have no clean water for their children, the men who cannot provide for their children, people who struggle with physical ills, kids who grow up with black eyes instead of love . . . the list is endless.

And I have a family who is safe in our suburban home.  I share my life with a husband who works hard and considers our family first.  My car will not break down tomorrow and if I want to, I can go to the grocery store and buy whatever strikes my fancy. Our roof doesn’t leak.  I can wash endless loads of laundry in my fancy high-efficiency machines.  My kids are all safe and healthy under our roof.

I am aware of unmerited blessings and I am grateful.

I’m not afraid of a lot of things.   (Except for those things I fear:  spiders, snakes, running into someone I know at the grocery store, and automated car washes.)  I’m okay with heights, public speaking and upside-down roller coasters.

When I was 18, I boxed up my belongings, mailed the boxes to a college in Missouri and rode a Greyhound bus for three days and nights to start my college career.  I had never seen the college before.  I didn’t know anyone there but one woman who worked in the administration office.

No big deal.

Back then, if you gave me a giant, life-altering decision, I didn’t really flinch.  I considered myself a rather timid person–I really hated to ride the city bus because inevitably some scary looking person would want to befriend me–but I was braver than I knew.

I think this is the bravery that accompanies limited life experience, when you can touch the edges of your life without leaving your bedroom.  Everything is so contained, so controllable.  You hardly even need a telescope to see the border between you and the unknowable future.

You don’t know what you ought to fear.  You haven’t shaken hands with the sorrow life will hand you, the losses you’ll endure, the battles you’ll fight, the impossible situations you’ll navigate.  You just don’t know.

You have so little to lose when you’re young.  You think your problems are compelling and worthy of the notebooks you fill with the angst you cannot contain.  Your life is a miniature; it only feels enormous to you.

When I was very young, I remember riding through the automated car wash with my dad.  I may have dramatized the actual events in my memory, but I recall sitting on the floor of the car, terrified that the water would swoosh through the windows, that those flapping strips would somehow slap water into the car.

I still hate the car wash. I avoid it, even though I’m grown and I know that the car will emerge all shiny and clean.  I wince at the very idea of steering my car into those metal grooves at the car wash entrance.  I’m afraid of it.

Fear is sometimes irrational.  Logic informs you that you’re out of my mind to be afraid.  But what difference does that make?  You can’t slow your racing pulse.

Rational fear is worse.  You know exactly how things can go wrong.  You know what each person might lose.  You can pinpoint where disaster will occur.  You know.

At the same time, the older I get, the less I fear.  I planned my wedding.  I was even so foolhardy that I sewed my own wedding dress.  I watched cancer kill my father.  I planned his funeral.  I moved across the country with my husband more than once.  I gave birth twice at home with the assistance of midwives.  I sat in the waiting room while my husband had surgery to remove cancer from his larynx.

And through each situation, I discovered a strength I didn’t know I had.  I survived. My partnership with my husband thrived.  I felt the arms of God surround me as I cried.  I found out I can handle even the weirdest situation.

Not that I want to.  I don’t want to fling myself into crazy circumstances.  I don’t want the earth to shift beneath me, for the foundation to crack and the windows to shatter.  I don’t want things to change.  I am afraid of change.

But does anything ever stay the same?  My kids insist on growing older, day by day.  The seasons refuse to stay and linger.  People die.  Babies are born.  Nothing ever stays the same.

That scares me in a way that a 2,000 mile bus journey never did.  I’m older.  I’m wiser.  I’m terrified by my age and wisdom and by the unknown.

I’m not sure that I would ever do again what I did when I was 18.

If it were up to me, I’d stop the clock.

It’s not up to me.

But don’t expect me to kill a spider or get the car washed.  That’s where I draw the line.

Last night, I had so much to do that I didn’t turn off my computer until 2 a.m.  I was sound asleep by 2:30 a.m.

At 8:30 a.m., the telephone rang.  I picked it up, noticed the lack of caller-identification and said hello.

The man on the other end of the line launched into an angry tirade that went something like this:  “Stop stealing my newspaper!  Every morning my newspaper is gone and I know you are stealing it and I want you to stop taking my newspaper!”

I interrupted, “Excuse me?” and he continued on, ranting about his stolen newspaper.

I thought he probably had the wrong number, so I said, “Excuse me?  What house number are you talking about?  Because we have not taken your newspaper . . . ” and he grew angrier and louder and said, “Do you want me to come over because you do NOT want me to come over to your house and I AM COMING TO YOUR PORCH RIGHT NOW SO YOU BETTER WATCH OUT!”

And he hung up on me.

My heart pounded.  Now wide awake, I cast about for the suitable attire to possibly call the police and fend off a raging lunatic with a thirst for newspapers.  Also, I put on my glasses so I could see.

I feared my kids would open the door if someone knocked, so I hurried downstairs to find my house completely quiet.  Every one of my children were still soundly sleeping.  I checked the locks on every door, deadbolted the front door and peered out the front window to see if a crazed man was approaching my house.

Nothing.  No one.  Only sweet, peaceful morning silence.

I decided the nutcase on the phone dialed my number by mistake.

I returned to bed.

But it took me a good hour before I was settled down enough to sleep.

In other news . . . well, there is no other news because someone is stealing newspapers.  But it’s not me.

Have you seen the website called Stuff Christians Like?

(The following description is directly from the site.)

Does the stuff we like, ever get in the way of the God we love?

That’s the question Stuff Christians Like is all about.

It’s also about booty, God, booty.

And surviving church as a single adult.

And knowing how metrosexual your worship leader is.

And how serious, a serious Wednesday can be.

And hilarious/insightful comments from readers around the world.

And how laughter is a gift from God and when we refuse to accept it, it makes Him want to take it back. Like the unicorns.

Started on March 21, 2008 as a reaction to the wildly popular blog Stuff White People Like which was created by Christian Lander, Stuff Christians Like is a blog about the funny things we Christians do. And what they just might reveal about our faith.

The site is written by Jonathan Acuff, a preacher’s kid/copywriter who lives in Atlanta with his wife and two kids.

The most popular post on the site is “Pastor’s Kids Gone Wild.”  Just in case you wondered.

Anyway, the author of the site, Jonathan Acuff, wrote this book called . . . wait for it . . . Stuff Christians Like.  And I received a free copy to review . . . so I was all prepared to skim through it quickly so I could get the gist of it . . . and then before I knew it, I was trying to explain it to my husband.  I flipped through some pages and came upon a section that made me laugh so hard I couldn’t speak.  No exaggeration.  I didn’t even get to read the whole book before I wrote this post because my husband TOOK MY BOOK.  (I got it back, though.)

So, based on that moment of hilarity, I heartily recommend this book.  Only, if you didn’t grow up in church or if you aren’t involved in church now, you might not “get” it.  I’m not sure.  If you check out the site and find it amusing or thought-provoking you’ll like this book.

You can buy it here.  (Less than ten bucks!)
You can “Like” Jonathan on Facebook here.
You can follow him on Twitter here.
You can read what others bloggers said about this book here.

I like this book.  And I’m not just saying that because I got a free review copy.

The past few years, we’ve vacationed at the ocean.  Some friends have a cabin we can rent.  While the water’s too cold and treacherous for swimming, the shore stretches miles either way and when the clouds part, we’re treated to the sun setting over the horizon.

My daughter has been asking if we’re going anywhere and finally, I mentioned that we’ll be heading to the ocean in a few weeks.

She immediately started packing.

She started with stuffed animals.

Then she packed all her good underpants and most of her summer clothes.

She ran out of room, so she dumped out her school backpack and filled it.  With something.

Then she retrieved her backpack from kindergarten.

Still not satisfied that she had enough stuff, she asked me for a bag.  I gave her a smallish backpack.  She packed it full.

Anticipation is half the fun and she has embraced it with her whole self.

Too bad she can’t find a thing to wear.

Today the temperature reached over 75 degrees for the first time in ten thousand over two hundred days.

Today was the fourth day of Summer NoBreak.

Today the Slip-n-Slide ripped.

Today my teenagers slept until 2 p.m.

Today I couldn’t remember what day it was.

Today I went to the post office.

Questions I am sick of hearing:

“What can I eat?”

“Are we going anywhere today?”

“Why can’t I go with Zach?”

“What can I eat?”

“What can I eat?”

“Can I have a Kit-Kat?”

Poor Grace.  All she wants is someone to herd.  She’s like an Australian shepherd without a job.  She’s a girl without a younger sister to boss around, a  babysitter in search of a baby, a bored, bored, bored 7-year old. Bored.

Today she was outside with her 12-year old brother.  All seemed well.  The sun was shining.  She reported that they were playing a “really fun game.”

And then they weren’t.

I noticed through the kitchen window that she has assumed the pouting posture: arms folded against chest, head down, stomping feet leading her behind the deck.  And her brother looked nonchalant.

I knew it was bad news.  But I had hope that they’d work it out.  (I am foolishly optimistic at the oddest times.)

Eventually, the patio door slid open and she came through, sobbing, rubbing her eyes with a fist and explaining through gasps the grave injustice that her brother had perpetrated against her.

He put a metal thing on the tire swing.

A METAL THING!  On the TIRE SWING!

And?

“And I told him I didn’t want it there and he didn’t take it off.”

Blank stare.  And?

“AND HE ACTED LIKE HE COULDN”T SEE IT . . . even though I did THIS!”  (Insert pointing gesture.)

Huh.

She resumed dramatic sobbing.

Eventually she removed the metal thing (the metal thing?!) but she could not get over the personal slight, the nerve of him to put on the metal thing and NOT REMOVE IT, how DARE HE!?

“He didn’t say he was sorry!”

I sighed, yanked open the patio door and called him over.  “Please, Zach, tell her how sorry you are for not removing the metal thing . . . (and make it sound like you actually mean it!).”

He did.

She sort of accepted the apology but still cried, still rubbed her fist into her grimy face.

I suggested that if she needed to continue crying about it, she could go to her room.

I did offer a hug.

I tried to understand the gravity of the situation, but, alas, I did not.

How many days is Summer NoBreak, anyway?

I don’t wake up every day and notice that my father’s dead.  But on Father’s Day, I can’t help but notice.  I don’t have a dad.

My dad wasn’t the typical dad.  He didn’t have a lot to say.  We didn’t have a lot of heart-to-heart conversations.  We usually had dinner together and I’d try to save something funny to share at dinner-time, but that was often the only time I’d see him during the week.

He worked hard.  He worked the graveyard shift for thirteen years . . . so for most of my life, he was working while I slept.  When he came home, he’d work more, fiddling with computers, fixing televisions and radios.  Soldering irons, Morse code and cold cement floors remind me of him . . . because when he wasn’t at work, you could find him in the cold garage, fixing things.

He barely slept.

He had an unexpected creative side.  Toward the end of his life, he took oil painting classes.  He always loved photography and framed the images he captured.  He acted in local theater productions and sometimes, he’d sit at the piano, play a few chords and croon a song.  I cannot hear “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” without hearing his voice in my head.

The last four months of his life were tough.  My husband and I lived with him while he died from malignant melanoma.  On Father’s Day, 1989, he asked if I’d mind if he went to visit a friend of his . . . his friend, Jim, a funny little man who hid his bad teeth with a close-mouthed grin.  He couldn’t always keep his teeth out of sight, though, because my dad would make him laugh so hard his mouth flew open.

My dad was funny.  He would occasionally prance through the house singing, “I feel pretty, oh so pretty. . . ”  He loved to laugh.  His dark side overshadowed his humor far too often, but he was a funny guy.

I miss him.  I was thinking today that when I’m his age I will have lived without a father for half my life.  He died when I was only 24, before I became a mother, before I had any idea what it meant to be a parent.  I’m not sure he had any idea, either, but he was starting to get the hang of it when he died on September 21, 1989.

I know he loved me, though, and that’s all that really matters.

Today was my youngest child’s school Beach Day.

I’m starting to notice the things I’ll never do again.  For instance, I’ll never again give birth, attend kindergarten orientation, or sign up my child to play T-ball.  These things have rolled past me just like that soccer ball rolled past the British goalie.  (You might know what I mean.  Let’s just say that guy couldn’t hold on.)

I can’t hold on.  Some things dissipate just after you’ve decided to inspect them.  You’re left grasping air in your fists.

Today I went to Beach Day.

My last first grade Beach Day.

I tried to be sad about it, but I went to my first first grade Beach Day ten years ago.  I have mixed feelings or maybe I’m in denial.  I am aware, though, that this day was the end of a chapter.  Or maybe just the end of a paragraph.

But, let’s not fret.

Here are a few things I have yet to do:

1)  Post bail.
2)  Attend a high school graduation featuring my kids.
3)  Teach my children to drive a car.
4)  Drive my kid to college and leave him/her there.
5) Cry over my empty nest.

Here are things I cannot quit doing:

1)  Laundry.  Countless loads of balled up socks and clothes that collapsed right next to the hamper.
2)  Cooking dinner.  One of my teens informed me that placing chicken in the Crock-Pot and turning it on is not “technically” cooking.  I suggested that perhaps he would like to cook dinner?
3)  Staying up too late.
4)  Worrying.
5)  Leaving dirty dishes in the sink overnight.

The end.