Hymns Not Heels

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Before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes. That way when you criticize them, you are a mile away from them and you have their shoes.

Anonymous

I was listening to my mom and some of her friends chit chat the other day – yes, kind of eavesdropping because I feel like her friends give me funny looks sometimes and it makes me wonder what my mom is telling them about me - but that’s a WHOLE other story. Anyway, their conversation was about whether or not it was proper to wear a skirt or dress without stockings – you know – nylons, especially to church. The general consensus of these ladies was that indeed it was not appropriate to have bare legs at church. I realize that this is probably a generational thing. That generation – like the ladies in Steel Magnolias – just didn’t go out without lycra on their thighs and nylon on their knees. And actually I can remember going through a lot of plastic-egg stockings about 20-25 years ago myself. But times change, and while tights are ok, most women don’t wear the flesh colored nylon tubes so much anymore - and personally I’m ok with this. I don’t think bare legs are akin to discarding the corset and tossing away all ties to virtue.

However, I’ve noticed a trend lately that has pushed me closer to the cranky Victorian Prude Club. This isn’t a club I necessarily want to join, so I could use some feedback…just to see if my crank-o-meter is overreacting.

I live in a ward (a church boundary area) that has quite a few upwardly mobile relatively affluent young couples. These couples all seem to be very fashion forward and the women have some really fabulous shoes –the men too actually, but my beef is really more with the women. If fashion is your thing, I think it’s great to have fun with shoes – colors patterns, prints, heals, buckles, bows and all of that. But I do find myself wondering if every type of shoe is appropriate for a church setting. I know how this makes me sound, but I can’t help but wonder if church is really the place for an elevated peep-toe, 6 inch heel leopard print pump. Can you really teach primary in black thigh-high leather stiletto boots? And it seems to be hard to chase a toddler across the foyer in scarlett patent leather stacked-heel strappy sandals – especially when there’s 6 inches of snow outside.

Leggings are another thing I’m wondering about. Leggings are like tights without the feet – usually black, and often popular with teenage girls. They wear an extra long top or really short skirt with leggings underneath – kind of like pants – and it can be a really cute look on some people. But, like my mom’s blue-hair crowd and the stockings, I find myself wondering if wearing the mini dress with leggings is really ok for church. For a date - Yes. For the movies - go for it. For dancing - you betcha’. But for studying the word of the Lord? I’m not so sure.

I’ve probably crossed way over into crank-a-potomas-land and I do realize that at the end of the day attending church is more important that what you wear to church (for those who are believers). But I guess that’s kind of my point too. Maybe Church shouldn’t be about the fashion as much as it is about the message. And maybe skewing towards the more conservative end of the closet and passing up the stripper heals just once a week wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

What do you think?

Bigger Is Not Always Better

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My 5-year-old, Hubba, has been a train-lover for as long as I can remember. This last Christmas he got an amazing train layout for someone his age, complete with bridges, a crane station, sound effects and a remote control with forward and reverse action. Every time we set it up on the kitchen table he is glued to it for hours on end, re-building the layout of the track and watching the engine chug uphill with random items placed in the freight cars it pulls from behind. There is only one problem with this little slice of train heaven and that is his 20-month-old brother, O.

Have you ever seen the movie Lilo and Stitch? Remember how Stitch can not stand to be still? How he goes crazy when he is not destroying something? That would be O. When Hubba's trains are out O's main objective is to discover a way to get onto the table and maniacally throw train pieces to the floor.

A few days back, this was the struggle I was dealing with. Frantic screams of Mom, he's getting on the table!! from Hubba were becoming draining. I was trying to organize my kitchen cupboards and somewhere around the 4th plea to remove O from the table I found my solution: a tiny wind-up train with a small, circular track which I had purchased for a quarter at a secondhand store last summer. The original plan was to place it on Hubba's birthday cake last October but it had been forgotten in the back of the cupboard.

I placed the small track on one side of the table and while winding the train told O, "This is your train. That is Hubba's train. Okay?" and then set the wind-up engine down on the track. He squealed with delight as the train made its way around the tiny circle and was fascinated by this new distraction. Perfect.

As I got back to organizing O let out a frustrated cry. I turned to see Hubba playing with O's little train. "I want this train," he told me. "Sure," I answered, feeling clever, "then O can just have your train set. Okay?"

"Okay," he replied, winding the cheap train and watching it circle the minuscule track.

"Hubba," I reasoned, "you want to give O your big train set with the bridges and remote controller?"

"Yeah," he answered, winding the dime-store train again, "he can have it."

Don't you hate when they call your bluff?

The whole thing brought this comparison to mind: how often do we have something that is wonderful and amazing only to see that someone else has something we don't have... and then our focus changes. Suddenly what we have is not good enough and we want something else; something we don't have and think that we want or even need. When this happens it can be difficult to recognize and appreciate how happy we really already are.

I'm not only talking about possessions like gadgets and cars and houses and stuff, but about things like people and happiness and time and silence... and the list goes on and on. Why is it so easy to get in that mindset of the-grass-is-always-greener-somewhere-else and so difficult to see what amazing things and blessings we DO have and to just be thankful?

I can't even begin to count how many times in my own life I have found myself looking at another person's things, their place in life, even something as simple as the number of comments on their blog (you know it's true... they're like blog-applause!) and wishing that that were me. I realize that I need to stop recognizing the things I don't have and start counting my blessings instead. THAT is where true happiness lies.

I think that the idea I am trying to express is well defined in a quote by Epictetus:

He is a wise man who does not grieve
for the things which he has not,
but rejoices for those which he has.

Still, try explaining that whole concept to a 5-year-old...

The Chain Text

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The lonely wind howled outside my window, like a lost, friendless soul wanting to get in. I gazed at my ceiling, full of sullen darkness—inky and black. I listened as the sounds of the night as they cascaded around me, nestled under a warm comforter. As I closed my eyes to take in the hours of sleep awaiting me, my phone beeped, an indicator that I had just received a text message.

I glanced blearily at the clock; now just who would be texting me at 10:20? I looked at the number and immediately knew that it wasn’t someone that I spoke to on a regular basis; after all, their number didn’t show up in my contacts.

The text read:

FWD: FWD: FWD: FWD: Brake this chain u will c a lil dead BOY in ur room 2nite. In 53 secs someone will say they lov u.send 2. 10

What in the world? Now who would send a text like this at such a late hour? I remembered getting a chain letter in the mail once when I was a kid, promising that I’d be rich in a couple days if I copied the letter and sent it to ten other people; I also remembered not getting rich after doing so. However, this text was entirely different, I was being threatened with seeing dead people in my room if I didn’t send the text onward and curse 10 of my friends or family members with the same thing.

What was this, The Sixth Sense?

I waited for 53 seconds. Nobody said that they loved me…odd. Could the text have been wrong?

Well, I decided to find out who the mysterious culprit was who’d sent it, and dialed the return phone number.

The phone rang six times and then reverted over to the voicemail, which was a recording of the number I’d just dialed in the ‘telephone operator’ voice.

I hung up the phone and turned over to go to get back to sleep when my phone rang.

I answered.

“You called me?” came a vaguely familiar voice.

“That all depends,” I replied. “Just who is this?”

It turns out; it was a boy who was in my class two or three years ago. I’ll call him ‘Joey’ just for the sake of this post. It just so happens that he’d copied my number from his mom’s cell phone back when she was a volunteer in our classroom, and had added it to his own phone.

“Did you just send me a text telling me that a dead kid was going to visit me?”

His voice turned desperate, “I had to send it, Mr. Z!”

“Why?”

“Well, I didn’t want that dead kid to show up in my room so I sent it to ten people.”

“Ah, so you decided punish the rest of us with curses of dead people if we don’t do it?”

His voice was quiet. “Well, yeah…”

I thought for a moment then said, “I’ll tell you what; I’ll take the chance. I won’t send this text to ten people to see what happens…if the dead kid shows up, I’ll let you know, okay?”

“Actually, I don’t want to know if he does, Mr. Z.”

“Oh. Well, would you like me to deliver any messages to him for you?”

“NO!”

“Alright. Well, you have a great evening, sir.”

“You too, Mr. Z.” He said with a yawn. “And Mr. Z?”

“Yeah?”

“I miss being in your class.”

“Yeah, I miss having you there, too.”

I hung up the phone and waited for my ghostly visitor to arrive. I had a trove of questions I wanted to ask, messages I wanted delivered to loved ones who’d passed on, and I wanted to get to know this apparition. Look out Ghost Hunters!

After a few minutes…nothing.

I finally turned over and fell in to the warm pillow and cozy blankets as the wind continued to moan outside. I wondered, just to whom does one complain when these things don’t work out as advertised? I know that I felt like I was ripped off…

One Convoluted Tale and How One Thing Leads to Another

Pin It I'm a magnet for trouble. Like, for real. Nothing is ever simple. If I can break it, I will, and nine times out of ten, it will happen two days after the warranty expires. If there's a speed limit, I will exceed it.

I don't remember if I told you, but right before Thanksgiving, the phone rang. (Actually, I'm pretty sure I didn't tell you that.) I answered it, and it was for my husband, who had just left the house but was still standing in the driveway. I leapt up from the couch, determined to be a GREAT wife and get the phone to him before he left.

I sort of tripped over the cord to my laptop and did a faceplant on the den floor, along with my computer. Face was fine, as were the spectacles. Computer looked fine, although the little thingamajiggy where the power cord plugged into said laptop did look a little...different. I plugged it in anyway and went about my business.

Later that evening, I noticed sparks coming from the thingamajiggy. "Hmm. That can't be good."

Long story and one new useless power cord later, I learned from the "We Fix Stupid Computers" people that I had melted the power jack. I was handed my hard drive in a little silver box, told they may or may not be able to fix the problem, and I should probably buy a new computer, because "this is probably going to take some time."

So I bought a new computer. And new Word. And other new programs. I attempted to buy new CS4, my lovely photoediting software that typically costs the earth. I found an "unlicensed" version for only $149, and got REALLY excited. ("Why are we so cheap? Because we don't sell you the 'frilly' packaging for an additional $900 big ones, moron!") Yep. I bought it. Hook, line, and credit card. In my defense, it had worked with my prior CS3 program for $69.95.

At any rate, after something like twenty-two installation attempts later, I finally gave up. This was just not going to work. I was going to have to suck it up, and go back to Photoshop Elements or something. Waaaa.

Around that time, I happened to stumble upon an ad for a STUDENT edition of CS4, for only $199. WOW. Was I eligible? I had taken a couple of online classes just a summer or so ago through Northern VA Community College for recertification....can we do it? YES, WE CAN!

HOLY GUACAMOLE, as Skippy Jon Jones would say. That's awesome. All I have to do is click here, and then click there....and voila. CS4 on the way.

So I waited. And waited. And around a week later, my software arrived. And...uh, oh. It didn't actually have a complete installation key. Seems you have to provide proof of current enrollment to Amazon in order to receive that serial number. Huh. Why is life never SIMPLE??? I just want to play with my pictures.

Well, fortunately for me, I needed to take a couple of classes anyway for recertification points, and had no intention of waiting until the last minute like I did last time. So, I scanned the NVCC course catalog of online classes and decided upon Teaching Childrens' Literature. Lovely. It would only cost a few hundred more.

Lovely. Lovely. Lovely.

So, folks, this is how I got from busting up my computer to starting an online course today. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some homework to do. (On my new computer, because my old computer is still over at "We Fix Stupid Computers." I'm not sure if it's actually fixable or not...)

The Date

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GUEST BLOGGER: MIYA

I'm a twenty-something university undergraduate. I tend to waste most of my free time either reading stacks of books or doodling. I live in Idaho with my husband and our two children, who are admittedly somewhat smaller than most children, far furrier, and certainly much fonder of fish and poultry byproducts. When I don't have my nose stuck in a book, I also make soap, as well as dabble in knit and crochet.

In the event of a sudden crisis, I always know where my socks are.

At 11:15pm I manage to block the cats from escaping, lock the door to my apartment and begin the tedious process of defogging my car. For a Friday night, the streets are unusually clear. The streetlights are already blinking red for the night as I make my way through town and onto the highway that leads me to Pullman. I pop in a bit of Nightmare of You and crank up the stereo to keep myself awake and alert.

In ten minutes, I've crossed the state line from Idaho to Washington. Moscow may be dead quiet, but my destination appears to be a different story altogether. As I pull into the parking lot of the local Denny's, I manage to snipe the last available parking space. The lot (and restaurant) is packed, which I certainly hadn't been expecting at this hour. I scan the booths as I walk past the windows, but my date is nowhere in sight. I do a slight double-take of the parking lot, just to be sure. Did he stand me up? Better not have! But no, his truck is there, just beyond the reach of the streetlamp. He's definitely here. Crap, how long has he been waiting?

I feel a tad giddy as I tug absentmindedly on one braided pigtail, smooth out my knit sweater, and step inside. Warm air rushes out to greet me and there he is, dress-shirt untucked, looking calm, composed and gorgeous. And waiting for me, of all people! He sees me and stands, plants a very chaste kiss on my cheek, and puts an arm around my waist to pull me in close. I'm still trying to figure out how on earth this man has been waiting here to have dinner with me. He grins when he sees my face, and in embarrassment I realize that, despite my attempts to dress up for the occasion, I've forgotten to take off my Pokeball earrings. Frak...I'm such a nerd.

Regardless of the long wait and the lack of service (it is a busy night, after all), dinner is wonderful. He tells me about his week, how wonderful things have been, and how bright our future looks. Butterflies stir up briefly in my stomach when he says our future. Not to be outdone, I tell him about classes, my plans for the rest of the fall and the coming spring. I fold my arms in front of me and absentmindedly run my tongue across my teeth, self-conscious about the braces that still have a few months more to go before I can finally be rid of them. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him mirror my movements. Every time he lays a hand on the table, it gets closer and closer to mine, and I start blushing like mad. He totally likes me.

It's ridiculously hot in here. I feel like such a teenager. I'm out of water; my mouth is unusually dry, and I can't stop licking my lips. When the waitress never comes by to refill my glass, he slides his in front of me. Am I that obvious? I smile my thanks and take a sip, pushing it back to him. Dental preservation be damned, he chews on a piece of ice and grins at me.

It's getting late. Despite the sub-par service, he tips the waitress generously and wishes her a wonderful morning (by now, it is morning). He walks me to my car and opens the door for me, planting another kiss on my lips before he says he loves me and shuts the door. He walks back to his own car and waits until I've pulled out safely before leaving the lot himself. It's been a good night; I crank up the stereo and sing along. I feel so uncharacteristically happy. He loves me! I sing louder and louder until it can't even be called singing anymore; it's akin to some poor homeless despicable solo, and I giggle uncontrollably as I again cross the state line back into Idaho.

The porch light turns on as I reach the front steps and unlock the door. I set the mail on the counter, feed the cat, and slip into my pajamas. I pick up a ball of yarn and continue crocheting where I'd left off earlier that evening. Within a few minutes, I hear the front door open as he lets himself in.

"We should do this every week" he says, donning a pair of slippers and flopping onto the couch next to me. Who knew dating your husband could be so much fun?