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I’m devouring a novel by staying up entirely too late these days. Make that nights.

This line made me stop and think.

“I don’t know if I can explain it, Rae. All that stuff in the Bible that Jesus said and did – it always ended with Jesus saying, ‘follow Me.’ As if that was the answer to the rest of the questions and decisions and confusion in life.”

For three days I’ve gone back to it, rereading it and comparing it to my own experience. It’s true. I have questions (oh, so many questions) and often Jesus’ response isn’t what I think I want. It’s not an answer, per se. (oh, how I wish it was.) It’s a call to action. To follow Him. To believe Him.

When I’m trusting Him, my questions don’t vanish, but I tend to get perspective. I think I’m starting to realize I’ll have questions no matter what. So the decision before me is do I follow Him amidst them or not?

just add branches

Rumors were flying that last Saturday’s blog photo was the best that our tree was going to look. That would be the saddest Charlie Brown tree. Ever.

It was just the start and…ta da! Here’s me filling in for Vanna White to put your fears at rest.

We have a full-on tree. And a big ‘ol star, thanks to roommate Deb. Jodi had to McGyver it with trash twistee ties so it wouldn’t nose-dive off the tree.

Tonight’s festivities: our house is a stop for Jodi’s team on their Christmas progressive dinner route. My team is heading to a nearby church for a sold-out Andrew Peterson concert. Behold the Lamb of God, is a must-get CD this Christmas if you don’t have it!

martha stewart’s christmas letter to erma bombeck

This came from an e-mail dated 1997 from my mom that I found in a Christmas box this year when we started decorating. No idea who wrote it, sadly. Wish I could take credit! May you enjoy the Christmas season with Erma joy and not Martha clammering.

Hi Erma,

This perfectly delightful note is being sent on paper I made myself to tell you what I have been up to.

Since it snowed last night, I got up early and made a sled with old barn wood and a glue gun. I hand painted it in gold leaf, got out my loom and made a blanket in peaches and mauves.

Then to make the sled complete, I made a white horse to pull it from DNA that I had just sitting around in my craft room.

By then, it was time to start making the placemats and napkins for my 20 breakfast guests. I’m serving the old standard Stewart 12-course breakfast, but I’ll let you in on a little secret: I didn’t have time to make the tables and chairs this morning, so I used the ones I had on hand.

Before I moved the table into the dining room, I decided to add just a touch of the holidays. So I repainted the room in pinks and stenciled gold stars on the ceiling.

Then, while the homemade bread was rising, I took antique candle molds and made the dishes (exactly the same shade of pink) to use for breakfast. These were made from Hungarian clay, which you can get at almost any Hungarian craft store.

Well, I must run. I need to finish the buttonholes on the dress I’m wearing for breakfast.

Love, Martha

 

Dear Martha,

I’m writing this on the back of an old shopping list. Pay no attention to the coffee and jelly stains.

Burned my arm on the curling iron when I was trying to make those cute curly fries. How do they do that?

Still can’t find the scissors to cut out some snowflakes. Tried using an old, disposable razor. Trashed the tablecloth.

Tried that cranberry thing. Frozen cranberries mushed up after I defrosted them in the microwave.

The smoke alarm is going off, talk to you later.

Merry Christmas!

Love, Erma

A-ha #247: God is not like my doctor

The term endocrinologist has its root in Latin. It means one who exposes the diabetic for their poor blood sugar control. One who talks about patients in the break room with coworkers over lunches thrown by pharmaceutical reps.

Not really, but that’s my fear.

I make a confession. I saw my diabetic doctor on borrowed time today.

I was that patient. Yes, that person who reschedules her appointment to bide time.

My sly arrangement bought me two extra weeks. My plan was to change my life within those 14 days.

• I’d have blood sugar readings that would cause my glucometer to turn gleefully pink like a mood ring.
• I’d stop supporting the Diet Coke dynasty.
• I’d say adios to my Taco Bell friends who serve me my bean burrito (sans red sauce) with such care through my car window.

But my life didn’t change. And I walked into the office feeling like a failure. I only see her three times a year. And every time I vow to change my life before the next visit.

But today I had this life a-ha. God is not like my doctor. He’s not checking my chart, looking over at me with his bi-speckled-framed eyes. He’s not sighing, plotting a plan for how to get me back on track. He doesn’t wonder when I’m ever going to get it right. (Dr. Wendy, if, on the off chance you’re reading this amidst your crazy, doctor-paced life…I do like you. This isn’t about you. It’s me. [Cue breakup music])

I’ll state the obvious: If I could have changed myself, I would have by now. Believe me. But I can’t. (Do I hear a faint amen?)

God isn’t like my doctor – telling me what to do, how to change…and then checking up with me months later. Rather, God is my very Life. He gives me the power to change. He is intimately involved in my life. And He’s in the process of making me look more and more like Jesus. And He’s using diabetes to do it. Exposing my legalism for the lifeless endeavor that it is. Beckoning me to rest in His strength, in His ability to change me.

From the inside out. Not the other way around.

Woo hoo!

 

2:45 a.m.

I don’t know Paul Armstrong. So it feels a little uncomfortable to see his sleepy state at 2:45 each morning. Yet I’m intrigued.

He wakes himself up daily and takes a 2:45 a.m. self-portrait.

I won’t be doing that. Not even if you double-dare me and throw in Diet Coke.

Sleep is way to precious of a commodity to me.

Speaking of, I bet my sleep-study-tech/new-friend Bill would have a hayday charting Paul’s sleep cycles.

eharmony matches gone awry

I have a friend who recently signed on with eharmony.

No, I’m not referring to myself in the classic I-have-a-friend scenerio. I do have a friend in this very-live instance. And she’s very cool, just for the record. So cool I cannot believe this happened to her.

She got matched with a tarot-card reader.

Two thoughts:

1. Why in the world did Dr. Neil Clark Warren set up a follower of Jesus and a tarot-card reader? I’d say that’s a miss.
2. If the tarot-card reader is qualified to tell the future, um…why does he need eharmony? Oh, wait. Maybe there’s a new eharmony card in the tarot deck. And he drew it when consulting for himself. It said: “Sign up with eharmony. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.” Oops. There must have been a Monopoly card thrown in there.

and it was good

This morning, Jodi, Deb and I retrieved dusty boxes and containers of unknown contents.

After two tree-less years (another story), we played God and started assembling one this morning. I think God was faster. His turned out a little more fragrant, too, but I’m just so glad to have one.

I forgot how it’s like Christmas just pulling out Christmas decorations. Huh. I forgot I had this ornament from 4th grade.

And we found a Christmas village house that none of us can identify or claim. We shrugged our shoulders and agreed to display it upstairs.

Nothing says Christmas like a little alzheimers stealing.