The times they are a changin'...

Tonight on a Dallas freeway I spotted a car with personalized plates that said, GAIA....personalized plates for Mother Earth.
Hmmm, so this is what she's driving these days....

I never really pictured myself being passed by Mother Earth on a freeway, but if I did, I think I'd expect something more like this:

I don't know. With her shiny new Vette, it kind of makes me wonder if the ole girl's on the take and sold out to special interest groups...if no one renews that vanity plate I'm going to get it and put it on a jacked-up big wheel truck with a roll bar and dual snorkel exhaust.

Love in the check-out line

Each week I look forward to my brief exchange with the guy that bags my groceries at the local Kroger. He's a middle-aged African American man who never meets a stranger and doesn't let anyone leave his line without a smile. I don't know what his first name is, only that his last name is Love...or at least that's what he claims.
Yesterday he happened to be in the parking lot as I was loading my car and he volunteered to finish the job for me. While doing so, he some life philosophy with me, which I am now passing along to you. This guy cracks me up.

What Women Really Want -by Johnny Love

"All the young guys around here tell me they know what women want. But they don't know the first thing about women. You see, what a woman really wants is for you to shut-up and do what she asks you to do. She wants you to hold down a job and move out chyo' momma's house. That's what a woman wants. That's what I tell these boys."

Why my dog hates Jack London books

On one long road trip I listened to a couple of Jack London books on cd. I could swear Hannah was giving me the stink eye every time the story mentioned the sled dogs burrowing into the snow for the night. Call of the Wild? I think not. Shoot, if I don't get to bed early enough, I have to poke White Fang here off of the prime real estate.

If I Ran The Zoo

I finally made my big move to Dallas and moving into the new apartment has been a joyful project. For the better part of a year my adult life sat in a storage unit in Amarillo, packed away like some enormous game of Jenga. But now I get to be in that fun stage where I'm taking all of my Jenga pieces and the new apartment and figuring out how to make it feel like a home.

Sometimes during my little homemaking projects I realize that I need a tool that I don't have. Don't be misled, here. I'm talking putting together a Walmart desk and realizing I need a Phillip's screwdriver not a tile cutter, okay? So lately I've been making visits to The Home Depot. And every time I'm there I can't help but think that if I owned that store I'd start selling cold beer and I'd put it right over there next to all of that fancy pants patio furniture.

Also, I'd nix the whole orange uniform thing. I know it matches the logo, but I bet employee morale will skyrocket if people don't look like The Great Pumpkin every minute on their time card. But what do I know? I went to college and studied dirt.

Janet rides shotgun

I'm on a bit of an adventure these days--taking a leap of faith and following what I believe to be God's leading to move my support-raising efforts to Dallas although I know very few people here.
Last week I packed my bag, set the course on the GPS on my new phone and journeyed out of the Panhandle.
I've never driven with a GPS system before, but figured that I should take advantage of the resources available to me with this new piece of technology. Now that it's 2011, I may as well jump into 2008, right? No one drives around with printed-out Mapquest directions anymore. And who would be caught dead with an actual folding map?! I mean, what am I driving these days anyway? A covered wagon?
Within minutes a voice started squawking from my console telling me to, "turn right in 1/4 mile. TURN RIGHT....recalculating....turn right in 1 mile....TURN RIGHT," Obviously the GPS girl didn't know about the cutoff highway and was going to send me 30 minutes out of my way just for the fun of it. After I ignored her for long enough, I think she just gave up on me. Pretty sure that when she said, "Signal lost," it was her GPS equivalent of, "I'm sorry, I'm washing my hair tonight."
She started speaking to me again when my route met up with hers. That's about the time I named that girl Janet. "You gotta have a little faith in me, Janet. I know where I'm going."
After 200 miles of driving on the same highway, it was finally time for the BIG interchange. It was dark, but thankfully Janet started her yapping while I was on the phone, so I heard neither Janet nor the person on the phone. I ended the call and saw flashing emergency vehicle lights right about where the exit should be. "Exit right in 1/4 mile...Exit right. EXIT RIGHT!"
I held the phone up to the window as we passed so Janet could see that the ramp was closed and would get off my back about the whole thing.
But that Janet gives up so easily! All of a sudden she had the route recalculated and decided we were going to take a much longer and more inconvenient way to our final destination when all we really had to do was find a good place to make a U-turn.
I make my U-turn, but that really made Janet mad. "In 1/4 mile make a U-turn....Make a U-turn, Make a U-turn, Make a U-tuuuurn!!" I'm pretty sure I heard her sigh with exasperation before saying, "In one mile, make a U-turn..."
At which point I yell back in my own exasperation, "Damn it, Janet! You've GOT to have some faith in me! I know what I'm doing here. Pipe down."
And as we approached the entrance ramp to the highway we were originally going to take, Janet quietly acknowledged that I was right. "Exit right onto 380 East..."
"I told you so."
Technology is great. Fighting with Janet, even though I'm talking to a piece of plastic, is far more satisfying at the end of the day than fighting with paper maps in the olden days. Because, let's face it, that was a losing battle for us girls from the get-go. At least with Janet I can fall back on the threat, "If you don't knock it off I'll drop you in a glass of water. I have unconditional insurance on you. Don't think I won't do it." This, of course, is the single woman's version of Dad's, "Don't you make me come back there!" while paddling at the kids in the back seat with his right hand and driving with the left.
But just like the kids, Janet knows I won't really do it. I want my text messages too badly.

Ten Birds a Leaping

Family Christmas dinners are fun. And when there's a grandma who refuses to get hearing aids, conversation often walks that fine line between exasperating and hilarious. Like this one:

The extended family of aunts and uncles and Grandma were all sitting around the table eating ice cream out of festive holiday mugs. Grandma had one with the words, "On the tenth day of Christmas my true love gave to me..." on one side and then, "Ten lords a leaping," on the other side underneath an odd little picture of ten lords a leaping.
Part way through the ice cream Grandma became interested in the cup and started singing the song. "On the tenth day of Christmas....I can't remember what the tenth day is. This picture is some sort of jumping man in a funny suit."
"Lords a leaping," I tell her.
"Does anyone remember what my true love gave to me on the tenth day of Christmas?" she asked again, obviously missing my first response.
"Lords. A. Leaping." I repeat with a bit more volume and enunciation.
"Birds?! Emily, does that look like any kind of bird you've ever seen?!" Now Grandma is looking at me like I'm crazy.
"LORDS A LEAPING!" yells the entire table in unison.
"Oh, yes, yes! Lords a leaping. Of course," says Grandma as she begins humming the tune with the new found words.
"Hearing aids, Mom," says an aunt from across the table.
"What?"
"Exactly."

Knock, knock...

Meet House. Just 5 short months ago she looked like this. A scrappy little ball of fluff with wild hair growing out of her ears. She showed up at our farm after being rescued from the middle of the road, where she'd apparently been abandoned.
We named her after tv's Dr. House because of her standoffish nature, gray hair, and at first glance we thought she was male. Not so. But the name stuck regardless of gender.
In previous posts I've mentioned a terrorist kitten nicknamed Osama--Osama and House are one and the same. Don't let her cuteness deceive you. She is a terrorist tornado inside the house. Still, we like her and she is a part of the family. Besides, she is usually good for some entertainment.





This is House just a few months later. Still getting into trouble, but looking like an adult, even though she's still a youngster.
You can imagine our surprise when the scrappy little teenage barn kitten started getting unusually fat a few weeks ago. Surprise? More like shocked and horrified. We never even had a chance to explain the birds and the bees to her before House started this expansion project; before Osama started growing a sleeper cell right in our barn.

We didn't even know there were any tomcats in the area, which added to our surprise about House being "in a family way". (Who says that anymore anyway?)
But one day we went out to the barn and found this guy all cozy and moved-into our heated tack room. Better than that, this tomcat intimidated dogs and people out of the room. He looks sweet in this picture, but he's usually hissing and growling. We are fairly certain he is the father of House's kittens, given the timing of his arrival and the fact that he expresses great dislike for all living things except for House. And me.



Meet Max. When we ask the question, Who did this to our little girl?! he is the prime suspect. Mostly because he is the only suspect.
He's not a bad looking cat, for a cat. (I'm not a cat person)
We spent a few days knocking on the neighbors' doors trying to find his home. No dice.
Now Max quickly went the way of all of our "barn" cats...my mom brought him inside. (Of course he bit her on the way). He hissed and growled like a dang panther and had the dogs in a corner. So, I wasn't exactly sure what to make of him climbing into my lap and falling fast asleep. There was an occasional growl and hiss from the dozing feline. Then he got really comfortable and stretched out on me like a baby with his chin on my shoulder. Seriously, it feels like some sort of fatal attraction relationship. When he does that I'm afraid to move him or upset him.
We briefly discussed naming him Church, but decided there's no need to set ourselves up for some awful self-fulfilling Stephen King prophecy. Max he remains.

I made a point of tossing Max outside at night. For some reason, he knows how to work the cat door in and out of the tack room in the barn, but he is baffled by the cat door from the garage into the house. I know this because the other day I was helping our neighbor girl wash out the scrape on her hand where Max bit her (not badly) when all of a sudden we heard this horrific screaming noise. And then our old barn cat, Lily, came tearing through the cat door like her tail was on fire. She and Max got into it, but the cat door stopped him cold.

Mom brought Max in that night, too. He clobbered me with his fatal attraction affection again. I threw him out like normal. (This isn't cruelty, he has a cushy heated room all to himself in the barn) About 10 minutes later he showed up back in the house. Apparently he figured out the second cat door. Great. I felt like Fred Flintstone tossing the cat outside over and over again.

I went to bed, started reading and there he was. Max the stray cat waltzed into our house climbed onto my bed, laid on my chest, and went to sleep. When I tried to move him he growled. Since he'd proven himself rather persistent and I didn't care be scratched or bitten, I decided to play his game. And that is how I came to be held prisoner in my own bed by a stray cat that let himself into our house.

Penance for a Tarantula

I have a confession to make. It's about the tarantula from last month. I was having a conversation with the exterminator, who was an expert in all things spider, and he gave me some fascinating information about that tarantula. Information that left me feeling like one heck of an ignorant jerk.
It turns out that tarantula was just going about its normal fall migration, not coming out of a nest on the porch like I feared, and would have been gone the next day.
Also, he could have been up to 30 years old (the tarantula, not the exterminator). Wow.
With this new information, I've become perhaps a bit overly contrite with respect to spiders and insects around the farm. It's as though I think I can do enough penance to somehow bring that tarantula back to life. I know it's ridiculous.
I gently relocate spiders outside, right stinkbugs that are stuck on their backs. All the while, though, (and this is the weird thing) it's not the exterminator that I hear. It's Oprah. I hear her reciting those tarantula facts like she's narrating Life. (Who thought that was a good idea anyway?) And unlike the standard, neutral, British guy nature show narration, there's something about Oprah's voice that always triggers value judgments in my brain. I can't believe the male lion just sits around waiting for the female to bring him the food and then he has the gall to eat first!
So with Oprah doing the tarantula fact monologue in my brain, I fear I am on the mother of all guilt trips. I wonder when she'll go away? Soon, I hope. I am trying to think of people I'd like having in my head less...but I am having trouble coming up with anyone.

Sick as a what?

Winter virus season? Love it. Sheri the pharmacist shot us up with flu shots like Rambo right there in the supermarket, so at least the whole family didn't get bowled over by the flu. I am the last one to get this monster cold and it feels pretty miserable. Some might venture to use the phrase, "sick as a dog".
That got me to thinking about what that actually means. We have dogs. Four. Last week we even had five. I am no stranger to a sick dog. In my years of experience there are two key tip-offs that a dog is sick; and either one of those symptoms requires intensive carpet cleaning. I'm thinking that whoever came up with that phrase never spent much time with a sick dog. Because those sure aren't symptoms anyone would go around advertising in a cute little colloquialism.

So much more than a sunrise

I'm sitting here at my desk, coffee at my side, waiting for the sunrise to begin. I can see hints of it, but daylight is still hiding somewhere beyond the horizon. Oklahoma, maybe? That sun--I think one of his functions is to be a reminder of God's faithfulness to us.

And here I am figuratively in a different season of life while watching the daily arrival of a new season in nature in the literal sense.

The weather is changing, and still the sun comes up each morning. But no longer am I the one waking up to find him waiting for me as during the days of summer. Now it is time for autumn and winter when I must wake in the dark, trusting that he is on his way, and continue on mine.

Yet this darkness and delayed dawn is not bleak and without hope.

There is a beauty and stillness that belongs to winter alone. Sound never travels so far nor so clearly as on a winter's night. It is winter that prepares the soil for spring with melting mountain snow nourishing roots long into summer. Isn't in the dark winter seasons of our lives when we're waiting for God to show up that His voice pierces the darkness most clearly? And the things we learn in the cold, painful, lonely seasons, don't they become a continual source of life and growth as they water our roots after the winter has passed?

Autumn arrives with celebration--harvesting the fruit of trees, vine, plant. Fruit that gives life and sustains through the winter. So often I forget to celebrate the fruit of all that God brings forth in my life through changing seasons and circumstance.

And the foliage that worked so tirelessly to bring life to that fruit? It gives up its life in celebration, with a burst of brilliant color before retiring to the ground where it will eventually bring life to roots again. But not without a long winter. Perhaps these winter seasons are for a bit of resting? Maybe they aren't so bleak and silent after all.

It is past 8am, the coffee in my cup is nearly cold, but dawn is finally breaking low in the sky. And, so, the sun and the seasons he brings remind me this morning of God's faithfulness and intentionality in our lives. For He is more faithful and more purposeful still than the sun and seasons He created. How much more might I rest fully and confidently in Him!

Here comes the sun. I might just run outside to meet it and say hello.

Brittany, Part 1

In my most recent prayer letter I promised Brittany's story. If you've been with me for a while, this will be a refresher. If you haven't heard this before, buckle-up!

Brittany's silence spoke loudly to me as we sat in our small group discussion Friday night. I was helping lead a weekend retreat for students involved with our ministry at Utah State University (two hours north of Salt Lake). I made it my goal to draw this mysterious English major out of her shell. By Saturday morning I began to doubt my chances of meeting the "real" Brittany. Over lunch, though, the floodgates opened and she hit me with a torrent of profound questions.

That cold February afternoon has been the highlight of my Utah experience thus far. The whole conversation is a blur in my memory, but somewhere along the way Brittany realized what it truly meant to have a personal relationship with God, that she didn't have one yet, and that she wanted to change that. During the course of our conversation Brittany prayed and invited Christ into her life. Here's part of a letter that she sent out at the end of March:

"This past winter I attended a retreat...and made a life-altering decision to allow God to lead me in my life and truly devote myself and my time to Him."

After making that life-altering decision, Brittany revealed more details of her recent spiritual journey. In the months prior to the retreat, she'd spent a great deal of time meeting with Mormon missionaries on her campus. What she didn't share with me until weeks later, was that 3 days after the retreat she was suppose to have an appointment to be baptized into the Mormon church. She canceled that appointment. Her decision to give her life to Christ was more timely than I could have imagined!

Brittany's jumped headfirst into following Jesus and is taking 10 days this summer to be part of a Summer Project in Mexico. Summer Projects are our short term mission trips and are by far the most effective too we offer to students for life transformation. I can't wait to hear from Brittany about her Summer Project experience.

Thanks to that year's H1N1 virus outbreak, Brittany never went to Mexico. She decided to go on a different summer project. Instead of 10 days, she spent the whole summer working with inner city kids in Indianapolis. If you stick around for Part 2 of her story, you'll see how that turned out and how maybe the swine flu was actually good for something.

Brittany, Part 2

And here is Brittany 18 months later. Now an intern with Great Commission Ministries at Shepherd Community Center in Indianapolis. The following is a piece she wrote for my latest prayer letter:

Cru has been my foundation. I had given me the means of finding God and from there growing and following His call. It was because of people who trusted God and were believing and living a life according to His will that I became a believer. That was my beginning.
It wasn't until I embarked on my first summer project that I truly became acquainted with God. I went on The Heart of the City Indianapolis 2009 project. Placed in the depths of the inner city, working with kids who'd rather pick a fight than pick up a Bible or turn an ear to anything I had to say stripped me of everything worldly and anything belonging to my own strength.
I started to project frustrated with things like trying to find verses in the Bible because, oddly enough, the Bible isn't alphabetically categorized, who knew, not me. But slowly, with the warmth of God's community and the persistence of my Cru support, I began to truly experience God at work in my life.
I wasn't the one who could get up every morning and love on kids who didn't know how to sit down, had lice and fleas an other ailments galore, and more than one occasion professed their undying hatred toward me and my efforts to sacrifice my summer for them. No, this wasn't me. I didn't know how to love myself, let alone love them. God loving on me and giving me the strength and the eyes to see Him in me and in my kids pushed me.
I went back for a second round of this summer project, but 2010 style. I have learned to depend on Him for everything, but most importantly strength to reach out to these kids in the inner city. I want them to see and learn what I've come to know.
I am currently working as a year-long intern for Global Commissions Ministries at Shepherd Community Center, where I participated in both Cru summer projects. I am teaching middle school English, mentoring, and working in the after-school program on a day-to-day basis. Every day I will have an opportunity to reach 20+ kids in order to build relationships and provide them academic attention as well as opportunities to learn more about God, which they wouldn't have typically had.
I am working to develop a ministry team--a group of people who will join with me in this effort. for the year, I will need to raise $8,308.00. The GCM's donor website: www.gcmweb.org/give is a secure and easy-to-use website that enables a convenient way to give regularly towards my work at Shepherd.
Where I am right now, the people I'm able to reach and share/show god's love was primed by my foundation. I would never have gotten here without Cru. God puts the right people in our lives at the right time, and this definitely holds true for me, as I hope it does for my kids here in Indy.

I think this is so cool. Who knew all those months ago that through Brittany's changed life kids in inner-city Indianapolis would be reached?! I never would have guessed. I'm excited to be a part of Brittany's ministry and want to encourage you to join me in finishing-off her funding. GCM's giving website is linked above, and Brittany's blog is also linked under "People I've Met Along the Way".

When A Lightweight Wrestles God.

A few weeks ago, in the depths of waiting to get better, a wise woman gave me this word of encouragement, "Emily, when God puts us on our backs like this, we just have to keep our ears to open for whatever lesson He may have to teach us about ourselves, how we interact with the world, cope with stress, whatever. Count this time as a privilege."

Good advice. I took it and in my weariness and impatience made it into a magic formula. I decided that if I could just figure out what this lesson was, then God would release me from the stranglehold of this stupid illness. Ah, the folly of my little human logic. I was treating God as though He were playing a cosmic game of "Uncle" with me. But it makes for an interesting story, so I'll tell you about the night I wrestled with God.

I have this great friend and every time one of us mentions wrestling with God the other inevitably asks, "How's your hip?" If the joke is lost on you, go here and you'll catch up in about 10 seconds. Anyway, this one's for you, Ross.

I went outside one night to sit and await/demand God's answer under the quiet of the stars.

Silence.

"Hey, God, I'm out here. Would You come meet me and tell me what I'm supposed to be learning in all this, please?"

Silence.

"God?"

Silence.

"Okay, listen up, God. I don't care about my dumb hip. I am wrestling You and I am not letting You go until You bless me and give me an answer for why all of this is happening!"

Silence.

More Silence.

"It's getting kind of cold out here, but I'm still wrestling You."

Silence.

"Okay, look, I'm cold. I'm going inside. You're the omniscient and omnipresent one here. You can come find me."

Silence.

A few minutes later I'm brushing my teeth (obviously still wrestling God with near Jacob-like intensity...I mean he lasted all night, I didn't even make it 10 minutes in the pee-wee division B-squad) and I started a mental dialogue: I don't get it. I mean God wouldn't let me go through this without giving an explanation, would He? No, He couldn't poss..i...b....l.....y......

"Job." That's what God spoke. One single word and it was the name of the man who got one heck of a rough deal, (makes anything I've ever gone through look like a hangnail) and received no explanation from God.

"Crap," was my first response. My second was to read Job 38-42. Reading with my face on the floor and crying sounds impossible, but somehow I managed. The water damaged pages in my Bible after the fact are proof. Those chapters have always been some of my favorites for the grandeur and power with which they describe God. That night they pierced my heart and humbled me. I realized in a fresh way just how holy God is and how sinful and separated from Him I am apart from Christ.

It's funny how much peace I got from not getting an answer. I realized that I needed an attitude adjustment. It doesn't matter if I ever get an answer. My job is to acknowledge and worship God for who He is. Period. Maybe that sounds crazy, but there is a lot of peace in that.

The next morning I went outside again, hoping that God would throw me a bone for learning that big lesson the night before and maybe, just maybe give me that answer I wanted anyway. (Some habits die hard.) I even went so far as to read Job 38-42 again. They hit me in the normal way, no profound moment there. And then I heard the following,

"Emily, come and take a walk with Me."

"Okay! Hey, do You want to take me really far, or can I go barefoot?"

"Whatever you want."

Barefoot it was. I started walking, wondering if God would tell me something profound. (At this point I was still fairly sick, so going on a walk like this was really quite a treat). About a half mile from the house is a long dirt road and it felt great under my feet. As I started down it, He gave me the most incredible invitation.

"Want to open 'er up and see what she can do?"

I just smiled, started running and let the wind hit my face in that familiar way. It was one of the most wonderful things I've felt in a long time. (p.s.-I was still in my pajamas and not giving a rip)
So, while I don't know what God is doing, I know that He loves me. I know that He doesn't owe me an explanation.

"Who is this that darkens My counsel with words without knowledge?
Brace yourself like a man: I will question you, and you shall answer Me.
Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation?
Tell Me, if you understand. Who marked off its dimensions?
Surely you know! Who stretched a measuring line across it?
On what were its footings set, or who laid its cornerstone---while the morning stars sang together and the angels shouted for joy?"
"Can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water? Do you send the lightning bolts on their way?
Do they report to you , 'Here we are'?"
Job 38:1-7;34-35

Showing my age.

I picked up my mail at the PO box today only to find 4 or 5 health insurance claims forms and the quarterly report from my 503(b) investment (that's pretty much a 401k for people who work for non-profits).
Of course I tore into my investment report like it was Christmas morning just to see how the little guy is doing. Yeah, somewhere along the way I started getting really excited about my retirement account and saving money.
And then came a moment I wasn't expecting: the double-fist pump and cheer when I opened up the insurance claim and found out I met my deductible. Wow.
Maybe I need a rocking chair and 7 cats.

That Barefoot Yankee Vagrant

I've continued to walk and run barefoot with my improving health. My feet are tough and strong and I really am enjoying the feel of the ground directly under the soles of my feet. The whole thing remains in experimental stage. It's very fun and even feels mildly edgy. But I keep reminding myself that I am just trying something new and am out there with nothing to prove.
I made a firm decision that if my feet begin to resemble the feet of any of the following, I will quit immediately:
-Frodo Baggins
-chimpanzee
-shoeless, deck-swabbing, pirate from any Robert Louis Stevenson novel

I often wonder what my neighbors think as they pass me. Do they think I'm going swimming somewhere? Got locked out of my house without my shoes? Dirty hippy moving into a nice Republican neighborhood? I make a point to wear my expensive running sunglasses when I go out so that I don't look so much like a vagrant.

One of my first days of feeling better I decided to take a real run. Barefoot, of course. (up until this point, I'd been taking walks and running bits and pieces) It was a glorious day and the sun felt wonderful on my face and shoulders. I know I had a huge smile on my face. The wonderful thing about being barefoot was how incredible the sun-warmed dirt road felt under my feet and between my toes. After a good long stretch of running I got to thinking, Man, all of this being sick really has taken a toll on my lung capacity. Feels pretty tight in there. At which point I looked at my watch. Oh, Emily, you dork! You've been running at 8 min/mile pace! (My normal pace is more along the lines of 10 min/mile) I slowed it down and the lungs held-up just fine. That sure was a fun way to start off running again.

One week later....for now I am putting the barefoot experiment on hold. Not because I'm in danger of developing hobbit feet, though. Two road-killed rattlesnake babies between our driveway and the entrance to the development make me wonder just how many of them are out there and crossing the road...then there's the tarantula, and the 3 large communities of enormous ants (what do fire ants look like, I wonder?) on my favorite dirt road. Going to make the official call that it is not worth it. For now.
But I must raise my coffee cup to honor those that settled this mean old chunk of Texas panhandle. Those men and women had a whole lot of pluck. Hats off to you.

Arachnophobes, skip this one.

We have a dog that barks. A lot. Mostly it's at birds or the horses standing on the other side of his fence. When he was standing barking at the wall, I decided to check it out first before scolding him.
Not sure if I took the Lord's name in vain, or was asking for His protection with what I shouted next. Either way, the dog sat down like he was in big-time trouble. But this, my friends, is what was on the patio wall.



I am not sure if this is an actual tarantula or just a tarantula-sized spider.

I don't usually get worked-up about a spider. I'm from the NORTH, folks. We have stuff like this. It's safely locked in a cage at a zoo. We just have the little guys to deal with. Definitely nothing bigger than a quarter. And my spider philosophy has always been to either coexist or shut-up and kill it without making a fuss.
But THIS?! This giant?! Now, before anyone gets all PETA, spider's got-a-right-to-life on me, let me explain: for the past 2 months between the kitten, the dogs, and the sheer audacity of the little critters, I've caught at least a dozen live frogs in the house, the kitten brings in dead toads, and live mice that she's playing with.
"Osama!" (That's what I call the cat for her terrorist activities) "If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times, PICK UP YOUR TOYS!"
(I realize the picture I just painted sounds a bit vermin-infested...it really isn't. My parents have a very nice home.)
But with that background, suddenly seeing a spider that will probably get into a wrestling match with the kitten and the victor likely dragging the defeated into the house....however that one turns out...I give the cat a 50/50 shot. OR this spider could very well walk up to the back door and use one of its bajillion legs to turn the knob and walk right in, tip-toe to my bedroom and crawl into the empty space next to me. You see my point. Immediate and lethal action was the only way to go. Read: step dad.
"Tarantula? Well, it is that time of year, I guess."
Not exactly the reassurance I was hoping for, but he did kill it dead. And that was all I wanted.

Deadpan.

Recently I've been going to see a massage therapist. Turns out I have these really cool muscle spasms that can cause so much pain I throw-up. For some people the massage-therapist might be a no-brainer. They'd even jump at the excuse to throw themselves down on the massage table. Not me. It's either this or muscle relaxers. I am less excited about more medication than I am about a stranger touching me. So, massage it is.
It's not my first rodeo with massage therapy. But I still find it ironic how my discomfort with all the physical contact makes me more tense. I'll be laying there and realize that I've had a death grip on the table for the past 10 minutes.
It's no surprise that physical touch ranks dead last for me on love languages. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, The 5 Love Languages are a fascinating way to look at the different ways that we give and receive love. And in the words of today's youth, "it's legit." I'd recommend the book, but check out the website for a quick idea. You can even take the quiz and find out what yours are.
The other day I'm lying there trying to relax (not very well) and I can't help but wonder, What in the world is it with these places and pan flute music? Why is that the universal sound of relaxation? And how often do you think pan flute players bore themselves to sleep? Or worse? Death by pan flute. What a way to go. Not exactly down in flames, but certainly novel.

Armchair, M.D.

Confession: I do not have a medical degree. What I do have under my belt are years of medical drama on television. Let's call that the "Armchair M.D."
The A M.D. degree has given me the false impression that when I walk into the hospital I will have a specialized team of diagnosticians focused on only ME. And they will run every test in the book immediately just because they can. There is no question as to whether or not this is in-network, out-of-network, meeting my deductible, and who exactly is footing the bill for all this jazz. Most importantly, the treatment works right away and very conveniently into a 1-hour time slot. It's wonderful.
So, it's been a struggle to understand why it takes my medicine so long to work. It's hard for people that want me to get better quickly because it appears that I am taking a very passive approach, when really this is just the way it works. And since I don't have that genuine medical degree, all I can say is that it takes a while for the chemicals to build up and really do something. I like to think of it like a flash mob. Like this:



I simply must point out the man just left of center in the blue dress shirt and tie. In my mind I've named him "Middle Management Steve." Every time I see this clip I end up looking at him. Maybe it's because his timing is just a touch off and I think, "I'm with you M.M.S., I'd be behind everyone, too." But really, I think it's his enthusiasm that's so darn endearing. Go get 'em, Stevo.

Eye of the Tiger, baby.

You haven't heard from me (if you have, you've been one of the lucky few) for a long time because I've been feeling like J-U-N-K. The first round of drugs never really did the trick past those first few clicks of the bicycle gears that I mentioned in an earlier post. So we moved to something with more firepower, but still had to wait, wait, w...a....i.......t........ for those to kick in. It's been 6 weeks now and we thought it would take at least 3 more days of drugs building up in the system before I felt anywhere close to this good. I'm okay with early.

At some undetermined point in the wee hours of the morning my eyelids popped open and my body said, "Okay, Emily, we are done sleeping now." (don't ask me why, but my body always talks about itself in the first person plural). And then it started.

Buh. buh-buh-buh. Risin' up, back on the street. Did my time took my chances. Went the distance now I'm back on my feet. Just a man and his will to survive. (Insert mumbled lyrics I can't remember here) It's the eye of the tiger, it's the thrill of the fight...

By the time I actually looked at a clock it was 5:15. I didn't get out of bed for a while mostly because I knew what would happen as soon as I hit the coffee pot: a raucous 3-dog rodeo of sheer breakfast joy. Eventually, though, even I got annoyed with Eye of the Tiger and the stupid lyrics that I couldn't remember, so I got up.

My step dad is always up at unseemly hours for work, so he looked a bit surprised to see me walk (not stumble) into the kitchen.
"What in the world are you doing up?"
"I am done sleeping. It's the Eye of the Tiger day."
"Okay."


Ba-da bing. That is my morning. I like it and I am grateful that it has arrived.

"Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you."-Ephesians 5:14b

Okay, hilarious sidenote that I cannot let slide: I looked-up the lyrics to Eye of the Tiger just to make sure I wasn't going to find out through mockery that I've had the words wrong all these years. Have you ever been to some of these lyric websites? One had "It's the eye of the tiger, it's the CREAM of the fight." How that made sense to anyone, I don't know...but it sure made me chuckle.

Venezuela, Part 2. The Scenery Shots.

Getting off the plane in El Vigia. From there it was a 90 min bus ride to Merida.

Posada Guamanchi. I can't tell you how many months of my life I've lived here. It's a great place. Looks tiny from the front, but you'd be surprised. Pleasantly so.

Just an ordinary bus on an ordinary downtown afternoon.

When it comes to taxi cabs, anything goes. And all those people are waiting in line at one of the busier bus stops. (It's not a school bus if it's painted white).

Downtown sidewalk walking. I'm not sure how it is in other countries, but unlike the U.S. there's no sense of uniformity in sidewalk width, height, existence, or obstruction by open manholes or power poles. This is a normal looking section. Sometimes not dying while walking on them is a real art form. Pretty much the only reason why I'm still alive is because other people have pulled me back in from traffic. I'm not too proud to admit it.

The twilight view from one of the Posada balconies. I really do love this city.

I got to have these mountains out my windows for 2 whole years. It sure was nice to see them again. One morning the clouds were particularly dramatic. Who has two thumbs and appreciates teammates with sweet cameras and photography skills? This girl!

And this is what those same mountains look like without the dramatic cloud cover. Behind that tall peak, is actually the highest peak in all of Venezuela: Bolivar Peak (16,427ft).

Cathedral in downtown Merida.

One of the smaller towns up the valley from Merida.

Highland agriculture on our way up the pass to the hotter, flatter state of Barinas for our mid-project retreat.

Jesse and Bethany at Lake Mucubaji (Moo-koo-bah-HE) at the top of the pass. It was chilly up there! I think the Montanans on the team enjoyed a few minutes by an alpine lake. (and Jesse is the one who took these great photos).

High alpine stream. Introvert Emily made a mad dash for the rocks and a little re-charge time.