Dead Man Walking

The man reading with my son in this picture is my Uncle Abe. He should be dead.

But he isn’t. This picture was taken in June. Abe’s still very much alive and well.

In late 2007, Abe began having chronic, acute digestive issues. After lots of tests, waiting and misdiagnosis, the real diagnosis fell like a ton of bricks.

Abe had a cancerous tumor on his right kidney. It could kill him. However, it was not responsible for his digestive issues.

So after a CAT scan and more waiting, the second diagnosis fell. Abe also had a cancerous tumor on his pancreas.

Anatomy is not my forte, nor is math my uncle would tell you. But I know you need your kidneys and pancreas to live. And I know my show biz obits. Pancreatic cancer killed Patrick Swayze in 2009 after a 20-month battle.

Uncle Abe was a dead man.

My experience with cancer and close relatives equals an immediate death sentence. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I could hardly speak to Abe on the phone without crying. I knew I would never see him on earth again alive. That was 2008.

This is 2011.

Abe has always had a special something. He lives out loud. Gives generously. Exudes resilience. Manages to be both realistic and positive.

But that doesn’t buy a ticket to a cure. Or even a remission. Plenty of people who die of cancer have those strengths and more.

I don’t know why he survived and others don’t. I don’t know how he survived.

At 68 years of age, the man underwent a major surgery called the Whipple Procedure. And removal of his right kidney. And chemo. And radiation. For two cancers that should have killed him.

Yet today he is well. Thinner than he used to be, but just as sharp, sassy and humorous as ever.

Unashamed, he openly shares his experience. Credits God with sustaining him, providing the doctors and treatments, and letting him live. His Creator simply did not allow him to die yet.

A snapshot of Uncle Abe wouldn’t be complete without mentioning music. Abe is a masterful pianist and singer.

He’s directed or accompanied music in churches and choirs for most of his life. He sings and plays at nearly all our family reunions, weddings and funerals, including my mother’s funeral when she died of cancer in 1996.

Upon release from his treatment, Abe picked up right where he left off, playing and singing. He accepted a part-time job as music director for a small church. We attended that church with him and my aunt the weekend we visited them.

Abe sang with abandon. Gleefully he called my husband the tenor to join him. He worshipped with vulnerability, as one who was dead but is now alive.

When I spoke to him last week about this post, he was preparing to sing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony in German with a collegiate choir. He’s 72, but I’m sure he’ll fit right in. Abe still has his edge, now tempered by fire.

On my bed I remember You;
I think of You through the watches of the night.
Because You are my help,
I sing in the shadow of Your wings.
I cling to You;
Your right hand upholds me. Psalm 63:6-8 NIV

Great is Thy Faithfulness is a cherished hymn. Sara Groves sings a beautiful interpretation in He’s Always Been Faithful.

Thanks to Tim Robbins, writer/director of Dead Man Walking, for inspiring this post’s title.

Posted on September 28, 2011August 10, 2012 by Aimee 15

Nevermind

“Mom, I’m ready to checkout.”

“Huh?” I was engrossed in the August issue of Spin.

“Come on, Mom. Let’s go!”

We bypassed self-checkout and waited in line at the front desk. A strategic move on my part to garner a few more minutes.

“Do I have to give it back?”

The librarian shrugged. There’s always next week.

But the next week it was missing. The week after that too. Quite sure someone pilfered it. Slipped it into a briefcase or trench coat. Snuck it by the sensors.

I inquired at the front desk. They have no way of tracking periodicals. Oh, well. Nevermind.

Then this week, it miraculously reappeared in its rightful place between Southwest Art and The Sporting News. I snagged it and held it close. Snapped iPhone photos on silent mode so my clicking would go undetected.

August 2011. Spin. Special Issue. The 20th Anniversary of the Album That Changed Everything. What Nevermind Means Now.

There on the cover was poor Kurt Cobain in cutoff jeans and no shirt. Suspended underwater. Scruffy beard. Floating mane. Devoid of air.

“Most drummers write beats,” said Thursday’s vocalist Geoff Rickly in Spin. “Dave Grohl wrote riffs.”

“Nevermind was the first entire album of my generation that didn’t feel like it was on loan from the generation just before us,” said Sloane Crosley, author of I Was Told There’d Be Cake.

“Even on the first listen, the song (Smells Like Teen Spirit) carried with it a strange nostalgia,” said Meghan O’Rourke, author of The Long Goodbye. “What made Nevermind iconic had a lot to do with Cobain’s own self-consciousness.”

Musician Jack Davey explained it logically as teenagers rebelling against his laundry list of oppressions from the 80s.

In an article by Ed Masley from The Arizona Republic online, managing editor of MTV Hive Jessica Robertson attributed it to obliteration of the nuclear family. Kids being isolated without ways to connect.

“Nirvana came on their TV and there was this anthem for them. This entire movement was spawned in that one moment, because suddenly people had a home and a community,” said Robertson.

So what does Nevermind mean to you, if anything?

I was 20 years old and in college when the album was released on September 24, 1991. Rumor was a boy named Knox (what a cool name) introduced Nevermind to the frat house where my sorority sisters and I congregated. I’d never heard anything like it.

One morning after class, I meandered through frat court on my way back to my sorority house. It was autumn in Chapel Hill—sunny, quiet, magical.

Then as if on cue, Smells Like Teen Spirit blasted out from said frat house, filling the space and time.

Nevermind is a contradiction. An angry, painful, determined, come-close-as-I-push-you-away, I-have-a-chip-on-my shoulder-yeah-you-put-it-there, let’s-celebrate-for-tomorrow-we-die rallying cry.

I was born in 1970. Smack dab in the epicenter of Gen X. The 13th generation as theorized by Neil Howe and Bill Strauss. The unlucky. The unwanted. The Johnny-come-lately middle child after the Baby Boomers but before the Millennials. For many of us, life is a contradiction.

“Fortunately, Gen Xers are not starry-eyed idealists, but rather steely-eyed realists,” writes Lisa Chamberlain in her book Slackonomics: Generation X in the Age of Creative Destruction.

Early April, 1994. The news came on my car radio. I pulled to a stop at the top of a highway off-ramp in the middle of the night. Cobain had suicided.

“So that’s it?” I thought. “That’s how this ends?”

“I think it (Nevermind) has a lasting impact still of excitement and mystery,” said Meat Puppet’s Curt Kirkwood in The Arizona Republic article. “For something so accessible, it’s almost impenetrable.”

And that’s how it remains.

come as you are

I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:

Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:19-23 NIV

Come As You Are unplugged.

Posted on September 24, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 13

Indian Summer

Today is Friday in September. Football season. My maroon and gold pom poms are calling.

They beckon me from the trunk of a 1980 maroon Camaro with gold pinstriping. When my dad selected the car, I believe he thought it needed to match my uniform.

The days are warm and sunny. Might think it’s still summer.

Then you catch a chill, the crisp crackle of fall on its way. The changing of the guard approaches. My body remembers it’s time to report to the field.

Hear the drumbeat of the marching band. Spirited cadence, rebel yells. Evening now. Almost time for the game to begin.

The home team bursts out of the locker room and breaks through the paper banner stretched across the end zone. Wild bucks, padded up and set loose. Stampeding leather cleats on sparkling green grass.

The horn section screams and flashes silver. The bleachers applaud. The pom poms dazzle and shake.

At some point in the pre game festivities, we cheerleaders gathered on the field. Maybe the football team too. It’s been years, I’ve been a long time gone, and I can’t remember exactly who joined the circle. But I do remember what we did.

Together we said The Lord’s Prayer before kickoff. A tradition and a covering over our game. Over our youth.

So very politically incorrect. Only we didn’t know that then.

Those were the days we could still call our team the Indians. Now it’s called the Storm.

How long, I wonder, until the National Weather Service complains? Good thing the replacement mascot wasn’t an animal or we’d have PETA picketing the commons.

I wonder, as did Bob Fliss in the Carolina Journal Online, if Wake Forest University has been contacted about discarding the demon Deacon? Couldn’t help but notice a neighboring school in Guilford County has yet to give up their Vikings.

And that’s just a wee little pocket in North Carolina.

Dare I question the state university due east of my current home in St. Louis? When will the Fighting Illini become the Fearsome Gully Washers or the Frightening Thunder-Boomers?

We weren’t perfect, but we were good kids. We proudly called ourselves the Indians, believing it meant brave, strong, fierce warriors. We wouldn’t have taken the name if we’d believed it to be oppressive or offensive.

Looking back, I hope no one felt oppressed or was offended. It pains me to think folks would actually take it that way.

In 2004, the Guilford County Board of Education prompted by the North Carolina State Board of Education and the North Carolina Mascot Education & Action Group (yes, there is such a thing) voted to “retire” the mascot that had represented my school since 1926.

The vote came without consulting the citizenry prior to proceeding. The board reasoned the community could comment in the 30 days before the policy would be finalized, as if community input mattered. (Guilford Schools Board Forbids Indian Mascots, Jennifer Fernandez, News & Record, 1.14.04)

So it changed. A lot has changed since I left my pom poms behind.

A couple years ago, the homegirls threw an awesome 20th reunion party for our class. In between all the hugging and laughing and reuniting, we gathered.

Before the dancing and the open bar, we prayed. A tradition. A covering.

When I think of those friends, those times, my high school—to me, we’ll always be the Indians, brave and strong, on a crisp, early autumn Friday night.

How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone. James 4:14 NLT

This version of Boys of Summer by The Ataris rocks. Sorry, Don Henley. As noted above, things change.

Posted on September 16, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 18

Sweet Slice

“Half pound of Sweet Slice ham sliced thin, please.”

Our local grocery chain carries Boar’s Head lunch meats in some of their stores. We’re big fans.

It’s all good, but our favorite is the Sweet Slice. Tastes like Easter.

The clerk prepared my order and handed it to me, wrapped in butcher paper.

“Thanks,” I said. Then I looked at the label: Maple Glazed.

“Uh, this isn’t Sweet Slice. I ordered Sweet Slice ham.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to do it over?”

“No,” I said. “This is okay.” Hated to make her cut it again and waste the deliciousness of Maple Glazed. Like I said, it’s all good.

Life went on as usual. Packed the child’s lunch the next morning. Sent him out into the world. Picked him up at carpool.

Later safe at home, I popped open the lunchbox to discover a nearly untouched ham sandwich. There was evidence of a nibble.

“You didn’t eat your sandwich,” I said.

“Why didn’t you eat your sandwich?” said my husband.

“It’s the ham,” said the child. “I don’t like that kind.”

“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s Boar’s Head ham. It’s Maple Glazed not Sweet Slice, but…”

“It’s not the same,” he said. “Don’t want it.” And off he trotted to shuffle his Pokémon deck.

“How can he tell the difference between Sweet Slice and Maple Glazed?” I said.

“We’ve created a food snob,” said my husband, “with lunch meat.”

No more Maple Glazed, Black Forest, or Virginia ham. I won’t make the mistake of buying anything but Sweet Slice again. Unless I want to eat it by myself.

Have we created a food snob? An inflexible, entitled consumer? I don’t think so. He’s adaptable in other ways. Rolls with the punches and changes of life well.

Perhaps he simply likes his Sweet Slice ham. He’s tasted the good stuff. Met his muse. There’s no settling for less.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. This is just lunch meat. One day it will be weightier things.

He’ll be faced with what to study, what hobbies to pursue, where to work, who to befriend, who to unfriend, who to date (or marry!), who to worship.

Kathyskitchensign — Kathy's kitchen (Hi, Brad!)

There’s a lot we don’t get to choose. A lot of areas where we’re responsible to others. We have to compromise or sacrifice. Do what we’d rather not do.

But in the places we do get to choose, how extraordinary to choose the good stuff and pursue it wholeheartedly.

To pursue the good stuff, you have to recognize it. To recognize it, you have to know how it tastes.

And when it comes time to choose, you have to summon the courage to say no to the others, pick the Sweet Slice, and eat your fill.

Open your mouth and taste, open your eyes and see—
how good God is.
Blessed are you who run to Him. Psalm 34:8 The Message

Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

Disclaimer: I’m not being paid to promote Boar’s Head products. But I’m telling you, it’s some of the best lunch meat ever.

Posted on September 6, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 10

You Deserve a Break Today

Ever have one of those days? Yesterday was one for me.

Worked all morning on Thursday’s serious blog post when, oh, look at that. It’s noon! And by the way, the post is mopping the floor with me. Hmm. Wonder what’s for lunch?

Stumbled to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of ambition. But I got nothing.

No caffeine in the house. No appetizing morsel awaiting me in the fridge. Blood sugar is plummeting. Approaching meltdown status.

Suddenly I felt the urge to escape. To break free from the four walls of the house. Flee from the heavy subject matter I’d been tackling. Make a run for the border. Come on, baby, drive south!

That’s it, I thought. I’ll simply escort myself out. Next thing I know, I’m in the truck driving down our friendly neighborhood street. Headed for some destination yet unknown to me.

Had I been showered and dressed I’d have gone to the mall. Where else does a Gen X girl go when in flight?

But a shower had evaded me that morning, I hadn’t even brushed my hair, and I was still wearing Monday’s outfit. Nix the mall.

Bread Company? Been there. Qdoba? Done that. Chinese? No. Salad bar? What?

How about a drive thru? Nu-uh. That would mean I’d have pick up and go home to eat alone. I was escaping, remember?

The truck, sensing my distess, turned south on a major thoroughfare.

“Ah,” I said. “I know where we’re going.”

The truck didn’t answer. It just carried me forward, meticulously obeying traffic signals all the way.

“We’re going to McDonald’s, aren’t we?” I said.

Sure enough, we soon arrived at the Golden Arches. Three dollars and 71 cents later, I had lunch, CNN, and people watching. And no one cared about my hair or how I was dressed.

There are healthier options than a cheeseburger, like making a salad at home. More ecological means of transport than the truck, like riding that shiny purple bike. Maybe I’ll try those today. Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow’s looking better already.

But I’m reminded how my grandparents used to take us kids to McDonald’s as a special treat. How the Happy Meal was elevated to near comfort food status.

And I for one am thankful McDonald’s will still do fine for lunch in a pinch on a day otherwise in peril.

Be brave. Be strong. Don’t give up.
Expect God to get here soon. Psalm 31:24 The Message

Bad Day by Daniel Powter. We all have ’em.

Posted on August 31, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 8

I Like My Bike

pickmecindyIIsm — Cindy II (not to be confused with my homegirl, the unflappable Cyndi Tew)

This post was featured by WordPress Freshly Pressed on August 31, 2011.

My friend Corey turned 40 this year and announced he would now be living as if he were half his age. I promptly decided to adopt this philosophy.

Of course there are many things I can’t do now that I could do when I was 20.

Well, I may still be able to do them. But just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.

Staying up past a reasonable bedtime? No longer a good idea. Drinking more than an occasional glass of wine? Not good either. Eating half a five-dollar pizza all by myself? No.

There are other things though. Things I haven’t done for many years that are good for me. Enter Cindy.

Cindy was my first bike, complete with a banana seat and streamers on the handle bars. A horse was not in the cards, but I could name a bike just as well.

I received Cindy way before I was 20. Probably around age five or six. I’ll never forget learning to ride that bike. How wonderful it felt to be free and go fast.

Somewhere in the murky years of high school, I gave up bike riding. And skating. And swimming. Fun things I once enjoyed. Why do we do that?

Then a couple years ago, I decided to take my little boy skating at Steinberg Ice Rink in Forest Park. It was a perfect December day. He was too young to be on the ice for very long. I, however, had a ball.

We went skating again this past winter. He got the hang of balancing and moving at the same time. But all he really wanted to do was spin around in circles and fall and laugh.

We go swimming too. Although momma doesn’t always let her hair get wet, the water is like a long-lost friend.

When my husband received a reward certificate with an option to redeem for a bike, I lobbied. I had my eye on a sleek, expensive model at Big Shark Bicycle Company in the Loop. But a free bike? We had nothing to lose.

My son was as excited as I was when the bike arrived in a big box last week. We unpacked it, all shiny and purple.

He helped my husband put it together. Insists I wear my helmet as we ride around the neighborhood.

When I’m with him, we go slowly. He’s still learning. When I’m alone, I fly.

Someday I hope he’ll fly beside me and know what I remember. How wonderful it feels to be free and go fast.

good night, sweetheart!

So, I’m all for just going ahead and having a good time—the best possible. The only earthly good men and women can look forward to is to eat and drink well and have a good time—compensation for the struggle for survival these few years God gives us on earth. Ecclesiastes 8:15 The Message

Be free, go fast, and meet me back here next week!

How could I forget to mention the bicycle is a good invention?

Posted on August 26, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 163

Put Your Own Mask On First

pickmeroostercrpsm — this is not my rooster. we met this rooster in Historic Jamestown, VA.

It’s 6:00 a.m., Sunday morning. The little rooster has awakened with the sun. Blame it on his grandfather’s dominant dairy farmer genes summoning him to get up and milk the cows.

There are no milking cows at our house, but this Sunday we are due at the early 8:30 a.m. service for my husband to sing. Two and a half hours is plenty of time for three people to get ready for church.

My son wakes us, crawls into our bed, squirms, crawls out then disappears to play. His father is immovable, somehow skipped by the early-to-rise dairyman genetics. The time is now 6:30 a.m. I get up and begin the routine.

Shower. Try to wake my husband. Prepare breakfast for my child who is starving. Feed the dog. Try to wake my husband. Read a book to my child who is lonely and bored. Try to wake my husband.

The time is now 7:30 a.m. My husband gets out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. My child is on his second breakfast. We giggle at the table as we hear his dad warming up his voice in the shower.

“Ah, ah, ahhhhh!” he sings. We giggle some more.

I let the dog out. Try to convince my child to get dressed. Check to see if the dog has done her business. Check to see if my child is anywhere near his clothes. Clean up from second breakfast. Let the dog in. Praise the dog. Hunt for my child who has disappeared again to play.

Get third breakfast out as my husband still needs to eat. Ask said husband to please help our child get dressed and ready. Clean up from third breakfast.

The time is now 8:00 a.m. The final stretch. Departure in 15 minutes. I run upstairs to get dressed and put on some makeup.

“But, Daaad!” says child. “I’m trying to read this book!”

“You have to get dressed NOW,” says husband. “We’re going to be late!”

I’m tempted to leave my mirror with a half painted face to intervene. But the wise words of the trusty flight attendant ring in my ears: Put your own mask on first, then assist those traveling with you to put on theirs.

pickmeslowchildrenatplaysm — slow children at play

If I don’t get ready, none of us is going to make it. I reach for the hair dryer to complete the blowout.

“Daaad!” says child. “I want my book! You are so mean, Dad!”

That’s it. Exit bathroom. Break up squabble. Comfort and dress child.

The time is now 8:15 a.m. My child and my husband are clean, polished, dressed and sitting in the truck waiting for me. I’m standing in the bathroom with unstyled hair and no shoes, wildly slapping on mascara.

Next week, come hell or high water, before anyone else eats, bathes, dresses, reads, or requires me in any other way imaginable, I’m getting ready first. One must get into the lifeboat before one has any hope of helping the others.

Indeed, the “right time” is now. Today is the day of salvation. from 2 Corinthians 6:2 NLT

Someone Saved My Life Tonight, sugar bear.

Pin It

Posted on August 8, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 15

Hitting the Wall

free-live-streaming-2011-wimbledon — The Championships, Wimbledon

The beautiful tennis player with long blond hair was winning. But not by much. On the other side of the net, a spunky, dark-haired Italian was holding her own with moves more contorted than graceful. This was Wimbledon.

Back and forth. The blond pulled ahead, only for the Italian to catch her. The sportscasters sided with the blond for technical superiority. Yet they couldn’t discount the heart of the underdog.

Tennis games are way too long. We didn’t see how the contest ended. We were on vacation and the beach was calling.

Secretly I hoped the dark-haired girl would win. How many more beautiful blond tennis champions do we need really? Yes, we have Venus and Serena. But an Italian tennis queen. Bellissimo!

Today I identify with that girl more than I would like, and not just because of my Italian heritage.

BAM! The serve. Extensive travel in June.

SWACK! The return. Intensive upheaval back in St. Louis.

SLAP! A high lob. Close on the sale of our house.

CRACK! Another return. Move everything we own and downsize.

POW! The slam. Normalize only to set up for more changes.

In the middle of the game, I’m about to hit the wall.

My husband says I’ve simply run out of adrenaline. The synapses are shot. The serotonin took a nose dive, suffered a concussion, and is sitting out indefinitely.

Bad habits are back. I organize stuff, rather than stake out precious time to work. My husband works until the wee hours, rather than stake out precious time to sleep. My son is not eating enough (any) vegetables. And my inner critic has reclaimed the judge’s seat.

This is no time to quit. It’s precisely the time to keep hitting. The goal is within reach, even if the goal is to make it to dinner with all family members intact. One step, one second at a time. The most crucial moment could come in the next match. Or the next serve. You can’t win if you don’t play.

Break it down. Back to the basics like Elijah in his cave. Rest, eat, breathe, listen. Or like Hannah in the temple. Dust yourself off, clean yourself up, nourish yourself well. Come out swinging like Sampson. Or a certain Italian tennis player who just wouldn’t quit.

Ask for help from the One who never quits. The One whose strength has no end. Lord, help me persevere with grace instead of criticism, humor instead of depression, hope instead of despair. Amen.

Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. 1 Corinthians 9:24-25 NIV

C’mon and rock with me now to a little bit o’ TobyMac, won’t you? Get Back Up!

Posted on July 25, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 2

Downsize Me

A battle is being waged in my home. It’s me against the stuff.

pickmegaragemess — the garage (my colander is in there somewhere. no spaghetti tonight.)

If you’d told me four years ago I’d be happier in a 1,500 square foot house than in a 4,100 square foot house, I’d have said you were off your rocker.

Today I’d eat those words. Call me cozy, but a small house suits me. Now please take your rocker with you before I send it packing to Goodwill.

Ain’t nothing wrong with a big house—unless it’s THE big house. Then we’d have other issues to discuss. In the immortal words of Alan Jackson, it’s all right to be little bitty.

My husband is scared. He likes his stuff.

At the closing of the sale of our house last week, I told our real estate agent we’d have half as much to move when the lease ends on our current rental. My husband, bless his heart, said I was being mean. In front of my face. With me sitting right there across the closing table. A nervous laugh to cover his fear.

Maybe I am mean with clutter. Like a drill sargeant. The people and the dog come first, so the extra baggage has got to go. Whatever stays must be packed, labeled and stored appropriately. Ready to ship out at a moment’s notice.

This is combat, and I mean business. By the time I’m finished, we’ll be fit for a feature in Real Simple. Watch out, Martha Stewart. I’m coming for you next. I’ve tasted freedom, and it’s a good thing.

Freedom from debt. Freedom from cleaning a large house. Freedom from catering to the tastes of potential buyers. Now that I have it, I want more. More freedom to do what I love with the people I love.

Commandeering clutter is not something I love. It’s necessary, like laundry. We all have to do it. But let’s whip it into shape and minimize the upkeep, shall we? Let’s hang on to what counts.

Those things packed in boxes I literally haven’t seen in years? The most loved ones bring a rush when I unpack them. Reunited and it feels so good.

The others are asked to peaceably exit the premises. If they dawdle, they will be forcibly removed.

I need the space and the freedom. My time, my sanity, is no longer negotiable.

pickmemothswork — moth holes discovered when I unpacked my favorite shocking pink cardi. no!

Don’t hoard treasure down here where it gets eaten by moths and corroded by rust or—worse!—stolen by burglars. Stockpile treasure in heaven, where it’s safe from moth and rust and burglars. It’s obvious, isn’t it? The place where your treasure is, is the place you will most want to be, and end up being. Matthew 6:10-21 The Message

Warning: This is a three-song post for a one-post week. Alan Jackson’s Little Bitty, Peaches & Herb’s Reunited, and brand new Dara Maclean’s Suitcases. You’re gonna love it.

Posted on July 15, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 16

Privacy Schmivacy

“I have bad news for you,” said my pastor one Sunday morning from the pulpit. “In a hundred years, no one will remember us.”

I love this guy.

He’s also said things like the opposite of longing is not contentment, but apathy. And if your life feels unbalanced, identify the busy peripheral activity, shoot it in the leg, and allow it to go off and die by itself in the corner. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

As you’ve read here before, I only joined Facebook six months ago. This is hard for you to believe given how technologically savvy I am. Not.

Now that I’m participating, I’m quite taken by social media. Why then was I such a late adopter? One word: privacy.

What if someone from my past friends me? Or rejects me? What if they make fun of my pictures? What if they email me?

What if a serial killer selects me out of the billions of people on earth because of a Facebook comment about how much I miss Ronald Reagan? It could happen. That’s not an invitation, by the way.

notrespassingsml — violators will be prosecuted

Furthermore people do not need to be in my bidness, the trash talk pronunciation of business. They don’t need to be in that either.

As you’ve also read here before, I’m not sure how much longer I will live. Neither are you. I know. It’s sad. On the bright side, mortality adds perspective.

Privacy is a luxury. Think I’m wrong? Give birth or be hospitalized. Apply for life insurance. Be a victim of crime or get caught commiting one. Run for public office. Face financial ruin. Get divorced. Zip! There goes privacy right out the window with modesty, dignity and safety.

A Bible teacher of mine once told a story about President Theodore Roosevelt. The President took guests to one of his estates, let’s say Sagamore Hill on Long Island, New York. At night, they would walk with him under the dark, vast sky near the bay, silently taking in thousands of bright stars.

Then Roosevelt would say to them and to himself, “Feel insignificant yet?”

If you’re a private person, that’s fine. Continue to be private. It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.

But if you’ve got something to say, somewhere to go, something to do, there’s no time like the present. Mind you, don’t hurt yourself or anyone else intentionally. Do live fearlessly now. What do you have to lose?

notrespassingonchainlinksml — no trespassing

Think I share too much? Think you know everything that goes on in my mind and in my household? This is the tip of the iceberg. There are stories I’ll never tell.

Besides, one hundred years from now none of us will be here to remember and no one who is here will care.

I hope to be in a better place with no more death or mourning or crying or pain. So for the here and now, I’ll live the bravest life I can.

Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account. Hebrews 4:13 NIV

So long status quo. I think I just let go. You make me want to be Brave…

Posted on June 30, 2011February 11, 2013 by Aimee 4

Death of a Television: Six Months Without the Tube

One afternoon our television quit working.

It was alive and chattering the day before. But that afternoon it wouldn’t click on. Wouldn’t speak to the satellite or dance with the DVD player. It had expired during the night, never to be heard from again.

That TV was a monolithic dinosaur of technology and size. Ancient at only five years old. As rigor mortis set in, it became apparent a proper burial would not be easy.

Time of death occurred when my husband was out of town on business. The most interesting things happen when he’s not here. No way was I hauling that carcass to the dumpster alone.

So guess what happened when he came home? Ladies, you know the answer to this one. The TV remained exactly where it died for the next six months.

I have to explain. As you know, our house is for sale. The TV made for good staging. Prospective buyers didn’t know it was dead. They just thought it was off.

The perils of the housing market left us unsure we could afford another TV. Turns out, replacing it immediately was one of the best things we didn’t do.

The first few weeks were tough. Withdrawal and separation anxiety raged.

We pouted when we couldn’t watch Dinosaur Train or the new Ken Burns special or Top Chef. I agonized how I would occupy my child for the entire two hours after school and before dinner.

Gradually, incomprehensibly, we stopped missing it. I’d like to say we started some fantastic hobby like oil painting or guitar. Those are still on the list of things we’d like to do someday.

What we did when the TV died was simply live. We survived to tell the tale. It is possible to live in America today without a television.

Don’t get me wrong. I was raised on TV. It was always on in our house, a constant whirring of background noise. We do enjoy a good movie or show. And when we absolutely have to get something done child-free, our son’s favorite DVD comes in handy.

So after six months of watching movies on a 13-inch laptop screen, we decided it was safe to replace the television.

The new TV is smaller and slimmer than its predecessor. Light enough to pick up and throw out the window if it misbehaves.

We watch our selected shows or movies and turn it off. We have mastered it, at least for now.

Don’t you know that when you offer yourselves to someone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one you obey—whether you are slaves to sin, which leads to death, or to obedience, which leads to righteousness? Romans 6:16 NIV

Enjoy the very first video played on MTV, Video Killed the Radio Star by The Buggles. Still campy and still a blast.

Posted on June 16, 2011July 14, 2012 by Aimee 6

I’m Looking Over

A four-leaf clover.

Spotted it yesterday in an overgrown field in the middle of nowhere. Was wondering to myself, “Huh. In all these clovers, there must be one with four leaves.”

Looked down, and there it was.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I thought.

Nope. This is no joke. This is what I found. And now you’ve found it too.

Thanks for reading. Let this be your lucky day.

We may throw the dice,
but the Lord determines how they fall. Proverbs 16:33 NLT

I’ve linked to this before; it’s such a great song. Enjoy Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat again.

Posted on June 7, 2011July 9, 2012 by Aimee 13

everyday epistle

there's a story at every turn