After an epic struggle, guest blogger Kristen Anderson Short has reached a decision. A decision women across this country and around the world face.
Pantyhose. The worst invention ever for women. I only wear them out of necessity in really cold weather.
Recently, I noticed a run in my hose. Had a board meeting that day, so at lunch I ran out to get a new pair of name brands in my size.
Back at the office, I tugged and tugged to pull them on. No matter how hard I pulled, I could not get the blasted things all the way up. Had I grown to five feet six inches, the height of my dreams?
Unfortunately, no. The new pantyhose were too short.
light sheer
My board meeting loomed. I had no choice but to go with it. Women, you know how uncomfortable that is. Men, you can guess.
Made it through the day and met some friends after work. But even two glasses of wine didn’t make the pantyhose feel any better.
I was ready to trash them when I had a change of heart. Why not save them as my emergency backup pair?
A few days later when another pair of hose ran, I reached for the emergency backup pair. Sure, they were too short, but I could fix them.
I stepped on their feet. I pulled and pulled and PULLED, stretching them as far as I could. It was a miracle. They went on and up no problem!
patterned & footless
Then I moved, and they ran faster than Flo Jo in the 1988 Olympics.
I’m not talking about a tiny run. My hose looked like I’d been dragged down the street behind a Harley. Like I’d been out all night partying with the band and forgot to go home before work to change.
With no other pair of hose, no tights, and no clean pants, I made the walk of shame into my office. The minute I got the chance, I hightailed it to the store to buy yet another pair of pantyhose.
(This is the fourth pair in the story in case you’ve lost count.)
Gingerly, I pulled them on. They ran before I made it out of the bathroom.
Once bitten, twice shy, I converted to tights that day and never looked back.
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away. Ecclesiastes 3:1 & 6 NIV
Clear the stage for the bad boy hair band that looks remarkably tame by today’s standards. Great White, Once Bitten, Twice Shy.
guest blogger Kristen Anderson Short
The lovely Kristen Anderson Short and I went to high school together.
Kristen works as a housing and foreclosure counselor for a local government agency.
A single mom of two teenagers, she enjoys reading, talking politics, and finding the humor in everyday life—sans hose.
February is the height of the season for grapefruit. Not just any grapefruit. Texas Rio Star grapefruit.
Rio Star was the one food I craved when I was pregnant with my son. Bought and consumed bags of it.
My child was born with a taste for it. Our dear pediatrician said she’d never before seen a baby who preferred grapefruit of all things.
Round, sweet, softballs of juicy flesh. Fresh, pungent perfection sectioned with a snow showering of cane sugar.
Sunlit yellow skin and blushing spots on the outside. And inside, that sparkling, succulent, glistening, glorious pink. Like the pink of a Tropicana tea rose. Or a cluster of coral-tinged rubies.
This forbidden fruit. This Rio Star. The French call it pamplemousse.
The word must roll off their tender lips like the names of royalty. Geneviève. Marguerite. Antoinette. Pamplemousse.
Behold the pamplemousse. Crowned winter gem.
Partake before its glittering reign ends for the year, gently ushered out by the promise of strawberries, peaches, blackberries, plums.
Does not wisdom call out?
Does not understanding raise her voice?
“My fruit is better than fine gold;
what I yield surpasses choice silver.” Proverbs 8:1 & 19 NIV
Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum, Springfield, Illinois
America, we seem dreadfully divided as we stand a mere eight months from our next presidential election.
Diametrically opposed points-of-view. Mudslinging. General upset, occupation, and malaise.
It’s disconcerting, but aren’t we tougher than all that? Aren’t we kinder, gentler, smarter, and more mature?
Flawed? Yes. Fiery? Call it passion. Scandalous? Afraid so. Folks, we’ve been here before.
History reminds us our most esteemed leaders and citizens struggled through years of division and turbulence more tumultuous than this round.
Washington Monument, Washington, D.C.
If only the greats could advise us now. Maybe they could add some perspective to our conservative versus liberal, red state against blue state conundrum.
“They are feisty,” George Washington might say, “but they are free.”
“Free and outspoken,” Abraham Lincoln might say with a chuckle.
“The revolution for independence was not in vain,” Washington might say. “They have not succumbed to a king.”
“Neither was the war between the states in vain, ” Lincoln might say. “They hold together. The Union remains.”
Gettysburg Museum and Visitor Center, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania
Liberty and union. What a concept.
Thank you, gentlemen, for your enduring service to our great nation and for setting the bar oh so high.
Happy Presidents’ Day, George and Abe.
He controls the course of world events; He removes kings and sets up other kings.
He gives wisdom to the wise and knowledge to the scholars. Daniel 2:21 NLT
Grab the tissues and watch this. Filmed only ten short years ago, Congress spontaneously sings God Bless Americaon Capitol Hill.
The photos in this post were taken during our family’s road trip last summer. It was our pleasure and privilege to visit these historic destinations, and we highly recommend them to you. Click on the photos to be linked to more information about each location.
Interior designers and wardrobe coaches are forever advising us commoners to create inspiration boards.
Pull magazine pictures, postcards, paint chips, bits of string, anything that inspires you. This, they say, this will produce the holy grail. Your guiding light of personal style.
Like sirens in the sea, crafters, chefs, and domestic divas have also lured us.
Clip their recipes. Buy their magazines. Watch their shows. Read their books. Then flail hopelessly about trying to replicate their perfection.
But now I have Pinterest.
I pin whatever I like. Collect it on one of my own boards. Move it to another. Even delete it.
I choose the content and contributors in my own virtual magazine. There is no paper to recycle. No subscription renewal. No ragged-edged article glaring at me every time I walk into my kitchen because I have yet to cook its blue crab and corn chowder or paint my walls tangerine.
I expand out beyond food, crafts, and home decorating to pin other interests. Books. Art. Photography. Gardening. Kate Spade.
Pinterest is an organizer. A bookmarker. A cyber bulletin board. An ideas exchange. A creative breathe-in-breathe-outlet with endless applications.
My pins are safely tucked away. Nice and neat in vivid pixels. Accessible when the mood strikes me. Their linked sources but a quick click away.
Pinterest is free. And Pinterest is freeing. Like all good social media, it is the great equalizer. There are no kings in the pinmarklet. Pinners are at liberty to share their own finds and ideas. To pin and be pinned.
Case in point, my latest creation. A bit of Beyoncé-inspired pintelligence:
Pinners, you know what to do. On your marks. Get set. Pin it.
A generous person will prosper;
whoever refreshes others will be refreshed. Proverbs 11:25 NIV
Stationery tells short, short stories. Briefer than novelettes. Briefer than some poems.
While substantial letters between important people aspire to grow up and be published, most stationery finds fulfillment in the common exchange of private lives shared. In the precious time it takes time to handwrite the page. To ink out whispers. Giggles. Smiles. Tears.
My husband collects plants in his garden, flowers to flood the beds. Likewise, I think my obsession with stationery is a worthwhile vice. Beautiful. Creative. Relatively inexpensive.
Best of all, though stationery is lovely blank, I can write WORDS on it.
I dig electronic communication. Oh yes, I do. But there’s nothing quite like the written word on paper.
For the word of God is alive and powerful. It is sharper than the sharpest two-edged sword, cutting between soul and spirit, between joint and marrow. It exposes our innermost thoughts and desires. Hebrews 4:12 NLT
Be Still My Beating Heart by a younger Sting. Weren’t we all younger in 1987? Happy Valentine’s Eve!
lamb’s ear, iris and Baptista in J’s garden last spring
On February 12th, 2011, in the midst of trepidation, tears, handwringing and prayer, I published my first postwith these words: It was inevitable. At some point I would blog.
That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
So what do you get a blog for its first birthday? A Twitter account of course.
That’s right. Blogger girl’s taken to running with the Twitterati.
Okay. It’s more like I’m crawling through molasses to catch up with these cats. Let’s just say I have a lot to learn.
Did you know Twitter is free?
See? I learned something new already. Join in and follow @everydayepistle.
Thank you for taking the time to read, relate and share. Blogs are a dime a dozen. What sets them apart are their readers.
Happy Birthday, little blog. Full steam ahead.
EW's balloon wreath
Let all that I am praise the LORD;
with my whole heart, I will praise His holy name.
Let all that I am praise the LORD;
may I never forget the good things He does for me.
He forgives all my sins
and heals all my diseases.
He redeems me from death
and crowns me with love and tender mercies.
He fills my life with good things.
My youth is renewed like the eagle’s! Psalm 103:1-5 NLT
It’s been a week since we experienced our first Kansas thunderstorm. Think Dorothy in a giant, echoing dishwasher.
Last Thursday night, we were nestled all snug in our beds when out of nowhere came the strong wind. Bellowing thunder. Rain whipping against the windows. Four paws pouncing on my back.
The paws belonged to my dog. Her least favorite thing in the world is a thunderstorm. (Her most favorite thing in the world is rotisserie chicken.)
Our bed was damaged in our recent move to Kansas, so my husband and I are sleeping on our mattress and box springs on the floor. Kind of like camping.
This arrangement gives our small dog access to our bed. When the thunderstorm hit, our terrified terrier was glued to my side, trying to burrow under the covers.
It’s not easy to sleep that way, unless you’re like my husband who can sleep through anything.
forward march
Not me. I laid awake in bed, holding my dog, listening to the sky rattle and hum and shake and scream.
As I shared in Moon Walk, where we live in Kansas is flat and mostly devoid of trees. Nothing but God and ground and sky. Thunder echoes and booms like tympani in a large, empty room.
Nothing to buffer the wind. No gusts either. No chance to clear the hair from your face or adjust your vision. Kansas wind is sustained, constant, relentless.
Rain flies horizontally across the prairie. It attacks the house. A smattering of bullets against the siding.
“Jeff, do you hear that?” I whispered. “Should we go to the basement?”
The sounds reverberated, bouncing to the earth and back to the sky then down again. Angry and loud.
In my mind, I knew this was just a thunderstorm. It was not tornadic. It could not hurt me inside my house.
Even if it was tornadic and plowed my house to the ground—even if it killed me, it could not destroy me. Easier to write those words now than to remember them in the storm.
drying out
Storms are like this. They seem to erupt out of nowhere. They are no respecter of persons. None of us is immune.
Storms may devastate, frighten, hurt, and kill. They can last minutes or decades. Afterward, it may take years to rebuild.
But in Christ there is a place storms cannot touch. A place sealed and safe.
And there is a Person present in the storm. He stands beside us in the suffering and terror, even in death.
God, help me remember this because I know I will forget.
Next time the sky tears open and rages against me, next time I tremble, remind me You are with me. There is nothing to fear.
“Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have summoned you by name; you are mine.
When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
For I am the LORD your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.” from Isaiah 43:1-3 NIV
My seven-year-old son loves the water. Swim club seemed like the perfect extracurricular activity.
It was all good until his lesson was over and it was time to change into dry clothes.
He doesn’t want to go into the women’s locker room. He refuses to change in the bleachers while I hold up a towel.
No. He insists on going into the men’s locker room. Alone.
As every ounce of Momma Bear in me protests, I let him go all by himself.
“I’ll wait for you here by the door,” I say. He disappears into the abyss.
I wait. And wait. And wait.
Another pair of MOBs are standing nearby watching their sons’ swimming lessons. They look at me and nod.
“Mine doesn’t even have to change his clothes,” says the first. “He only has to put on his sweatpants over his swimsuit. And it still takes him a half an hour!”
“Well, mine came out telling me about all the friends he made in the locker room,” said the other. “I told him we don’t make friends in the locker room. That was the end of that. Now he changes in the bleachers.”
Friends in the locker room? Oh, dear.
four feet deep
“Honey,” I crack open the door. “You okay in there?”
I wait. No answer. Dare I go in?
Then I hear it. The unmistakable sound of two dozen slippery sea lions smacking the pavement. The high school boys’ swim team has finished their laps, and they’re headed my way.
The rushing stream of soaking wet, teenage boys flows through the locker room door. Panic ensues.
I imagine shouting, “Cover yourselves! Mom on the floor! I’m coming in!”
The thought of seeing a bunch of naked teenage boys is as appealing to me at 41 as it was at 16. I stop short of my raid.
I pace around outside the locker room, scanning the club for a responsible adult male to help. Where are the instructors when I need them?
A clean-cut boy who looks to be about 15 emerges from the locker room wrapped in a towel. Boldly, I approach.
“Excuse me,” I say. He looks at me. Deer in headlights.
my cub
“My little boy’s in the locker room. Yeah, and he’s been in there a long time. Could you go in and check on him? I’d go in myself, but that might be awkward.”
“Okay,” he says.
Towel boy scampers into the locker room. I wait. And wait. And wait.
The door opens and out bounces my cub. Unaided. Unharmed. Happy as a clam. And barefoot.
Where, oh where, are his shoes?
Yep.
“Cover yourselves! Mom on the floor! I’m coming in!”
Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I will depart.
The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away;
may the name of the LORD be praised. Job 1:21 NIV
Chihuly Blue Chandelier at Missouri Botanical Garden, aka a depiction of my blogroll
There’s Blogger, TypePad, Moveable Type, etcetera, ad nauseam. So many blogs, so little time to read them all.
I subscribe to RSS feed readers that are supposed to make following a multitude of blogs easier. So why do I still feel like I’m drinking from a fire hose?
While I learn to narrow down, take in, process and respond to all the blogs I want to read, I’ve gone back to basics.
I’ve made a list.
As Lucy said in a Peanuts cartoon, “That’s called survival, baby.”
My list is actually called The Social Network. You’ll find it in the overcrowded menu at the top of this blog.
The Social Network is now categorized to help you select blogs to explore. There are some recent additions. More will be added.
Please check back as this list grows, evolves and probably gets out of hand.
Cheers to you as you tame the fountain of blog. May you swim and not sink in this flood of information.
Regis, throw me a lifeline.
The LORD sits enthroned over the flood;
the LORD is enthroned as King forever. Psalm 20:10 NIV
My friend Nicole Diehl shared some good strategies she uses to manage her blog, Facebook and Pinterest passions. Click to read her post On Social Media.
Before January 2012 makes its final exit, there’s an anniversary to remember.
This month marks the 39th year since the 1973 decision in Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in the United States.
The hair on the back of your neck is rising as you read this, isn’t it?
Some of you are tuning out. Others are mentally rushing to your battle stations. Ready to defend your position in this divisive fight.
Regardless of which side you’re on, abortion inhabits a tragic, tender place.
The numbers are staggering. No one seems to know the exact figure. Most estimates agree abortion has ended more than 54 million pregnancies in America since Roe v. Wade.
That’s a lot of abortions and a lot of women. The Guttmacher Institute reports about half of American women will have an unintended pregnancy, and nearly one-third will have an abortion, by age 45.
The stakes are high. Abort73.com estimates providers take in more than one billion dollars annually for abortion services. On top of that, pro-life and pro-choice groups raise millions of dollars each year to support their causes.
Commonplace. Clinical. But still not openly discussed.
When was the last time you heard Jane or Mary or Lana flippantly drop, “Yes, I had an abortion last week,” in passing at the grocery store? More likely that conversation is shrouded in secrecy and whisper if it happens at all.
We whisper because this is a delicate subject. Maybe, despite our rights and choices, we recognize abortion ends human life.
Feminist writer Naomi Wolf acknowledged this way back on October 16, 1995, in The New Republic. Click here to read a full repost. Wolf writes:
Abortion should be legal; it is sometimes even necessary. Sometimes the mother must be able to decide that the fetus, in its full humanity, must die.
Ayelet Waldman did. In her 2009 best-selling book “Bad Mother,” Waldman writes a chapter entitled “Rocketship,” the nickname she gave her unborn child.
Waldman painfully recounts how she knew she was killing her baby. But she thought it was worth it. Better to choose to end his life than risk giving birth to a child who tested positive for possible birth defects. Waldman writes:
Although I know that others feel differently, when I chose to have the abortion, I feel I chose to end my baby’s life. A baby, not a fetus. A life, not a vague potentiality. As guilty and miserable as I felt, the only way I could survive was to confront my responsibility. Rocketship was my baby. And I killed him. (p.131)
Now we can carry out this choice in near-complete privacy. No accomplices but an inanimate pill. Clean and quiet, or so we think.
Enter Jennie Linn McCormack of Idaho. Sometime in December 2010 or January 2011—news reports vary—this unemployed, unmarried mother of three ended her pregnancy with RU-486, the abortion pill, her sister obtained online. Only McCormack didn’t realize how far along she was.
Frightened and confused, she put the corpse of her baby in a box and set it outside on her porch. The cold, winter air preserved the remains until they were discovered by authorities following a tip. A whisper.
An autopsy concluded the baby was between five and six months gestation.
Can you imagine the horror of facing the remains of your own child? Placing them in a box? Leaving them alone outside in the cold?
McCormack was arrested under a 1972 state law making it illegal for a woman to induce her own abortion. The case was dropped due to lack of evidence.
Meanwhile, McCormack’s been ostracized in her town. Can’t go out. Can’t work. Her private actions making her a pawn in the public battle to decide whose rights, whose life will be protected.
I’m not interested in condemning women who’ve had abortions. I’m not qualified to do so. We all sin, myself included. In Christ, there is the gift of forgiveness for you as much as there is for me and my transgressions. Take hold of it.
extinguished
Encroaching on your rights or privacy isn’t my concern either. I believe it’s most often in brave, lonely, silent moments of desperation you make a choice. You try to set things right in a tragic, tender place.
Yet we can’t turn a blind eye to the mass killing of a muted people. Little ones who have no means to defend themselves. Who have been blotted out of existence. Snuffed out like tiny match lights.
We are American citizens, born and unborn. Hold fire for a moment on this bloodied battlefield and listen. They are your countrymen. Hear them whisper.
How will we answer?
For You created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb. Psalm 139:13 NIV
Dear Father, hear and bless Thy beasts and singing birds; And guard with tenderness Small things that have no words. —Anonymous
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