hello, country buntin’

A lot has transpired since our centennial post Lyrical Interlude last October. Good time to recap:

• Relocated from one Midwestern city to another.
• Took up yoga again.
• Blog turned one and began tweeting.
• Launched chapter & verse on Tumblr.
• First book giveaway.
• First troll.
• First tornado.
• First online poetry slam.
• First author interview.
• And four baby robins in a holly tree.

Also began testing advertising. Seeing as I’ve yet to make a penny, this test may end sooner rather than later.

Whisper was the most-read post between our centennial and bicentennial +3. It catapulted to the top where it’s third behind I Like My Bike and Milk Wars.

The second most-read post  between our centennial and bicentennial +3 was Leah. The third was Field Trip to Visit a Cowboy.

everything’s coming up pinwheels

I’m still learning and having fun. Expect I’ll keep writing, testing, and making course corrections. Knowledge acquired from the ground up sticks with me. Feels like I know it by heart.

Hmm. That sounds an awful lot like praise for the process from an impatient, results-oriented, change-it-yesterday kind of girl.

Like I said, I continue to learn. Thank God, don’t we all?

Cry out for insight,
and ask for understanding.
Search for them as you would for silver;
seek them like hidden treasures.
Then you will understand what it means to fear the Lord,
and you will gain knowledge of God.
For the Lord grants wisdom!
From His mouth come knowledge and understanding. Proverbs 2:3-6 NLT

Live and Learn by Clint Black, a gentleman of country music.

What are you learning?

Ella dress in porcelain paisley, jcrew.com

She’s spot-on. I mean, look at this dress.

Yes, I borrowed the photo from the J Crew site without asking permission. It’s fair use since I’m commenting on it. But please, Jenna Lyons, charge me with piracy.

Throw me in J Crew jail where I’ll be forced to wear navy blue and white reverse sailor stripes and work in exotic locales like Tanzania, Bali, and New Zealand.

Sentence me to a lifetime of schoolboy blazers, cotton capris with a hint of stretch, and vintage V-neck tees in Byzantine blue, heather graphite, and the perfect shade of bright plum circa spring 2010.

Now about this dress named Ella. Exquisite. Prettiest thing I’ve seen since last month’s J Crew catalog. Oozes summertime when the living is easy.

If you read this blog, you know my dog’s name is Ella. Perhaps Jenna Lyons has been reading this blog, too, and she’s been inspired.

“See that little dog Ella?” I can hear her telling the crew at the Crew. “Who owns a creature of such intelligence, taste, and style? Feel the epistle. Inhabit the epistle. Express the epistle!”

Ella dog in wheaten fur

Voilà. Out comes the Ella dress in porcelain paisley. Named after my dog. And a steal at only… $298?!

Why do you do this to me, Jenna?

How could you design a dress for me at the end of the traditional spring-summer shopping season when my clothing budget is as dry as the sun-scorched earth of Al Gore’s inconvenient truth?

How could you introduce it in May—the month of Mother’s Day gifts, graduations, and summer camp deposits? How could you name it after my dog then price it oh so high above me?

This is one reason J Crew is successful. Besides quality, design, color, and hipness factor, J Crew appeals to those of us in the masses as attainable and out of reach at the same time.

That, and they steal writers’ dogs’ names for their dresses.

A girl’s gotta dream.

Therefore, my dear friends, flee from idolatry. 1 Corinthians 10:14 NIV

Tempted by Squeeze.

How do you keep your idols at bay?

Tomeka Forrest Bostic and Stephanie Jersey Bailey

It’s time again for another blog-cation. Today we go to the headquarters of Vyzion Entertainment where I’m posting as a guest writer.

Vyzion is a gutsy start-up that aims to bust open the marketplace of ideas for entertainment and talent.

Stephanie and Greg Bailey founded Vyzion Entertainment in 2009 as an independent record label. In 2011, the Baileys joined forces with my friend Eric Bostic and his wife Tomeka. They expanded the company by adding Vyzion Radio as a platform for independent artists and an affordable advertising venue for small businesses.

Greg describes Vyzion Radio as “international, free, public radio.”

Greg Bailey

The company is on-air 24/7 with listeners in more than 200 countries and 2,200 cities from India to Los Angeles to Detroit to their home base in North Carolina.

Vyzion DJs are not limited to a single genre like traditional radio. They are free to play the music the listeners want to hear including independent artists and DJ mixes. Bailey foresees Vyzion as a channel to introduce new music to the world.

“I want the station to be for everybody,” said Bailey.

Eric Bostic

He and Eric served in the U.S. military and strongly believe in freedom of the press, unhindered by corporate or government influence. They work to keep Vyzion self-sustaining and independent as the company grows.

Vyzion recently began to offer “exposure without exploitation” to modeling talent like Zewdi Reda Miss Ethiopia and to writers.

Guess which category I’m in.

Supermodels, you’re safe for now. I’m posting as the blogger with a topic most wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole: Truth, Grace, and NC Amendment One.

catch the Vyzion

We can try to ignore the elephant in the room or we can listen, discuss, and figure out what to do. Same way we can continue to be spoon-fed what traditional media wants to give us or we can bust open the marketplace with new ideas.

Catch the Vyzion, click over, scroll down to read my post, and let the music play.

Grace and Truth came through Jesus Christ. John 1:17 NIV

Let the Music Play by Shannon because here we play what the people want, too.

Go to Vyzion now. Tell Eric I sent you. 

mom, I spy your routine!

Summer evokes a mild case of panic in me.

Oh, sure, there’s the good stuff. Long, sunny days. Outdoor swimming pools. Vacation plans. Quality time with the kiddo. But if I learned anything in all my years of schooling, it’s that summer is synonymous with the loss of routine.

I was one of those strange children who didn’t like weekends. More at home with the rhythm and clear expectations of the classroom, I skidded toward summer break on a downward spiral. And I know I’m not alone.

We Type As like our routines. Changes in THE PLAN are exciting, but they can be frightening at the same time.

Maybe you’re not Type A. But maybe you’re a parent. Maybe—I’m guessing here, you and your children thrive on some semblance of structure.

Come on, moms and dads. Back me up on this. Doesn’t the thought of filling all those unstructured hours of your child’s summer vacation strike a wee bit o’ fear in even the bravest of super parent hearts?

Ridiculous, I know. Yet the fear of summer lingers. It nabbed me yesterday morning in yoga class. I like my yoga instructors Grace and Boomer. I’m comfortable in this routine, this respite from the stress of relocation, motherhood, and what to cook for dinner. I don’t want to give it up.

But how will I continue to do yoga when my son’s out of school for the summer? What will I do with him during class? Turn him loose to run wild through the YMCA? Sit him in front of the Wii for an hour? What if he wanders out to the pool alone? What if (insert catastrophe)?

runs with shovel

And how will I blog this summer? When will there be time? Who will read it? What about the other projects I want to pursue? What if I miss all the opportunities? What if I wake up in September and they’re ALL GONE? What if the world ends tomorrow? What if (insert catastrophe)?

The only way to roll with the changes is one step at a time. One season at a time. That’s why they usually don’t happen all at once. Thank You, Lord.

I’ll take a cue from yoga. Follow my breath. Put my shoulders back and down. Let myself feel grounded. Take a moment to be thankful for another day.

Then I’ll put on my sunscreen and forward march into summer.

The day is Yours, and Yours also the night;
You established the sun and moon.
It was You who set all the boundaries of the earth;
You made both summer and winter. Psalm 74:16-17 NIV

Dear Routine,
Though we’ve got to say good-bye for the summer, darling, I promise you this: I’ll send you all my love every day in a letter Sealed with a Kiss.

How do you roll with the changes in your routine?

mother’s day may 13

Una benedizione. A blessing. A benediction.

What does that mean? The dictionary gives me several ideas.

A benediction is an utterance of good wishes.

Her words, her wishes for her children, are good. Even those awash in worry or irritation, even those carry compassion. She means well.

“Have a good day at school.”

“You can do it.”

“Get down from there!”

“Wear your coat to stay warm.”

“Wear your sunscreen so you don’t burn.”

“Wear your seatbelt in case there’s an accident.”

“Mamma loves you. Always.”

A benediction is an invocation of divine blessing. 

Silent prayers house the longings of her heart. They stretch over her child as he sleeps. They strain upward and plead with God.

“Lord, bless this child.”

“Lord, save this child.”

“Lord, protect him.”

“Lord, use his abilities as You see fit. As You made him.”

“Lord, help me be a good mom to him.”

A benediction is a service to bless the congregation; a ceremony to set things aside for sacred use, as a church, vestments, or bells.

She prepares imperfect sanctuaries for a noisy congregation and presides over a ceremony of the unseen. The sacred service of things taken for granted.

clematis

She wraps children in blankets, birthday presents in paper, boo-boos in bandaids. She feathers the nest with goodnight kisses and turns the pages of bedtime stories. She walks the night feeding a baby, comforting a sick child, or waiting for a teenager to make curfew.

She washes and folds mounds of laundry and lays out vestments for her charges. She cleans up rooms, dishes, and misunderstandings. She completes a task only to see five more erupt into chaos.

She answers endless questions. She faces the fire of a two-year-old and the swagger of a sixteen-year-old. She weeps with those shunned, disappointed, and bereft.

Her orchestra is populated by pots and pans. She directs the sweet, ringing bells of small feet and voices. She conducts personalities like instruments du jour: recorders, pianos, saxophones, violins, trumpets, booming drums. She oversees a heady score—the allegro and adagio of raising another human being.

A benediction is the state of being blessed. A mercy or benefit.

She bestows a state of blessing on her children that remains after she is gone. Though the official benediction may come at the end, it’s been conferred throughout the service.

Mi manchi, Mamma. Sie stata una benedizione per me.

I miss you, Mom. You were a blessing to me.

The Aaronic Benediction

The Lord bless you
and keep you;
the Lord make His face shine on you
and be gracious to you;
the Lord turn His face toward you
and give you peace. Numbers 6:24-26 NIV

Dreaming with a Broken Heart by John Mayer who sings and pulls heartstrings.

How has your mom been una benedizione to you?

lanterns

He pursued her until she loved him back. They were inseparable. They married and ran away from home.

Time passed slowly. Finally they were blessed with one child, Year of the Monkey, a Solitaire.

Monkey made the days and nights seem longer, while the months escaped into years.

Tiger and Dog ran away from home again, this time taking Monkey with them.

They are best, these three, when they pull together. Best when inseparable.

The work of living takes Tiger far away sometimes. It cannot be avoided.

Year of the Dog and Year of the Monkey become a pair. They eat Chinese food or pizza and wait for Year of the Tiger to fly back to them.

Today there will be no waiting. Today they are home, all three. Together they will eat cake. They will feast on the decades and dream of the future.

Happy Birthday, Year of the Tiger. The Lord has been good to us.

are you in there?

Must have been lost in the move. Incorrectly packed with garden tools, baby toys, Christmas decorations. Shoved into obscurity in the basement or garage. Jumbled mess of relocation.

The coffee table book we bought in Chicago in 1999 was the one that tipped me off. Oversized tome documenting Mary Cassatt’s work. We’d seen her paintings at The Art Institute’s special exhibit that year.

We carried Cassatt home. Held her on the city bus and the elevator up 35 stories to our apartment of blinding white walls. Lugged her to St. Louis. Cordoned her off from the ordinary books. Separated from the pack. And now she is missing.

I hope Norton is with her. The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry is fat and stout. Ten-pound bag of sugar. Required reading for a circle of writers, hopeful and green. Emblazoned with red and orange that year, I can still see it.

Long before I had a dog of my own, Norton tagged along, shadowing me. Begging to be played with and petted and fed. I’d scratch his ears, brush his coat, and watch dreams fall out in the shedding. He slept in a basket beside my bed, cushioned with transient catalogs and nonfiction. I hope Norton’s with Cassatt.

And I hope they’ve found Seduced by Bacon. The youngest of the three, this gift from a business colleague. We displayed Bacon in our kitchen. The kitchen we’d demolished. Filled with rubble, chaos, and 90-year-old dust. Rebuilt with fresh dry wall and slate, marble and ceramic subway tiles, wood and stainless steel, and blue paint named Amelia that wasn’t quite green or gray.

Bacon came to us as we hawked the kitchen and its house. No room for another book on such carefully staged, ready-to-show shelves. So Bacon stayed in the kitchen where it belonged. Guests chuckled at its name. A cookbook attesting the truth. “Seduced by Bacon,” they’d say. “Now that’s my problem.”

These three are lost. My heart sinks and drowns, buoyed by weak hope. They’ll turn up. We’ll find them again. Normalcy will come on a day unexpected. On a Monday or Thursday, a day of no consequence, I’ll open a box labeled dish towels and there they will be. Smiling, recovered, taking full breaths of air. They’ll ask me what happened. Where are we now? What took me so long to find them?

And I will answer I don’t know. Today I don’t know.

“Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it?” Luke 15:4 NIV

Norton found

The Lost Get Found, Britt Nicole.

Epilogue

Between the time of writing and publishing this post, I found The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry in a box in the basement. Norton now resides behind the glass doors of a bookshelf in my office where I can keep an eye on him as I work. Cassatt and Bacon are still missing.

Have you ever lost a beloved book or other item? Did you find it again? What was that like, the losing or the finding?

Meet the Skeptic by Bill Foster

Meet the Skeptic, by friend Bill Foster, reached number one in Amazon’s Science and Religion category earlier this week. Congratulations, Bill!

In Meet the Skeptic, Bill presents skepticism as an opportunity to see where the need for truth lies in each individual. Bill is Gen X, so expect references to pop culture alongside illustrations and Biblical support. All this is packed into a mere 144 pages. You can read that in one sitting, people.

I asked Bill a few questions about his book. He was gracious to share these answers with me.

What inspired you to write this book?

Bill: Two main things. First, my own frustrations in talking with skeptics and feeling like I wasn’t getting anywhere even when I had answers. Second, realizing there are a lot of apologetics resources out there but people are intimidated by many of them.

What makes this different than other ways to share the Gospel?

Bill: Meet The Skeptic is more about asking the right questions to get underneath surface-level objections than it is about trying to answer every objection. It’s more about understanding worldviews and where a conversation will likely go than it is about regurgitating data. Facts and evidence are always valuable and the more knowledgeable we are about a subject the better. But I think the evidence is best used as supporting information after the skeptic’s worldview is uncovered rather than as lead-off material.

What one thing would you like people to know about sharing the Gospel with the skeptic?

Bill: We don’t need to “win” the discussion. Intellectual arguments alone will never convince anyone, only God can do that. When we engage skeptics and really try to find the deeper obstacles to their faith, we have a better chance at seeing whether or not God is working on them. If He is, great! They may be receptive to truth. But if He’s not, it doesn’t mean that He never will. It just might mean that on this occasion we’re only scratching the surface of hard ground rather than gleaning the harvest.

Find Meet the Skeptic books and study resources on the book’s website and on Amazon. God bless you, Bill, as you aid in the harvest.

“The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field. Go! I am sending you out like lambs among wolves.” Luke 10:2-3 NIV

I’m For You by TobyMac.

Bill Foster and his wife Karla live in North Carolina. You may remember Karla from Don’t Save the Marshmallows.

In addition to writing and speaking about apologetics, Bill is an accomplished graphic designer, business owner, and publisher.

Follow Bill on his blog, Facebook page, and Twitter @meettheskeptic.

Are faith and reason compatible? Do you consider yourself a person of faith, reason, or both?

robin's egg blue

“Look, but don’t touch,” we said when our son found a nest of robin’s eggs in the low branches of the holly tree.

We watched their lives unfold.

The transcendent blue of the eggs. The way they huddled together after they hatched like a pulsing, pink heart.

Four fuzzy heads. Four pointed beaks trimmed in yellow. Eyes and mouths, open and hungry.

“I’ll give them a worm,” said our son.

“No. Don’t put anything in the nest.”

What more could we add to this? What could we bring to them?

Two weeks of growing feathers and flight and they were gone. That fast. Breathtaking gift of spring.

Teach us to realize the brevity of life,
so that we may grow in wisdom. Psalm 90:12 NLT

Love Song for a Savior, Jars of Clay.

What blessings are you most thankful for today?

all business

See that banner at the top? That foreign image in the sidebar? Yes, those are ads.

I’ve succumbed to the invitation from WordPress to try the WordAds Beta.

What does that make me? A greedy sellout? A savvy businesswoman?

A somewhat clueless blogger would be more accurate. I’m still learning and this is part of the process. Together we’ll see how this works.

Together as in me and you. You and I. We. You are an accomplice, complicit in the crimes and passions of this crazy blog experiment.

Relax. Your part is easy and doesn’t involve the getaway car.

Please keep reading and visiting the site. If you see an ad that’s offensive or in poor taste, please let me know immediately via comment, email or Twitter. I don’t choose the ads that appear on my page, but I can pull them lickety-split.

Blogging with WordPress has been positive so far. If this newest twist works, great. If not, we’ll have learned something. What do we have to lose?

For I am the Lord your God
who takes hold of your right hand
and says to you, Do not fear;
I will help you. Isaiah 41:13 NIV

Ambivalence bordering snarkiness rules the day while the jury’s still out about the ads. Taken For a Fool? I hope The Strokes’ lyrics don’t apply here, even though their song rocks.

As a reader, what’s your opinion of the ads?

If you blog, what’s your experience with ads been like?

garden statue of a girl

My Aunt Leah was rarely sick and always bounced back. Fell and broke her hip this past Christmas. Returned to work by February. And she was 74 years old.

Quiet, gentle, dignified, but tough as nails when it came to perseverance. Leah was steady. Without pause, always there, sure and steady.

A nurse by profession, she once took in my mother and I when we needed a place to go. Years later, when my mom was dying, Leah came to be with her youngest sibling for a week. She stood in my mom’s kitchen stirring soup made of carrots and celery she’d diced into tiny cubes.

Leah was the first person to French braid my hair. I’d come to visit that summer. I may have been 10, perhaps younger, so I don’t remember sitting still as she weaved the plaits tightly, an exercise she missed with her three sons. A picture remains to bear witness to those perfect braids.

Most of her life she lived in an old house with a rambling yard and a vegetable garden so big that I never did walk to the end of it. Her youngest son and I traversed that garden one evening as children. We navigated between squash and cucumbers and bushes of beans.

We climbed to the top of the compost pile. Then he said, “Snake!”

I never saw it. I bolted out of the garden all the way back to the house. Aunt Leah yelled from the yard for me to stop that ridiculous screaming.

Last summer, I returned with my husband and son to visit my Aunt Leah and Uncle Abe in their newer house. Their big garden was left behind, but the table was forever full. Salads and sauces and pasta to eat in the late afternoon.

She was the eldest of six children. The mother of three. Grandmother of six. Faithful wife of Abe for 53 years. She was unwavering in prayer for our family. The pages of her Bible were falling out from use.

It happened this spring, a cascade drawn out over weeks that started slowly and picked up speed as days rolled along. Leah had trouble breathing. Leah went to the emergency room. Leah developed pneumonia.

Leah was hospitalized. Leah was given oxygen. Leah was in critical care. Leah’s lungs sustained damage. Leah was on life support.

Then this past Tuesday, at 2:34 p.m., my Aunt Leah died. Surrounded by family here on earth, she was ushered into the arms of family there.

another view

It’s been almost 16 years since my mother died. Sixteen years since my family last experienced death. Years filled with so many challenges, but such a long stretch without funerals.

I wonder what they’re talking about now. Has Leah told my mom she saw me last summer? That I have a son with hazel eyes? Are they sitting with my Grandma and Grandpa V?

Are they sipping cups of tea while Grandma has coffee? Is Grandpa wearing his fur coat? Are they gushing and waiting with ease for the rest of us to meet them at the table? For dinner to begin in the late afternoon?

Over the next few days, I’ll be off the grid. Look for me in real life as I travel alone to gather with the family that’s left. To pay tribute and grieve our loss of Leah, steady and true.

We’ll miss you, Aunt Leah. Wait for us there. Unwavering, wait for us.

Precious in the sight of the LORD
is the death of his faithful servants. Psalm 116:15 NIV

This past Monday, we celebrated National Poetry Month here on the blog. The response to Poetry Slam Party has been intelligent, thoughtful, and moving. Ariel Price graced us with poem by John Donne in the comments. Seems fitting to end this week with another of Donne’s most excellent works.

Death, be not proud (Holy Sonnet 10)

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy'or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

Who is waiting for you in heaven? How do you grieve here on earth?

poetry commentary, poetry

Thank you, Corey of I Like My Bike and Beth Webb Hart of Southern Belle View, for bringing National Poetry Month to my attention. Thank you also, Geetanjali of Open a Book, for inspiring me with Rhyme Time on your blog.

In celebration, everyday epistle is hosting a Poetry Slam Party.

best remembered poems

This is not your ordinary poetry slam. You don’t have to write the poem you share or read it on an open mic in front of strangers. There are no hidden judges in the audience. We’re just here to enjoy reading and remembering the selections you choose.

All you have to do is share the title and author of a favorite poem.

If the mood strikes, tell why you like it, dazzle us with its best lines, or be my guest and share the whole enchilada.

Why?

Because Poetry is the shock of cool water on the tenth day of triple digits. Bonfire smoke and goose bumps in October. A wool coat wrapped in the silence of the first snow. A nest of newborn robins in the regal holly tree.

the poems of emily dickinson

Who couldn’t use more of that?

I’ll get us started with Emily Dickinson’s My life closed twice before its close:

My life closed twice before its close—
It yet remains to see
If Immortality unveil
A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive
As these that twice befell.
Parting is all we know of heaven,
And all we need of hell.

Let the Poetry Slam Party begin, good readers. The floor is yours.

poetry blooms

I am a rose of Sharon, a lily of the valleys.
Song of Solomon 2:1 NIV

Need help? Go to www.poets.org to find a poem.

Please share a selection with us.
Ready, set, SLAM! 

baby robins in nest

The earth is the LORD’s, and everything in it,
the world, and all who live in it. Psalm 24:1 NIV

red fence

“The storms are coming,” said Grace last Saturday morning. “They won’t be here until tonight, but they’re coming. Don’t know what you want to do about that.”

Saturday afternoon, I was inexplicably driven to clean. This was a momentous occasion. Our first chance to come face to face with the legendary storms of Tornado Alley. Needed to get our house in order, if only to have it flattened.

“Tonight we’ll have a slumber party,” we told our son. “We’ll be in the basement together and that’s the safest place to be.” Not counting other states or planets.

Preparation felt cursory. Unnecessary. We moved about in denial. By six o’clock, the twisters had yet to materialize. We shook our fists at the sky. Dined at a teriyaki restaurant called Tsunami. Let our son watch The Wizard of Oz at his Kids’ Night Out party. Drove home uneventfully.

buckled

Meanwhile, the sky went black and began to rain. Normal at first. Then in torrents. Hail. Wailing tornado sirens.

Our descent downstairs was a rush of grabbing the child, the dog, bottled water, pillows, a candle, lip balm. We barricaded our troop in a basement bedroom. From there we monitored the storms’ progress online. Posted updates on Facebook. Prayed.

We couldn’t see or hear the twisters from inside our bunker. Online reports were our only source of information. We quickly learned tornadoes are fickle.

The storms have turned south and will miss us. No, they’re headed north into downtown. Now they’re coming straight up the highway. Right for us!

Our camp scrambled into the bedroom closet. We huddled on the floor with our smart phones and prayers. You realize by telling you this I make you accountable. If God forbid we should ever go missing in a tornado, you are to direct rescuers to look for us in that closet.

inside

And then, without warning, it was over.

The next day, the sky was bright, sunny, and blue. We’d awakened to a life that looked the same as it had many mornings before, except for a few broken blades on our outdoor porch fan.

But the dog refused to leave the house. My body was jittery, sore, and fatigued. Miraculously, no deaths were reported in Wichita, though the city suffered more than $280 million in damage.

We wandered through Sunday trying to absorb our surroundings. Watched a storm chaser’s video of the tornadoes. Saw their smoky devil tendrils trickling downward from a smooth expanse of charcoal clouds. Mustering spins. Willing themselves into funnels.

upside down

When Midwesterners learn I grew up in North Carolina, I cannot tell you how many have said to me, “Oh, I wouldn’t want to live there. You have hurricanes!”

Hurricanes are visible on weather maps three days out. Those that make landfall wreak havoc, but most hurricanes sputter and die at sea. They are devastatingly dangerous, yet hurricanes lack the element of surprise.

We’d survived this first round. A fine welcome to Tornado Alley.

Our days on earth are like grass;
like wildflowers, we bloom and die.
The wind blows, and we are gone—
as though we had never been here.
But the love of the Lord remains forever
with those who fear him. Psalm 103:15-17 NLT

Dust in the Wind, like you’ve never seen or heard it before, by Judith Mateo.

I shot the photos in this post three miles from my home.

What’s your storm story? How did you survive?

i am not a troll

I didn’t know what a troll was until one came to my site.

His strong negative reaction to a post was a dead give away. He implied I should be arrested. Wonderful.

To me, trolls were strange, little garden statues. Wait, that’s gnomes. Told you I didn’t know what they were.

Let’s try that again.

To me, Trolls was a bar in the basement of a building across the parking lot from my sorority house in college. Smelled like beer. Had foosball tables and booths. Became the second living room of the sisterhood. The one where alcohol and boys were allowed.

That was Trolls, until Mr. Meanie came a calling on my blog. I was crushed. I feared he would key Cranberry Mary. Stick pins in a voodoo doll of me. Or worse.

My husband, the calming force in our home, told me it would be okay. The comment wasn’t that bad.

You know, he’s right. I’m small change on the blogosphere. I have it easy. Upon further research, I discovered there are entire sites devoted to dissing other people’s sites. Meanies, every one.

i am not a troll

Who has time for this? I can barely keep the wheels on my own blog, much less create another one to ridicule, criticize, or spew at people.

Then last week, a twist. I’d been following this Blogger who shall remain nameless. That’s Blogger with a capital B.

Blogger enjoys an enormous following. I like Blogger, but Blogger writes things with which I disagree about topics that matter to me.

I first read Blogger when a friend sent me a link a few weeks ago. In response, I submitted my comment of respectful disagreement.

The next week, I visited Blogger’s site to be rankled by another post. I submitted my comment of respectful disagreement.

Then last week, I read a post by Blogger on a popular website. Blogger was once again wrong (surprise). I submitted my comment of respectful disagreement.

This time something went horribly awry. The captcha bit me. The queue malfunctioned. My comment appeared multiple times. Like a broken record. On a major site. In response to Blogger with a capital B.

Immediately, I contacted the site to correct the mistake. Prayed no one noticed the fumble from small change on the blogosphere.

That’s when it hit me. Each time I read Blogger’s work, I get upset enough to lodge a complaint. No matter how respectful I am, my response is still negative.

i am not a troll

This may be Blogger’s modus operandi. Stir the pot. Salt the wounds. Elicit a response. Spike the stats. Who knows? Doesn’t let me off the hook. I was becoming a troll.

If you come here to my itty bitty blog, and what you read repeatedly upsets you, gets your panties in a wad, sends your blood pressure soaring—well, against all blogging wisdom about building an audience, I would probably suggest you not come back.

Lively discussion in the comments is welcome. But I bristle at my blog being a source of upset for readers. Challenge, maybe. Upset, not so much.

Don’t know if I’ll continue to read Blogger. Sure Blogger has impressive stats. But Blogger brings out the troll in me. That’s not acceptable. Trolls in my life will best remain a memory of a bar in the basement of a building across the parking lot from my sorority house in college.

If we claim we have no sin, we are only fooling ourselves and not living in the truth. But if we confess our sins to Him, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all wickedness. 1 John 1:8-9 NLT

Choke me in the shallow water before I get too deep. What I Am by Edie Brickell & New Bohemians.