Gray

“There are no salons where you’re moving,” said my hair stylist of 10 years.

“No salons?”

“No salons that carry our line of coloring,” she said.

“Oh, Lord, have mercy,” I said with all reverence.

Women spend more time finding a new hair stylist than they do finding a new gynecologist.

“Our line is pretty exclusive, but I couldn’t believe it,” she said. “There are no salons with our products anywhere near Wichita. None.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.

“There are other lines I can recommend,” she said and rattled off the secondary choices. Then she scurried away to pick my poison.

Ten years of successful haircuts and six years of spot-on color. All about to be sacrificed on the altar of corporate relocation.

She returned with my color in one hand and a small piece of paper in the other.

“This,” she said handing me the paper, “This is your recipe.”

“My recipe.” Cue Indiana Jones.

“And here’s my card,” she said. “Any good colorist should be able to translate your recipe. Have them call me if they have any questions.”

Whimper. What have I done?

“This is the last time I see you before you move, right?” she said.

“No!” I said. “I mean, no. I think I have another appointment in December. If I don’t, I’m making one. I must see you again before we move!”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said and slathered on the magic.

My mom colored her hair over the bathtub. She had her cosmetology license and her nursing license. All the bases were covered from peroxide to triage. She could bleach your hair, splint your sprain, curl, crimp, suture or stitch.

01_62_25---Black-Sheep_web — image from freefoto.com under creative commons license

The thought of me coloring my hair myself terrifies me more than going gray.

There would be no one to blame if I turned my brunette sherbet orange like an apricot poodle. Or platinum blonde like a towheaded surfer. Or jet black like a black, black sheep. Baa.

“Look younger, longer,” reads a Clinique tagline.

Look younger, longer? So at what point after longer am I to concede it’s a lost cause? When do I give up and go gentle into that good night?

salonchair — what happens at the salon stays at the salon, unless you blog about it

One of my friends is a decade older than I am. She’s in better shape and runs faster now than she did when she was my age.

Her hair color? Vibrant, luxurious auburn.

There’s hope for me yet.

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten by God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:6-7 NIV

You gotta keep your head up, and you can let your hair down.

Posted on November 30, 2011February 11, 2013 by Aimee 18

Hills of Heaven

My husband and I traveled to the California wine country for a work conference last November. The things we do for his career.

One afternoon, our group had lunch at Kuleto Estate situated high on a steep, rocky hill. Looked out over vineyards afire with fall color. The sky seemed larger. Our feet lighter.

kuletoestatehillside — our view from Kuleto Estate

Dined outdoors on the side of the mountain at a long table. Ate vegetables picked fresh from the gardens that morning, delectable meats and desserts prepared by the resident chef. It was so perfect, I kept looking for Martha Stewart to step out from behind a tree.

Couldn’t help but think this must be what heaven is like. Friends, food, fresh air, mountains, vineyards, olive trees.

That day left me longing for a place where I’d be with everyone I loved, eating and talking and laughing. Savoring each moment, followed by ten thousand upon ten thousand more. Finally safe. Finally home.

On the way back to our bus, we passed a pen of poultry. It was there I came face to face with a most majestic creature.

Heaven is filled with laughter that satiates the soul. I just know it is.

The best of the now is a hint of what’s to come. An assurance of the place He has for us.

Meet me there. One day, meet me there.

He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. Revelation 21:4 NIV

Going Home by Sara Groves: I’ll meet you at the table.

mr. potato turkey

Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Readers.
I am thankful for you.

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Posted on November 23, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 13

Squash on the Lamb

Tis the season of pies.

Should come as no surprise

pumpkinstotheleft — pumpkins to the left

To spy these fugitives hanging around
Behind the church where I found

pumpkinstotheright — pumpkins to the right

Them shivering in the chill and shaking.

Alas, they’re not the type for baking.

The LORD is a refuge for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. Psalm 9:9 NIV

You don’t have to take the broken road.
You can turn around and come back home.

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Posted on November 21, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee

Cranberry Mary

We finally gave in and purchased a second vehicle for me to drive.

cbonsidewalk — cranberries, crystal & concrete

Did our research, saved our down payment, visited the dealership. Decided to buy the exact same make and model SUV we had before.

Newer year though. More bells and whistles. Like talking navigation and backup sensors to help me avoid kissing the guide poles at the drive-up ATM.

Even wanted the same color we had before. But Galaxy Gray wasn’t available.

If we waited, we’d miss the financing deal. And we’d continue sharing the truck.

“Isn’t there another color your wife would like?” the salesman asked my husband.

“Okay,” I said deflated. “White Diamond.”

I’ve only, always chosen neutral-colored cars. Black, white, gray. The maroon and gold Camaro was my dad’s idea and the Sahara gold truck was my husband’s.

“Or Dark Cherry is nice.”

The dealer couldn’t find White Diamond, but did acquire Dark Cherry. A red car. Maybe I could do this.

The day came. Dark Cherry arrived. “You’ll fall in love with it!” said the salesman.

I saw it. One word: burgundy.

“It looks burgundy,” I said.

“No, no,” said the salesman. “It’s red.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s more red than brown,” I said. “But it’s not true red.”

“Oh, that’s just dirt,” he said. “Let me have it washed and you’ll see it’s red.”

While we waited, I discussed the dilemma with my husband.

“You know I’m a Winter. Brownish-red is not my color. I would really feel more at home in gray.”

“Honey, Dark Cherry is your color,” said my husband. “It isn’t brown. It has blue undertones.”

I wanted a car. I didn’t want burgundy. Maybe it wasn’t burgundy. But it wasn’t red either.

“See?” said the salesman. “It’s red!”

Freshly-washed Dark Cherry glistened in the sunlight, casting out any hints of brown.

This is silly, I thought to myself. Grow up and be content with Dark Cherry. So I did.

Still, the whole color thing ate at me. Had I compromised too much? Gone along to get along? The stars were aligned: I was there, my husband was there, the car was there. How could I walk away?

In other news, one of my BFFs gave birth to her third child. She’d entered no man’s land—the first weeks of an infant’s life when you take care of baby and not much else.

Armed with my package wrapped in pink gingham, I drove to her house to deliver the gift. She cradled the baby while we caught up.

“And you got a car,” she said as she peeked out the window. “Look at the color!”

cbwcrystal — life is a bowl of cranberries

“Yeah,” I said. “I wanted gray but they didn’t have it.”

“It’s perfect,” she said. “I love that Cranberry.”

Yet another reason why she’s my BFF. How I’ll miss her when we move.

Hadn’t mentioned my angst over the intricacies of brown, burgundy and true red. Didn’t matter.

She saw the best and called it out. Named it. Reframed it. No more neutrals for me.

Now I’m quite taken with Cranberry. Decided to call her Mary. She has a bike rack for Cindy so the girls can be friends.

Cranberry Mary Momma Mobile. Watch out. Here she comes.

Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a ruling rightly given.
Proverbs 25:11 NIV

Linger awhile longer and enjoy The Cranberries with me. Anyone else think it’s ironic a group called The Cranberries filmed a music video in black and white?

Posted on November 18, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 13

The State of Food

“Thank You for this food,” says my father-in-law when he prays over our family dinner table. “And bless the hands that prepared it.”

Today as I sit down to a simple lunch of tomato soup and tuna melt, I think of the hands that prepared it.

Of course there are the farmers and ranchers. Vegetable growers and harvesters of the tomatoes for the soup and the cucumbers for the relish.

Dairy farmers whose cows produce the milk I stir into my soup and the cheese that makes my tuna melt. Poultry farmers whose chickens lay eggs for the mayo.

Wheat growers who give us grain for bread. Fishermen who harvest albacore on the open seas.

It would be enough to stop there in the bread baskets, victory gardens and teeming waters of our world. But that would only be part of the story.

Equipment, machinery, tires, and fuel run modern farms. Veterinarians and animal health products shield livestock from disease.

Inputs like fertilizer boost plant health and production in our cropland. And yes, there are chemicals to keep our food from being infested by insects, ravaged by disease, or starved out by weeds.

There are ecologists and extension agents to watch over natural resources. Agronomists, biologists, chemists, soil specialists and a host of other scientists to improve and develop technologies.

Bankers, accountants, and lawyers are involved. Marketers too. Farming and food production are expensive ventures.

There are processing companies like the one that canned my soup. Planes, trains and big rigs with 18 wheels to transport the food to my town.

There are farmers’ markets and grocery stores. On-premise butchers, bakers, and chefs. People to work the checkouts, collect carts, or clean up on aisle seven.

Managers to manage it all. Administrators, human resources professionals, and thousands of other employees, plus federal, state and local government agencies.

So many people, so many hands take part in preparing my food and yours. We are free to buy, cook, or order up nearly anything we can imagine to eat.

Food prices have risen a bit lately. Yet last week I spent more money on clothes for my growing child than on groceries to feed him.

This is the state of food in America. The abundant, affordable state of food.

The pilgrims would fall to their knees if they could see it now. We’d do well to take their lead.

The eyes of all look to You in hope;
You give them their food as they need it.
When You open Your hand,
You satisfy the hunger and thirst of every living thing. Psalm 145:15-16 NLT

Thanksgiving Song by Mary Chapin Carpenter.

A special thank you to the friendly folks at the Richmond Center and Ladue Schnucks grocery stores for lending their smiles to this post.

#foodthanks

This post is part of FoodThanks, a forum sponsored by AgChat where people can give thanks for those who produce our food. To read more perspectives or to link up your own, go to AgChat.com or click on the #foodthanks button here.

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Posted on November 16, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 13

Pho for Joy

Joy at My Universe is Still Coming Together loves the Vietnamese soup pho.

So do I. My husband and I have developed quite an appetite for Vietnamese food during our tour in St. Louis. From Mai Lee to Little Saigon Cafe, I’m convinced there’s an addictive ingredient in the recipes. Crave.

Joy loves her pho so much, she featured it on her blog. Twice.

Wonderfully, wickedly creative idea. So in a huge me-too must-do, I’m posting photos of my pho.

Here’s to pho, to Joy, and to savoring every drop of life while it lasts.

Show me, LORD, my life’s end
and the number of my days;
let me know how fleeting my life is. Psalm 39:4 NIV

Blink by Revive hits this home. The video link by DavidsDanceProd inspired this post’s verse.

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Posted on November 14, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 9

Connecting the Dots of Thankfulness

I’ve noticed a lot of posts about thankfulness this month. Apropos with Thanksgiving less than two weeks away.

Today I’m thankful for June. For a house that sold after two excruciating years on a dismal market.

That saga nearly killed us. I’m thankful that by Grace it didn’t. May we remember the hard lessons learned.

I’m thankful for June when we left town on a road trip across these beautiful United States.

For our precious realtor and friend who handled the unexpected sale of our house and quickly secured another place for us to rent. I’m thankful for the blessing of a wise advisor.

June was only the beginning. It was then we first learned my husband’s employer was being acquired. I’m thankful for his job with the new company.

A new job in a new city. Where just last week, another savvy realtor helped us find another house in a mere 48 hours. One that wasn’t even on the market yet.

I’m thankful for Papa Bear who graciously gave up acreage to preserve unity with Momma Bear. May Papa Bear find joy in the negotiated concession of a healthy landscape budget.

May he go forth shopping trees, shrubs, and all good things that grow in the ground.

May our backyard be filled with the Cub’s small practice field and a slice of botanical garden, both sweeter than honeysuckle vine.

I’m thankful for nearly move-in ready.

Besides the minor detail of totally uprooting our lives, all that’s left is picking paint colors. A job I’m thankful to add to my to-dos.

Only been in the house three times. Less than an hour cumulatively. By Faith I traverse the waters of Sherwin-Williams.

We move in five weeks. Not a schedule for the faint of heart. Who knows what will happen tomorrow?

Not to worry. I’m thankful God’s strength is perfect. As is His timing.

Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful… Hebrews 12:28 NIV

God is still God and He holds it together.

What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.

Happy Veterans Day!

Today I’m also thankful for the brave men and women who’ve served in the United States military. Thank you Dad, Uncle Jon, Uncle Bill, Michael B., Joe G., Jeremy N., Cordel H., Eric B., Jeff W., Uncle O., John M., Jeff S., and the many more too numerous to name here. Freedom is not free.

Posted on November 11, 2011July 10, 2012 by Aimee 25

Free Thanksgiving Blog Button

If you were a fan of The X-Files, as was/am I, you’ll remember the quip in the closing credits from Ten Thirteen Productions: “I made this.”

Well, I made this:

How crafty am I? Don’t answer. That’s meant to be a rhetorical question.

The button, however, is yours for the taking. Copy and use at will in your social media to celebrate Thanksgiving. See? I’m using it in the sidebar to the right and as the profile picture on the everyday epistle Facebook page.

Come back tomorrow when, for my next trick, I plan to feature the Hebrews verse in a post AND link the post to this button! Wowza.

Those who refresh others will themselves be refreshed. Proverbs 11:25 NLT

Whatcha waiting for? Waiting for Tomorrow by Mandisa. You made me for so much more than sitting on the sidelines…

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Posted on November 10, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 8

Not a Moo Moo

Needed pajamas for a girls’ weekend away. My comfortable, old nightgown was threadbare. The loungewear department was calling.

As I swept across the sales floor at Dillard’s pulling things to try, I spotted it. A rack of baby terry cloth by Miss Elaine. Bright colors, soft fabric. I circled back for a closer look.

There I found a slightly A-line dress. No waistline, v neck, side seam pockets, tea length hem. Modern, close fit at the top. Loose on down.

The dressing room verified my suspicions. It was comfortable. Extremely comfortable.

So I bought it along with a couple more items for my trip. It was too warm to wear the baby terry dress at the time, and it was still full price. But I couldn’t leave that caliber of comfort in the store.

I bought it dreaming of a cool fall Sunday after church, pulling on the baby terry dress and lounging around the house. Making hot chocolate or popcorn. Watching movies. All cozy and warm.

Then it occurred to me. I’m only 40. Had I just purchased my first moo moo?

To me, Miss Elaine seems like an upper end line for mature women. And baby terry cloth? No pretty young thing I know would be caught dead in tea length baby terry cloth. No PYT even knows what tea length is these days.

It’s not a moo moo, I reasoned. It’s fitted at the top for goodness sake. And it’s got a mini patch pocket.

Besides who cares if it is categorically a moo moo? It’s one of the most comfortable garments I’ve ever owned.

I heard a Bible teacher once chastise us women for seeking our own comfort. Who did we think we were to put ourselves first and care foremost about our own well-being? To choose comfort instead of sacrifice?

Rather than a call to asceticism, I think she meant for us to see our own selfishness—as if we needed to be bashed over the head with the obvious and have the sacrifices we do make heartily invalidated. We wallowed in guilt while comfort was called on the carpet.

It’s fall now. A chill nips the edges of our daytime temps. I’m sitting at my computer, wearing my baby terry dress that’s not a moo moo.

The world is spinning into chaos outside the door of my little house. The economy is stalled indefinitely. There are protesters occupying Wall Street.

Decisions are not being made. Conflicts are left unresolved. People I know are divorced or alone, hurting, sick or dead. Winter will be here soon.

God comforts us. He wouldn’t do it if we didn’t need it. Over indulgence, selfishness, and hedonism are vices for sure. But comfort? Comfort is a necessity.

All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT

Going classical with Comfort Ye My People from The Messiah by George Frederic Handel. Sacred prelude to the holiday season.

trio of terry

Epilogue

Recently I hit Dillard’s clearance. Picked up two more Miss Elaine baby terry dresses that are not moo moos. Only $6.20 each. All rise for the Bargainista.

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Posted on November 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 18

Cutting Room Floor

To edit or not to edit? That is the question.

Nothing to Read Here once wrote about how he loathes editing. Reminded me of how I used to hate it too.

Hate is such strong word. Let’s just say I was above it.

My college poetry professor stressed the importance of editing. Said we should rewrite several times before presenting a piece.

Not I, said the cat! But not aloud of course. Kept my sentiments to myself.

Edit? Rewrite? Destroy the raw emotion, the fire fueling the original choice of words, rhythm, and meaning? The less editing the better. Keeps it pure.

Oh, the drama of it all.

filmreelbymycamera,myfriend — image with permission from http://mycameramyfriend.wordpress.com/

“How long does it take you to, you know, come up with one of those stories?” said my friend the would-be stand up comedian last time I saw her.

“Depends,” I said. Nice, safe answer. But it’s true. Some posts come quickly. Others not so much.

If WordPress took note of the number of edits I make to a post before it goes live, they’d think I’m daffy.

Scratch that. It’s arguable whether I’m daffy no matter how many revisions.

I’m not sure what WordPress would think. Or what my professor would think. Or what you would think if you saw the unending stream of corrections and rewrites.

I can guess what you’re thinking now: All that, and she still manages to miss at least one typo per post!

If this were an old-school movie edit, I could adorn myself with the ringlets of film on the cutting room floor. Fashion them into a translucent wig. A Gaga dress.

I could sweep them up into a pile. Invite children to jump in them like autumn leaves, only better. No crumbling bits breaking off and sticking in socks. No hidden night crawlers or pungent cedar mulch in the mix of sterile, celluloid ribbons.

What’s left is a reduced, boiled down idea. The essence of the original, but stronger. That’s the hope anyway.

How I wish I could exercise the same discipline with the words I speak. They bolt out. They are gone and cannot be recaptured.

They wriggle and squirm. They resist careful pruning. Resist being held.

These spoken ones may combust or fizzle. They may scale heights or burrow deep in the hearts of their receivers. But they do not go willingly to the cutting room floor. If I could tame them, I could tame the world.

People can tame all kinds of animals, birds, reptiles, and fish, but no one can tame the tongue. It is restless and evil, full of deadly poison. James 3:7-8 NLT

Gwen’s back with No Doubt and Don’t Speak.

Posted on November 4, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 10

The Three Bears Go House Hunting

220px-The_Three_Bears_-_Project_Gutenberg_eText_17034 — public domain image

As we make plans to relocate to Wichita, my husband’s employer is sending us on a house-hunting trip. Momma Bear, Papa Bear and Baby Bear have different priorities for this excursion.

“Mom,” said the Cub, “we need lots of space.”

“What do you plan to do with lots of space?” I said.

“We need lots of space so we can have a soccer field,” he said. “Or a long-distance swimming pool.”

Papa Bear is also concerned about outdoor space. Give him room, lots of room. Don’t fence him in.

He grew up on a farm. You know what they say. You can take the boy off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the boy.

Problem is, Papa Bear already has a job and farming is not it. Nor is landscape gardening. Nor lawn mowing.

Hobby, yes. Phenomenal green thumb, that man. But full-time work? And don’t think for a minute Momma Bear is interested in taking the reigns of a Deere.

Search criteria for Papa Bear consists of lot size, proximity to the neighbors, and what backs up to the property. Heaven forbid we back up to another house.

playingbearssculpture — cubs sculpture, as seen at the National Zoo

“Here’s one,” he said as we perused real estate sites, “and we wouldn’t have to worry about anyone building behind us.”

“Why’s that?” I said.

“See this big field behind the property on the map?” he said. “It’s a cemetery.”

Momma Bear looked up to see if he was serious. He was. Dead serious. She huffed a low growl under her breath.

“What else have you found?” she said.

Papa Bear cracked a smile. “So living next to a cemetery is out of the question?”

“Completely.” Grrr.

Momma Bear’s main concerns are for the innards of the house. She would like an open floor plan so everyone can be together. She would like the heat to work in the winter and the air conditioner to work in the summer.

Enough room so every bear has his space, but not too much that she can’t clean up in a jiffy. A yard bigger than a postage stamp, but smaller than a park.

bearchair — bear chair detail, as seen at the National Zoo

Our relocation agent has her work cut out looking for our just right.

One tidy, cozy, move-in-ready, little house on the prairie with a soccer field for a yard that doesn’t back up to another house or a cemetery.

Hibernating would be simpler. Any empty caves available in Sedgwick County?

Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. Ephesians 4:13 NIV

We can work it out.

Posted on November 2, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 24

everyday epistle

there's a story at every turn

everyday epistle

Month: November 2011

Gray

Hills of Heaven

Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Readers.
I am thankful for you.

Squash on the Lamb

Tis the season of pies.

Should come as no surprise

To spy these fugitives hanging around
Behind the church where I found

Them shivering in the chill and shaking.

Alas, they’re not the type for baking.

Cranberry Mary

The State of Food

#foodthanks

Pho for Joy

Connecting the Dots of Thankfulness

What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.

Happy Veterans Day!

Free Thanksgiving Blog Button

Not a Moo Moo

Epilogue

The Three Bears Go House Hunting

there's a story at every turn

Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Readers. I am thankful for you.

Tis the season of pies.

Should come as no surprise

To spy these fugitives hanging around Behind the church where I found

Them shivering in the chill and shaking.

Alas, they’re not the type for baking.

#foodthanks

What are you thankful for today? I’d be so thankful if you would share.

Happy Veterans Day!

Epilogue

Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Readers.
I am thankful for you.

To spy these fugitives hanging around
Behind the church where I found

What are you thankful for today?
I’d be so thankful if you would share.