| Time to Say Good-bye (and Hello!) |
[18 Oct 2009|04:00pm] |
Dear LiveJournal,
This isn't easy for me. We've been through a lot together the past six and a half years. When we first met, I didn't know html from alphabet soup, but we stumbled along just fine. We shared laughs and tears and enjoyed some crazy parties in the comments. I've always known I could step into your simple blue frame and say anything I wanted to. I hope you know how much that means to me.
But I've sensed for a while that I needed to move on. I would've gone long ago if our history hadn't kept me holding on. But now I've found a new home with room to store all the memories we made here and plenty more for spreading out. So, this is good-bye, LJ. Thanks for everything. I will never forget you.
Love,
Ellezymn
Dear Everyone Else,
You're invited to visit my SHINY NEW WORDPRESS BLOG! (Note to my faithful few readers: don't worry--it's still called The View From Here, and will still include your favorite features, like Pillow Talk, and My Dinner With Jacob Action Figures. How could it not?) If you follow my LiveJournal on a reader, please add the new feed. If you don't yet follow, now would be a good time to get in on the ground floor of future chocolate-covered blogging goodness!
There's a Welcome post awaiting you now! Hope you'll drop by soon. J.
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| Book Review: A Slow Burn by Mary DeMuth |
[01 Oct 2009|11:40am] |
Today is the official release date of A Slow Burn, the second novel in the Defiance, Texas, trilogy by Mary DeMuth, who is not only a gifted author, she is also a dear friend. One of Mary's greatest writing strengths is a vivid imagination. Through her characters she journeys to places in the mind and heart with the kind of insight that makes you believe she's lived there all her life. Mary is a woman of deep empathy, a bearer of beautified scars that, though redeemed, allow her to enter the sufferings of others and feel what they feel. Then she takes those soul-deep experiences, wraps them in lyrical language, and paints a picture that makes you feel like you, too, have walked the dusty streets of Defiance, Texas.
I finished A Slow Burn yesterday and closed the book with mixed feelings. To be honest, I didn't like parts of it. I was mad at the characters for making stupid choices. I wanted to call Mary and say, "What were you thinking? I can't believe you (spoiler deleted)!" But after I thought about it, I had to admit a big part of my frustration stemmed from "Happily Ever After" syndrome. I wanted everything to tie up neatly--for the prince and princess to ride away into the sunset on his mighty white steed of justice. Life isn't like that. It's messy. And complicated. And people really do make stupid choices that affect the lives of others forever and ever. The important thing to remember is that God is a redeemer and that no choice catches Him by surprise or carries a person beyond the reach of His redemption. The residents of Defiance are a broken bunch, but the fragrance of hope permeates their tragedy-torn town.
When asked what she hoped readers would take away from the book, Mary said, "That God is bigger than our sin, our regret, our hopelessness. He takes delight in intersecting the darkest of circumstances. He is there, available."
I've been to Defiance, Texas, and I'd have to say I came away with all those souvenirs in hand. But don't take my word for it. You should go, too. God is available, even in Defiance. That's good news for all of us.
For more on Mary and A Slow Burn, check out these links:
Mary's Website
Media Release
Other blog reviews
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| Yesterday. Or, Why We Will Never Be the Subject of a Reality Show |
[29 Aug 2009|01:54pm] |
Scene 1. Yesterday afternoon a photographer from the local paper came over to take some shots of me, George, and Jacob, because we're going to be featured in an insert magazine called Family Matters. The reporter comes next week to interview us.
All of that is awesome, and we're honored to be featured, but I'll be very interested to see how the photos turn out. If you've been around Jacob much, you know the mere sight of a camera (even if it's in the hand of a stranger who's taking someone else's picture) makes him paste on a fake smile. Not only is it fake, if he tries to hold it too long, it fades into what I call the car grill effect. Not the best look. So, of course, as soon as the photographer pulled out his fancy Canon, Jacob pulled out the smile. But we weren't even ready yet. George and I kept telling him to relax, but he doesn't really know how to do that. It's either full fake smile or Mr. Stoic Staring Man, unless you catch him off guard.
We went out in the back yard, the guy posed us where he wanted us, then he clicked away. I'm eager to see what makes the magazine, but I really wish I could be there just for the laugh when he loads all the shots into his computer. I know in a lot of them Jacob will have the fading car grill, and George will have one of those awkward, caught-mid-talking expressions, because he kept saying things to try to help Jacob look natural. (He also kept saying, "I think I closed my eyes." Perfect.) My smile, on the other hand, will be identical in every single one, because I was raised by my mother who started shoving a camera in my siblings' and my faces the day we were born and wouldn't give us any peace until she got her shot. I'm so well trained, I could be clinging to a ledge by my fingernails, twenty-five stories above a pit of rabid badgers, and still pull out a convincing smile should a photographer request it.
Just thinking about those shots makes me laugh. Can't wait.
Scene Two. Being a biologist, George often refers to plants and animals by their scientific names. He's not showing off. It's just that there are so many different species, he's learned to be precise. I may go so far as to say "oak" instead of "tree," but he thinks in much more specific terms. I say all that to say, last night George and I were throwing together a quick dinner, and he started giving me the business. (edit: It has been brought to my attention that the phrase "giving me the business" sounds a bit sketchy. Golly, Wally. Didn't you people ever watch "Leave it to Beaver"?) I can't even remember what George was giving me the business about, but that's only because he loves to mess with me, and the messings tend to run together in my brain.
Yeah. So, after giving me the business he stepped out of the room to get Jacob, and I muttered my response.
Him: "Did you just say something mean about me?" (Clearly he knew he deserved as much.)
Me: "No, I merely called you by your scientific name."
Him: "Oh, yeah? And what's that?"
Me: "Dweebus Dorkus."
So, there you have two scenes from yesterday's episode of the reality show that will never be. We're pretty much the Ward and June Cleaver of this millennium, wouldn't you say? Sure you would. That's why I'm going to bake some fresh, hot cookies for you. Just as soon as I find my pumps and pearls.
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| Pillow Talk (Rated R, for Ridiculous) |
[15 Aug 2009|11:37am] |
I've lost count of how many Pillow Talks I've posted, so you're getting this one without an episode number. Very unprofessional of me, I know. Sorry.
Today's story needs a bit of prologue. I may have mentioned before that George has been getting more and more interested in cooking lately. When he spotted an old copy of The Joy of Cooking in a used-book section of a local store, he snatched it up and was much giddier than you'd expect your average PhD in Forestry to be. Yesterday he attempted one of the book's marinade recipes on some beef in the crockpot. It smelled wonderful simmering in there all day.
(By the way, lest you think I've completely relinquished the chef's hat to Dr. George the Gourmand, I put in some kitchen time yesterday, too. But mine was less about the joy of cooking and more about penance. You can see pictures and read that story here.)
Shortly after our delicious dinner, I was rinsing dishes and George was putting away some whole cloves he'd used in the marinade, when the following conversation took place:
Him: What do you call just one of these things? A clove of clove?
Me: No, I'm pretty sure you just call it a clove.
Him: That doesn't make sense. You have a clove of garlic. Shouldn't you have a clove of clove?
Me: You have ground cloves and whole cloves, but one piece isn't called a clove of clove. It's just a clove.
Him: I think it has to have a name.
Me: It does have a name. It's a clove.
Him: Hmmm.
Fast forward several hours. I've already crawled into bed. He is flossing his teeth in the bathroom. Between floss-flicking sounds he picks up where we left off.
Him: I think it would be a clove of clove.
Me: Look it up in the dictionary.
Him: It's the same word as a clove of garlic, so it should be a clove of clove.
Me: It's the same word, but it may not be the same definition of the word. Look it up.
Him: Okay, so imagine this conversation between Julie and Julia. Julie says, "I see this recipe calls for cloves. But what's the quantity?" And Julia says, "Ah, yes. For this recipe you would use five cloves of clove." See what I mean?
Me: George, just look it up in the dictionary. Better yet, I will.
Him: I think I'm going to google "quantity of cloves" instead. You wouldn't look up "goose" if you wanted to know how many geese were in a gaggle.
Me: (thinking) No, I'd look up "goose" for the definition of "George." (muttering) Oh, my soul.
Him: What did you say?
Me: Good night, George.
Him: Now you're just trying to get rid of me.
No, dear. Why would I want to get rid of a man who, among countless other virtues, loves to cook amazing food? It's just hard to sleep with this incessant honking sound. That's all. Oh, and by the way, I looked up "clove" at dictionary.com. Here are the first two entries.
clove
1. --noun | 1. | the dried flower bud of a tropical tree, Syzygium aromaticum, of the myrtle family, used whole or ground as a spice. |
Origin: 1175–1225; ME clow( e), short for clow-gilofre < OF clou de gilofre. See clou, gillyflower  clove
2. --noun Botany. | one of the small bulbs formed in the axils of the scales of a mother bulb, as in garlic. |
Origin: bef. 1000; ME; OE clufu bulb (c. MD clōve, D kloof); akin to cleave 2
Well, well, well. Same word, different definitions. What a surprise. But, as far as I'm concerned, George can call it a clove of clove, a gaggle of cloves, or anything else he wants, if that's what it takes to keep him happy in a chef's hat.
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| The Greatest Day |
[10 Aug 2009|09:12am] |
If you've read Parting the Waters, you will probably remember the account of my cleaning Jacob's room a couple months after his near-drowning and finding the slogan taped above his bedroom door: "Today is the greatest day, and I am in it." At the time he was lying in a coma at the nursing home. When I read those words, I hit a new low in my grief and, between sobs, asked God once again how this could be His plan.
And God spoke.
Our daughter, Grace, adopted the phrase and placed it above her dorm room door in college. Now that the book is carrying the message literally to the far corners of the world, I've been hearing from various people who've made it their daily declaration, too. One woman I met when I spoke at a retreat was inspired to create a painting that now hangs in Jacob's current room.
Last Friday evening I spoke to the precious young women at East Texas Open Door. Afterward we hung out over refreshments, and every one of them took up permanent residence in my heart. I signed a book to each girl and included this phrase: "Today is the greatest day, and you are in it."
I can be a little slow, but I'm beginning to realize that this is no small thing. What Jacob once penned as a private reminder is inspiring who-knows-how-many people to live each day to its fullest. One more ripple from his life. One more glimpse into the beauty God is creating from brokenness.
This morning I received yet another e-mail from a mom who is helping her daughter paint the phrase above her bed in her new apartment. She wrote to verify the exact wording because they didn't have the book handy. In my response I asked her to please take a picture of the results and send them to me. And then I had an idea.
If you've written, posted, or painted Jacob's words somewhere, would you do me a huge favor? Photograph it and send me a copy. I'd love to collect as many as possible and post them on my website. You can send them to me at jeanne.damoff at gmail.
Whether you've adopted the phrase or not, the saying is still true for you. Today is the greatest day, and you are in it. Let's live like we believe.
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| Listening to Pictures |
[30 Jul 2009|10:57am] |
The best stories paint images in our minds that keep coming back to haunt, delight, amuse, or enlighten. A painting has the power to do the same thing, only in reverse. Whatever the medium, art gives us glimpses into the soul of the artist, often leaving us with the feeling that our own souls have been exposed.
But what if your life story were the subject of a painting? I know what that feels like. If you want to read the story and see the painting, click here.
Also, while we're on the subject of pictures with stories to tell, I posted a fun shot from the recent Art Festival in Marshall. (Yes, I know I've neglected my photo blog almost as woefully as I've neglected this one. At least no one can accuse me of showing favoritism.) I don't know this child, but my camera fell in love at first sight. I imagine you will, too.
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| Yesterday |
[23 Jul 2009|10:59am] |
I sat behind the table and watched them come in--some energetic and eager, some shuffling, bent as though carrying an invisible weight. Others leaned on walkers or canes or the arms of loved ones, their faces deeply lined with memories I could only try to imagine.
A noon luncheon is always on the agenda, and they usually know the rest of the program in advance, too. But not today. It was billed as a "mystery." The director had suggested I arrive around 11:00 to sell books. Always the obedient(ish) child, I showed up at 11:10(ish), arranged eight or nine books and some business cards on the designated table, and waited.
Those who recognized me came right over. Others paused at the table out of curiosity. All of them wondered what I was doing there.
"I'm your mystery speaker," I said.
Eyes lit up. Most said, "Ah!" or something like, "Well now, won't that be lovely!" No one seemed disappointed (that was nice) and a few even bought books. But most of the hour I was free to observe, and as I did, my heart began to fill with a familiar ache.
Then I saw them. A frail husband supported by his slightly less frail wife, her arm entwined around his, their hands clasped. They inched their way through the Civic Center lobby toward the banquet hall--his expression blank, hers focused yet calm. When they passed a few feet away from me, something happened in my heart--too brief to fully capture--like a subliminal image that flashes on the screen of your mind and then vanishes before you can consciously trace its shape. They were young, newlywed, bearing and raising children, laughing, weeping, burying their dead, “collecting the moments one by one” and then condensing them all to arrive at a time when their firm clasp on each other was as fragile as time and unshakable as eternity.
In that instant I knew I wouldn’t be sticking close to my notes.
The banquet hall filled. I guess there were at least a couple hundred (I’ve never been good at estimating numbers) seated at long tables. I was the last item on the agenda, and I'd been asked to speak for fifteen minutes. To give a "book review." It wasn’t hard to shift the focus. I looked across the sea of faces. Some of them are mentioned by name in Parting the Waters. Many of them had prayed for us, and some still do. Daily. More than anything, I wanted them to know that they matter. That even when the parameter's of one's life are confined, no selfless act is too small. And that God gathers all our feeble offerings and combines them to create unspeakable beauty. Jacob’s life declares this truth. And they--the soul of this community--were a vital part of his remaking. This is essentially what I said, and I could see in their faces that they heard.
Yesterday I spoke at a luncheon for area senior citizens. I sold twenty-one books and received two new speaking requests. A DJ from the local radio station interviewed me and encouraged me to keep her abreast of my projects and events. For a writer/speaker, that's a very good day. But the images haunting my heart have nothing to do with professional success. Life is a journey. If mine turns out to be a long one, I want the lines on my face to tell a beautiful story. I want to shuffle out clinging to the arm of one who has shared my journey intimately and loves me anyway. And I want to remember that no prayer rising from a heart of compassion, no hour spent by someone's bedside--indeed, no act of love is small.
Yesterday I was supposed to give a book review, but the director didn’t seem to mind that I used the time to say, “Thank you.”
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| Rock Star Fathers |
[21 Jun 2009|03:59pm] |
Yesterday I talked to my dad. I called mostly to ask if he will be available to shuttle me back and forth from DFW when I fly to Detroit next week, but before we hung up I said, "Happy Father's Day tomorrow. I'm sure I'll call you again, since I was lame-o and didn't get a card in the mail."
He chuckled and said, "Okay. Good to know. I look forward to being surprised by your call."
After I hung up I thought about the fathers in my life. My dad, the father of my children, and the future fathers of my (potential) grandchildren. And I realized something amazing and perhaps rare. I'm surrounded by fatherly greatness.
Every year when Father's Day rolls around, I see articles written by people who grew up fatherless or abused or who've lost their dads and desperately miss them. The holiday looms large and oppressive, a reminder of what they don't have or never had. Greeting card racks or store displays showcasing golf balls, silk ties, electronic doodads or other dad-type items only magnify their pain or loss.
The irony is, while they feel the holiday keenly, I hardly notice it. I'm sure part of the reason is distraction and pure laziness, but I think it goes deeper than that.
Suppose someone in your family becomes a rock star. When you're out in public with him you notice people staring and snapping surreptitious photographs. The bolder ones approach, giggly and starry-eyed, to ask for an autograph. But to you he's just your goofy cousin who always made up funny songs to make you laugh. You don't get the hype, because living around that kind of talent is your norm.
I suppose Father's Day is no big deal to me because off-the-charts fatherly talent is my norm. I was loved, cherished, nurtured, taught, disciplined, and trusted as a child. My kids received the same beautiful gifts from their dad. And I'm 100% confident my sons (I include my son-in-law in that group, because I love him like a son) will do the same. I don't need one day out of the year to force me to especially love these men. If I loved them any more than I already do, my heart might explode.
But a designated day is an opportunity to remember and express appreciation for things I all too often take for granted. The fact that beautiful fathers are my norm makes them no less beautiful and worthy of celebration. So I think I'll quit writing this and go make that "surprise" call to my dad. Then I'll spend the rest of the evening with the amazing man I married.
To all you other fathers (and potential fathers) out there, happy day to you, too. Rock on.
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| Whatever you have not done for the least of these . . . |
[20 Jun 2009|11:20am] |
Yesterday morning I was exercising in the den when the doorbell rang. I headed that way, but saw George coming from the opposite end of the house and let him get it. He opened the door and said hello to someone I couldn't see. Then I heard a woman's jittery voice. "I-I'm just looking for houses that need to be cleaned."
"No thanks. We're good," George said. The woman didn't try another tack or ask for a hand-out. She just turned to leave, so George shut the door and hurried back to the kitchen where he'd left food cooking on the stove.
I watched the front walkway from the den window. As soon as the woman came into view, I recognized her. I'd seen her downtown the day before wearing the same red halter top and tight jeans. She was middle-aged, weather-worn, and much too thin. My immediate impression as I'd driven past her had been drug addict looking for "work" (and I wasn't thinking maid service).
After she walked away from my safe, comfortable, air-conditioned home, a strong sense of loss seized my heart and whispered to my mind, "You should have talked to her. Asked if she's alright. You should have asked her name."
Inclinations can come from a lot of different places, but this was one of those, "My sheep know My voice" moments. It was so strong, I moved to a different window that afforded a view of the whole street to see if she was still canvasing houses. If I spotted her, I fully intended to take my sweaty, half-exercised self outside and strike up a conversation. Offer her a glass of water. Ask her name. But all I saw was an empty street, radiating the heat of a merciless late-morning sun. She was gone.
Ever feel like you had a chance to touch a hurting person in a deep way, and you blew it? I stood at the window and prayed. I prayed for a woman I don't know and may never see again. I thanked God that He knows everything about her and I asked Him to protect her. I also prayed that the next time she knocked on a door belonging to one of His "sheep," that person would be quicker to hear His voice and a better steward of mercy. More than anything, I prayed that person would ask her name. I don't know why that struck me as so important, but it did.
I'm not naive. I realize this woman may be a scam artist, a thief, or up to any number of other tricks. But it's not for me to judge who or what she is. God sees her heart, knows why she's roaming the streets in a red halter top and tight jeans, and is big enough and strong enough to take her hand and guide her to deliverance, wholeness, dignity, and peace.
God knows everything about her that I can't know. And He knows something I could and should--something I will go out of my way to learn if I ever see her wandering around town again.
Her name.
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| Observations of a Part-Time Twit |
[17 Apr 2009|02:44pm] |
If you're involved at all in social media (which, um, you are, if you're reading this), then you've probably already read eleventy-jillion opinions on why you should or should not be involved in social media (which is kind of like a convention of Mary Kay consultants discussing the pros and cons of wearing make up), but I guess there are some pertinent questions being posed by media socialites to other media socialites, namely a) which social media best serves your networking needs/personal purposes/professional goals/stalking addiction, and b) once you decide to join one, how do you enter the conversation/recruit friends/win followers/look way more popular than you will ever be in real life, since you spend all your time in your pajamas, staring at a computer screen, trying to come up with pithy status updates containing 140 characters or less?
Introducing opinion number eleventy-jillion and one. Today's topic? Twitter.
Yes, I do tweet. I'd call myself a casual twitterer (er, twit?). No Twizzles or Tweezers or other snazzy applications. I just log on a few times a day, scan my home page, respond to friends, follow the occasional link. I enjoy a lot about it, like Heather Wilson's word-defining challenge (@definethis), access to publishing industry news, connection with other artists, and humorous banter with a variety of folks. However, Twitter can also be a bit bizarre--almost voyeuristic at times, mind-numbing at others. But don't take my word for it. For a fascinating peek at the machinations of the Twitterverse, check out this video. (Yes, I meant now. I'll wait.)
Funny? I think so. Far from reality? Sadly, no.
Given this state of affairs, I offer the Top Ten Twitter Rules by which I personally try to abide.
1.) Do not share what kind of cereal I ate for breakfast, how soggy it got, or whether or not the fiber content was sufficient to achieve the desired gastro-intestinal response. TMI, people. Seriously.
2.) Do share updates that are either beneficial, entertaining, informative, or part of a conversation.
3.) Do not brag about how many followers I have or try gimmicky ways to get new ones. Reason? When people I follow do that, I feel like I'm merely a statistic to them--a rung on a social-climbing ladder. Likewise, don't follow people just to get a follow-back and trump up an inflated number on my profile.
4.) Do follow people who are: interesting, entertaining, have similar interests, are real-life friends, provide a service I can use, provide information I may need.
5.) Assuming those who "follow" me are actually interested in my life, do post upcoming events, like a book signing (Saturday, April 18, Barron's Bookstore in Longview. 11:00 to 2:00 Please come!!!), radio interview, coronation as queen of a small country, etc., but . . .
6.) Do not re-tweet the same self-promotional update every fifteen minutes. Also, don't post links to every positive book review I receive, or every Pulitzer Prize, or every marriage proposal from a head of state, and . . .
7.) Definitely don't re-tweet nice things people say to or about me. (I mean, can you imagine being at a party, and someone complimenting your hair, and then going up to every other person at the party to repeat their compliment word-for-word? AWKWARD!) But DO re-tweet wonderful news or compliments about my friends.
8.) Do not whine about the weather or my ingrown toenail or the five million unanswered e-mails in my inbox (Hello! Why are you on twitter? Go answer your e-mails!)
9.) Along those same lines--and perhaps my favorite for its sheer irony--do not complain about how late I am. For the love, people. If you're already late, and you're making yourself later to pause and tell the world, just go ahead and type, "I'm addicted to social media and desperately need an intervention" and be done with it.
10.) And last, but not least, never ever write, "I have nothing interesting to say." Hint: if you have nothing interesting to say, say nothing. People will assume you're busy, or having fun, or--better still--you're mysterious! You may know that you're boring, but no one else has to.
Yeah, so, if you follow me on Twitter, and I don't post anything for hours, it's not because I'm mindlessly cross-linking to YouTube social-media videos (this one is hilarious, too), or watching Susan Boyle dream a dream for the fiftieth time (today), or reading celebrity-teen gossip on Yahoo's OMG (Zach Efron has real talent--I don't care what the haters say). And it's definitely not because I'm boring. Oh, no! I'm mysterious. Hey, you don't even know what I ate for breakfast.
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| Dancing with Uncle Sam |
[15 Apr 2009|09:38am] |
Ah, it's that lovely time of year when the trees are budding, the grass is greening, and my system once again revolts, driving me to drugs for relief. Pollen, you ask? No. My misery is fueled by something even more unavoidable than the changing of seasons. Taxes.
The good news is, I actually filed last week. But not before climbing a few small mountains to get there. The final one was figuring out how to handle the investment, income, and donations involved in self-publishing Parting the Waters. After asking a few friends for advice and still not obtaining definite answers, I broke down and called the IRS tax-help line.
I had no idea what to expect. Would I have to wait on hold forever, listening to cheesy arrangements of 70s songs? Would the person who finally answered be a heartless, disgruntled bureaucrat who slaps a big, red, be-sure-to-audit-this-clueless-citizen flag on the files of callers with issues? (Hey, we all know I have issues.) Before I dialed the number, I prayed.
I navigated the voice-mail menu and then listened to Tchaikovsky's A Nutcracker Suite. Could be worse, I thought. Finally it switched to a ring. A woman answered and quickly rattled off something to the effect of, "Ah-low! Thees ees Mees Heernahndez, ID noomber Wahn Seex Zehdo Seex Sree Sehbrun Sree . . . "
I didn't catch her whole speech, because a.) I wasn't sure she was actually speaking English, and b.) I was too busy trying to figure out how I was going to understand specific tax schedule instructions spoken in a triple-thick Hispanic accent with all the words running together. What now? The US government is outsourcing tax-help jobs overseas? This was not good. When she finally paused, I assumed it was time for me to speak, but I didn't dare launch into details at this point. "Um, hello. I have a question about filling out Schedule C."
"Ah naht soor ah unnerstahn yoo, deed yoo sahee "Cee" ahs een "Caht?"
Awkward pause while I mentally translated. She didn't understand me? Oh dear. "Uhhhh, yes! C as in Cat." Nervous laugh. "I'm sorry. I'm having trouble understanding your accent."
Burst of delighted laughter on her end. "Ah, thahs ahraheet, yoo sahee Skehdool Cee, yes? I cahnnect yoo to sahmwahn who hayelp yoo weeth dat. Ahneetheeng else ah cahn do for yoo?"
I caught the "connect you to someone who can help you" part and latched on for dear life. "I just need to talk to someone about Schedule C, thank you!"
"Ah trahnsfeer yoo now. Sahnk yoo foor cahlleeng dee I Ahr Ehss."
She put me on hold where the Sugar-Plum Fairies continued to dance. I must say imagining a room full of IRS Dilberts prancing about on twinkle toes brightened my mood immensely. Then the music stopped, I heard click, click noises, and then ringing. Oh, Lord, please, please, please . . .
A man's voice interrupted my prayer. "Hello. This is Mr. Molner, ID number 02705 . . ."
I wanted to shout, "I LOVE YOU!!!!" but I thought it might be taken as an inappropriate attempt to seduce a tax employee for Schedule C favors. I will say, though, that I had such a deep appreciation in that moment for the simple pleasure of clear communication, I spoke to Mr. Molner with the deepest respect and most profound gratitude imaginable. He proved to be a friendly, helpful assistant, found the answers to my questions, and even wished me well with my book.
After I hung up satisfied, I wondered if Mees Heernahndez was a strategic plant on the part of the IRS--a way to make citizens so grateful when they finally reach a Mr. Molner, they forget to be annoyed by tax-return issues. If so, my hat's off to them for a grand psychological success. It definitely worked for me. I was so happy when it was all over, I even felt like leaping, dancing, and throwing in a few pirouettes. All I needed was the appropriate music. Hmmm, maybe a quick call to the IRS . . .
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| Mysteries of the universe and other things that crack me up |
[01 Apr 2009|09:28pm] |
Gah! I'm so behind on blogging, if I wait a little longer, maybe life will lap me and I can just fall in step and pretend I kept up all along. (Don't question my reality. I'm comfortable here.) Meanwhile, to grease the wheels, here's one quick story and a couple of fun links. First the story:
Last weekend was the FDDDS+M (Father Daughter Daughter Daughter Son plus Mom) ski trip, an annual tradition for my family of origin. We flew to Denver and drove a rental car to Beaver Creek where we enjoyed two days of amazing skiing in 50+ degree weather on three feet of new snow. Yeah. Paradise.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. During our shuttle ride from the airport to the Budget Rent-a-Car lot, I told my family about Graham's blog. Graham is one of Luke's friends at Regent College, and he is also one of the funniest people on the planet. I was mostly aiming my remarks at my brother, because he and Graham have very similar senses of humor. I don't remember exactly what I said, but something like, "Graham is one of Luke's seminary friends and he writes a hilarious blog. You should check it out." At this point, my mom interjected a question--one that I found myself unable to answer.
The world is full of mystery and wonder--enigmas that philosophers and theologians have pondered for centuries, and yet they remain unexplained to this day. This was not one of those questions. Mom asked, "What's his horsepower?"
Awkward silence. Finally I ventured a response. "I have no idea what you're asking."
Then we all cracked up. I now have a new favorite question to ask about people. Thanks, Mom!
Okay, so here are the links. First, Graham's blog. Enjoy!
Second, here are some photos I shot at the Dallas Arboretum last Thursday. Explanation included with the pictures. Again, enjoy!
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| A book review and a (sort of) promise |
[11 Mar 2009|10:44pm] |
This is blog tour week for my cute, talented friend Mary and her wonderful new novel, Daisy Chain. Click HERE to read my review and to get more info on the book.
Now that I'm (mostly) recovered from jet lag and (partially) caught up with my to-dos, I hope to start posting stories and photos from Thailand very soon!
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| Chiang Mai and Phuket! |
[11 Mar 2009|10:33pm] |
I wish I had time to write stories about all we're seeing and experiencing here. For now, a few pictures will have to suffice.
Click HERE for shots of Chiang Mai, and HERE for shots of Phuket. Enjoy! :)
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| My Dinner with Jacob Action Figures, Flashback |
[30 Jan 2009|08:53pm] |
Today I received an amazing note from Trey Sandlin. Trey and our younger son, Luke, were in the same class growing up. We haven't kept in touch through the years, but his grandmother gave him a copy of Parting the Waters for Christmas, and he wrote to express his thoughts. In the opening paragraphs he shared some deep personal ways the book spoke into his life and rekindled his relationship with God. I can't begin to tell you how much I treasure hearing stories like that. But then he gave me another delightful gift. He took a little walk down Memory Lane and told a story I know I will repeat many times now that I've heard it. This is what he wrote:
I remember Jacob before the accident. At the sports banquet the year of the accident, I was standing next to Jacob in the buffet line. I remember him picking up a dinner roll, and taking a big bite out of it. At the end of the line, Jacob looked at the lady serving the food and said, "Ma'am, it seems that a hungry member of your staff has been testing the dinner rolls," and then he turned and grinned at me, and kinda elbowed me in the ribs.
What a perfect mini-snapshot of the Jacob we once knew! Such a fun memory, I couldn't help laughing out loud when I read it, even though that banquet was one of the last events Jacob attended before the end-of-school canoe trip that changed our lives forever. Trey went on:
I thought he was so cool. I never really knew him, in fact I was kind of intimidated by him, but we were both on the soccer team. I started wearing Airwalk shoes and a chain on my wallet because I saw him do it. His life has obviously turned out differently than anybody ever thought, but after reading your book, it just shows that God has a plan for everyone. If the accident never happened, if you hadn't written a book, I might have never realized how far I had strayed from the Lord.
We never know what lies ahead down the road--the twists and turns it will take and how hard some of them will be to navigate. And we don't know how much our journey could mean to the people we've met along the way. But Someone knows all these things. He goes before us and cheers us on. He's even preparing a great feast for us when we finally reach the end.
I hope I get to stand by Jacob in the buffet line.
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| Parting the Waters Blog Tour |
[26 Jan 2009|02:00pm] |
I promise The View From Here hasn't become a place exclusively devoted to all things Parting the Waters. But I do want you to know that the book is currently being featured in a blog tour. Fifty-four bloggers have read it and will post their reviews this week. You can find the complete list of participating blogs here.
This morning the tour host sent me an e-mail with a link to this review. Wow. Made me cry. I can't wait to see what they all have to say.
Also, while we're on the subject of PTW and crying, my friend Tina and her friend Andrea made a book trailer. You can watch it here.
In other news, I'm thinking about buying stock in Kleenex.
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| Parting the Radio Waves |
[21 Jan 2009|08:53pm] |
Just a quick reminder. Tomorrow (Thursday) at noon CST I'll be interviewed by Lesley Hurst of Vocal Point Radio, an outreach of the late Dr. James Kennedy's Coral Ridge Ministries. It's an hour-long chat and listeners can call in with questions or comments. Find info about the station or listen online at WAFG.com.
Also, Friday morning at 7:20 AM CST I'll be talking with Anitra Parmele of REACHFM in Ft. Lauderdale, FL. Listen online at REACHFM.org.
Please pray for me about these interviews. It would be lovely if listeners decided to buy books, but my deepest desire is that they think about the topics discussed and are encouraged to find beauty in their own brokenness. Thanks!
Also, coming soon: My Love Affair with Uncle Sam. Mmmm. Can't get enough of government bureaucracy. Bring it, Sammy!
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| Date change |
[11 Jan 2009|03:41pm] |
Just in case anyone was planning to listen to my interview tomorrow morning on Reach FM, the date has been changed to Friday, Jan. 23. The show host called today. She hasn't received her copy of the book yet, and she actually wants to read it before we talk! Isn't that awesome? I'm excited, because I think we'll be able to take the discussion deeper and offer more to her listeners.
Tune in:
Same time (7:20 AM Central)
Same station (Reach FM)
Different date (Friday, January 23)
Thanks! ♥
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