Just Do It

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Jeff and I spent last weekend shopping for my perfect pants — or in this case, the perfect shorts.  Most husbands aren’t very enthusiastic about shopping with their wives; but, we have already established that Jeff is an exceptional husband.  And besides, the ellusive shorts were a sporting goods acquisition which put them firmly into the kind of shopping Jeff likes to do.

We were hunting for a good pair of sliding shorts.  Let me set the record straight before we go any further.  I have no intention of sliding.  Sorry Coach but the word “sliding” does not co-exist with the term “recreational softball team”.   While admittedly, I am competitive to a fault at times, sacrificing my body to “take one for the team” is something that went out with my A.A.R.P. membership.

We were looking for sliding shorts to give some extra support to a leg that also apparently went out with my A.A.R.P. membership.  Thankfully, we hit the sliding short jackpot at a fairly local sporting goods store.  As I happily headed for the fitting room loaded with options, Jeff trolled the aisles while visions of basketballs danced in his head. 

The first pair of shorts that I tried on were cute little pink and white things.   Very cute.  Very feminine.  Very little.  I squeezed into them, or tried to, as visions of the Michelin man danced in my head.  After many gyrations and no fewer than 5 basic ballet moves, I got the dumb shorts on.  Looking in the mirror, I laughed out loud.  The Michelin man thing was more than just a vision!

It was only after I peeled the shorts back off that I noticed the tag.  “YOUTH” it said in big, bold letters.  Oops.

Once I moved out of the Juniors department and started trying on adult shorts, things went swimmingly.  I found several pairs of shorts that would work and went out relay the happy news to Jeff.  He met my happy news with more options in the form of compression shorts.  These shorts would do the job I wanted them to do without the extra padding of sliding shorts.   Not only would I get the extra thigh support I needed from the compression; but, the sliding pads would be absent so nobody would make the wild assumption that I was actually planning to slide.  Obviously a win/win situation. 

Because I do have a learning curve, I looked at the tag on the shorts to make sure they were a reasonable adult size before I headed to the fitting room with them.  That was when I saw that my potential shorts had some pretty amazing features. 

Not only were the anti-bacterial, they also promised to stay stretchy, protect me from the sun, and keep me dry.  It was one last feature that kind of tripped me up though.  My potential shorts came with “noise-reduction”.  I had to read the tag several times to make sure that’s what it really said and then, I almost put the dumb shorts back on the rack.

I didn’t want shorts with noise reduction!  I just wanted regular shorts that I could blame when things went awry.  “I’m sorry, Coach.  I tried to get that ball but my shorts…they were just too darn loud!”  “Sorry Coach, just when I went to make the catch, my shorts taunted me and I dropped it.”  “Sorry Coach, I intended to slide but my prophetic shorts told me not to.”

In the end, I did buy the exceptionally quiet shorts.  Because my “loud shorts” excuse is now gone, I expect big things of myself at the game this week.

Trying to imagine the look on my coach’s face if I blamed my poor performance on my shorts has provided hours of good, clean fun.  However, I can’t imagine that he, or any of my teammates, would be too thrilled with me if I tried to use the “loud shorts” excuse.  And I REALLY do not want to imagine the long ride home as Jeff is also one of my teammates and has no patience for excuses or loud shorts.

My new shorts got me thinking about God and the excuses I’ve given Him over the years for not doing what I’ve been asked to do.  Too busy.  Bad timing.  Not equipt.  Scared to death.  In my mind, my excuses seem very plausible — even reasonable.  In God’s eyes, I’m sure my excuses seem totally ridiculous.  Kind of like blaming a poor athletic performance on loud shorts.

And so, armed with exceptionally quiet shorts, I’m headed into my week with a new motto and a new attitude.

No excuses.

No compromise.

Just do it.

I’m really praying that God doesn’t want me to slide.

Happy Easter!

Why do you look for the living among the dead?  He is not here; He has risen!

Have a glorious Easter!

This I Know

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

I learned something new this week….April and May are the top months for tornado touch-downs in the state of Tennessee.  I tend to believe the statistic to be correct.  In the last week, we’ve had two tornado warnings (With grave forecasts of another today.)  and enough lightning to make the cats all fuzzy.

Tornadoes scare me.  They always have.  If I were to get all psychological on you, I could pretty much boil it down to anything that I can’t control scares me…tornadoes, fires, death of someone I love, floods, terrorist attacks…well, you get the idea.

So in the midst of an afternoon tornado warning last week, I hunkered down in the master bathroom with two cats.  The third cat was invited to the party but chose not to attend — making her R.S.V.P regrets clear by hiding behind Jeff’s desk and hissing at me when I tried to bring her downstairs.

I’d done what I could do to prepare for the bad weather.  All that was left was just waiting for whatever was going to happen…to happen.  As I thought about Jeff being 15 miles away at work — in an area that was reportedly getting the brunt of the storms — my brain immediately kicked into “Worst Case Scenario” mode and in a matter a few short minutes, I managed to scare myself silly.

After I realized I was catching fear from myself, I tried to re-focus my brain.  I thought about my grocery list, the chores that were still undone, and what further steps needed to be taken to get supper on the table.  And yet, my mind’s eye constantly saw funnel clouds dancing on the horizon…lots and lots of funnel clouds.

That was when I began to talk to myself.  “What do I know?”  I asked myself out loud.  And then a strange thing happened.  Like a printer belching out a monthly report, my brain began rattling off the choice tid-bits of information that it has stored over the years.  And I do use the term “choice” very loosely.

Here is a sampling of the useless information that resides in my head:

1. The microwave oven was invented as an accidental by-product of World War II radar research using magnetrons — vacuum tubes that produce microwave radiation.
2. Orange M&Ms were introduced 1976.
3. Atlanta’s Fabulous Fox Theater got air-conditioning before the White House did.
4. Barbara Millicent Roberts A.K.A “Barbie” is from the town of Willows, Wisconsin.  
5. President Eisenhower named of the official Presidental retreat after his grandson, turning “Shangri-La” into “Camp David”.
6. The NFL franchise the Tennessee Titans began life in 1960 as the Houston Oilers.
7. Legos got their name from combining the first two letters of Danish words “leg” and “godt” — Translation?  “Play well.”
8. Waffle House serves more than 3.2 million pounds of grits each year.  ( Author’s note:  However, the big question remains…WHY does ANYONE voluntarily eat grits?)
9. The largest body of fresh water in the world is Lake Superior.
10. Disney’s “It’s a Small World” ride actually debuted at the 1964-1965 World’s Fair in New York.  It was a benefit for UNICEF.
11. Calvin Coolidge was sworn into office by his dad — a notary public.
12. Coca-Cola was invented in 1886 by Atlanta, Georgia pharmacist John Pemberton.   Between 1888 and 1891,  a guy named Asa Candler secured rights to the business for a little over $2,000.
13. Tennessee became the 16th state on June 1, 1796.
14. President Lincoln owned only one home during his lifetime.  It was in Springfield, Illinois.
15. Lou Gehring hit a grand-slam homer at Chicago’s Wrigley Field.  This may not seem like a big deal but the year was 1920 and Lou was still in high school.
16. Charlie Brown’s beagle Snoopy had four brothers:  Marbles, Spike, Olaf, and Andy.  He also had one sister named Belle.
17. In Paraguay, dueling is completely legal as long as both parties are registered blood donors.
18. The first Piggly-Wiggly grocery store opened in Memphis, Tennessee in 1916.
19. Amy Carter, youngest child of President Jimmy Carter, had a Siamese cat named Misty Malarky Ying Yang.
20. The first Wienermobile debuted in 1936 at the cost of $5000.00.
21. In the game of Clue, the victim’s name is Mr. Boddy.
22. The series M*A*S*H was comprised of 251 episodes.
23. In 1955, Sears & Roebuck printed an ad in a Colorado Springs newspaper giving children a phone number to call to track Santa’s flight on Christmas Eve.  However, the phone number that was printed was one digit off — giving kids the number to NORAD (North American Aerospace Defense Command.)  Thankfully, the Colonel who answered the phone caught on quickly and not wanting to disappoint the kids, he played along.  NORAD has been tracking Santa’s journey on Christmas Eve ever since.  
24. Maine is the only U.S state with a name of one syllable.
25. “Idlewild” was the original name for John F. Kennedy International airport.
26. The publisher of “Cat in the Hat” made a bet with Dr. Seuss.  The publisher didn’t think Seuss could write a coherant story with a vocabulary of only 50 words.  The result of the bet?  The book “Green Eggs & Ham.”
27. The Titanic was build in Belfast, Northern Ireland at the Harland and Wolff shipyards.
28. The ends of shoelaces are called “aglets”.
29. Colorado won the bid to host the 1976 Winter Olympics.  They made history when they turned down the offer becoming the first and only state to refuse to host the Games.
30. Thomas Edison had 1093 U.S. patents.
31. The first Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade was in 1924. 
32. Tennessee is ranks behind only Virginia in the number of Civil War battles fought within its borders.
33. Gatorade was invented at the University of Florida.  Go Gators!
34. Marie Curie was the first female to win a Nobel Prize.
35. Winnie the Pooh is a boy bear.

You may be wondering at this point why I store all of this garbage.  Quite frankly, I’m wondering the same thing.  I do not know why my brain functions the way it does.  I do know that if you spin peanut M&Ms, they stand upright; and, yet I cannot remember to buy bananas at the grocery store.  Go figure!  Outside of being able to absolutely rock at “Trivial Pursuit”, I see little advantage to having a brain crammed with factoids. 

But as I hid from the tornadoes, my rambling mental list finally slowed down to a trickle, my mind quieted, and I closed my eyes.  As if he were standing there with me in the bathroom, I heard Jeff’s voice as clear as day…”Do you know that I love you?”  Only in my mind, I didn’t picture Jeff at all.  Instead I saw the face I saw was that of Jesus.

He loves me — enough to die for me that I might have eternal life.  In the midst of my crisis of fear last week, I’m a bit ashamed to admit that I didn’t I think of that in my list of stuff that I know.  My brain was so full of useless facts that it crowded out the one thought that really matters…

Jesus loves me…this I know.

In Search of the Weinermobile

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Utterly baffled.  That’s what we were.  Wednesday morning Jeff and I stood, shivering violently, in the rental car garage at the airport in Omaha, Nebraska.  We had rented a car but, due to a series of unfortunate events, (Belonging to the rental company, not us.) we were still waiting for our car 30 minutes after signing that final, accident insurance, “we can mess up your life so you’d better just accept – or you will die” waiver at the rental counter.

It didn’t help that Wednesday was one of those classically cold, raw days that screams “SPRING” in Nebraska-speak.  The weather report when we left home had promised that our trip would be a fair-weather one.  So, of course, we believed them and dressed the part of the clueless tourists — wearing t-shirts and light jackets.  The report had said nothing about the seemingly gale-force winds that were whipping through the parking garage, making our fingers numb and our faces raw.

But it wasn’t the weather that baffled us.  Forecasts get blown all the time.  It wasn’t the the speed (Or definite lack thereof.) at which the rental car company was dispatching our car.  They already had our money.  Why on earth should they feel any urgency? 

No, what baffled us was the personnel at the nameless rental car company.  Apparently, the bulk of their customer service training was in the fine art of pushing hot dogs.

“Our car wash just got fixed.  They’re running your car through right now…would you like a hot dog?”

“I just came from the lot.  They’re bringing your car right over.  How about a hot dog?”

“We understand that you’re frustrated and have hypothermia, Mrs. Rich.  We would like to have the opportunity to make it up to you.  Would you like relish on that hot dog?” asked the Head Weiner Pusher.

Ok…so I made up the last one…but we honestly were offered hot dogs by no fewer than three different “Customer Care Specialists” as we stood waiting for our car.  Gracious, people!  When, and more to the point WHY, did you merge with Oscar Mayer?

In my mind, I pictured their customer service training.  I could see a white board full of if/then statements:

IF customer doesn’t get the right car THEN offer them a hot dog.

IF customer’s reservation is lost THEN offer them a hot dog.

IF there is no rental car to be had THEN offer hot dogs ad nauseaum until we are able to build customer a car or at the very least rent a car from Avis. 

IF customer got up at 2 AM to get to the airport in time for a 6 AM flight AND they are tired and angry because they have been waiting for half an hour for their car to be washed AND are frozen to the bone because it’s spring in Nebraska THEN offer them a hot dog.

We finally did get our mid-size SUV.  And we got it for the price of a compact car because yours truly had a micro-burst of temper after the third hot dog offer.  I was good…honest.  All I said to the Customer Care Specialist was, “This is getting ridiculous!”  And it was.

We drove away from the airport shaking our heads and wondering how it was that a rental car company came to be hot dog pushers.  In the “What I Wish I Could Have Said” game that we tend to play after frustrating experiences, Jeff’s best line was, “If I wanted a hot dog, I would have gone to a hot dog stand.  I wanted a rental car…that’s why I came to a place that is supposed to rent them!”

And I wished I could have told them in the midst of our long, cold wait we had decided to forgo the SUV entirely and could they please just fork over the keys to the Weinermobile?

So, with the aid of a car rental company and their hot dogs, Jeff and I made yet another lasting memory.  We also have a new semi-private joke between us.   As I was complaining about a workout injury a few nights ago, Jeff’s sympathetic response was, “Would you like a hot dog?” 

Yesterday, we went to a local bookstore to get Jeff some new reading material.  I love bookstores and was enjoying my time of simply wandering among the stacks.  However, I was totally amazed at the sheer number of self-help, “fix-your-life-by-buying-this-book”  books.  It was insane.

And then I thought about the talk shows and the vast number of people that believe if they heard it on Oprah, it must be so.

Then my mind jumped to a book that I’m reading.  One of the characters is a young teenager who dyes her hair blue and eats until she throws up in a futile effort to fill a fathomless void that she feels in her soul.

And all these things make me ask one question.  Why?

 Why do we look for answers in the latest self-help book?  Why do we believe the gospel of Oprah and shun the Gospel of Jesus Christ?  Why do we repeatedly seek forgiveness from those who won’t give it; and yet refuse to confess and ask for absolution from the One who is aching to cleanse us from all unrighteousness?   Why do we believe that comfort and security come from friends or family or activity or busy schedules or wealth or possessions or food or alcohol?  Why do we look for things where they are not?  Just…why?

 I’ve spent a lot of my life searching for answers where no answers exist; and peace where only chaos reigns.  But there is one rule that I have learned and try really hard to put into practice.  Comfort and peace and security and safety and love and about a million other things can be found  in the strong arms of Jesus.   To look anywhere else seems foolish at best and makes about as much sense as going to a rental car company for a hot dog.

Have a good week but if something does go wrong…just have a hot dog!

A Rich Life

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It’s cold today.  I’m looking out the window watching it rain.  I just had a moment of déja vu as this is sounding very much like the beginning of my blog of a few weeks ago.

There are a few major differences though.  One being that my usual view as I blog is of our cookie-cutter subdivision with the house across the street that looks exactly like ours.  But today my view is of the churning, angry-looking, stormy Atlantic Ocean.  Before you go leaping for the remote to turn on CNN…no, everything east of Nashville did not suddenly plummet into the ocean.  Jeff and I are in Virginia Beach, VA and Friday we witnessed history.

Before I tell you about it though, I have to make a disclaimer…

This history that we witnessed is pretty much personal history…it’s history with a limited audience — not the kind of history that will have most people “ooohing” and “aaahing” and circling the date in red on their calendars.  But to us, this was a monumental day.

Friday morning as fighter jets flew overhead, Jeff and I witnessed the 40th Commanding Officer take charge of Naval Air Station Oceana.  The ceremony was truly amazing — vacillating between funny and touching and solemn — sometimes all within seconds.  I laughed as the Navy Chaplain’s invocation began to rhyme, sounding very much like it was written by Dr. Seuss.  As the outgoing Commander thanked his parents for raising him right, I had tears in my eyes.  Seeing the officers in their full dress uniforms (Complete with swords!  Jeff was so jealous!) as the Navy band belted out “Stars and Stripes Forever”, “Anchors Aweigh” and “God Bless America” made my skin prickle with patriotic goosebumps.

The keynote speaker, a rear admiral who is Commander of the Naval Air Force Atlantic, personally thanked the siblings of both the outgoing and the incoming Commanders of NAS Oceana.  He didn’t thank them for teaching their brothers to be tough, for setting a good example, or even for inspiring the boys who would one day grow to be the men in charge.  No, the Admiral simply thanked the siblings for allowing their brothers to live and for not killing them during childhood. 

Now there’s a universal theme if there ever was one!  I smiled at Jeff then as I remembered the stories he has told me of the times he held his little brother at arm’s length as said brother fought and snarled and spit in an effort to either kill or seriously injure my husband — whichever came first.  I thought of the story of the same little brother chasing Jeff around the yard with a baseball bat.  Jeff, of course, had done nothing to provoke this action.  I’m thinking that if I asked the little brother, the story might be a little different.

Oddly, that same scene was played out in my own backyard when I was a kid.  Sure it was hundreds of miles from the coastal Florida town where Jeff grew up and the involved parties were my own brothers; but, the rest of the script?  Exactly the same.   After much effort (Or sometimes little effort!)  big brother incites little brother to severe yard-rage.  Little brother picks up first available object that is not only mobile but also capable of inflicting severe bodily harm — a baseball bat — little brother chases big brother.  Big brother screams like a little girl.  It’s a story as old as time.  (Editor’s Note:  I did not scream like a little girl!)

I thought of these childhood events as I watched the new Commander of NAS Oceana step to the podium.  His voice wavered a bit when he thanked his wife and children for their unending support; but as he talked, his voice changed.  The quivery words fell away and his voice became bold and strong and sure.  He talked about the challenges that lay ahead and the accomplishments of NAS Oceana that lay behind.  As he spoke, I was struck by the enormity and overwhelming responsibility of the Commander’s new position.  There are 10,000 people who’s very lives depend on this Commander making wise decisions.   Even if I had a million years to prepare, I would never be up for such an intense level of responsibility.  That is just flat-out scary!

Afterward, Jeff and I talked about the conviction I felt to pray for the new Commander and his family during the next 18 months.  I was a little overwhelmed as to what to pray for; but then God, as is His way, boiled it down to the bone for me.  My first prayer went something like this…”Please guide the decisions of every man who is in a position to change lives.  Give our President wisdom and understanding and discernment and courage.  Protect our country and please God, don’t ever let there be another day like September 11th, 2001.”

My favorite part of the weekend came as we were getting ready to leave.  I got a hug from the new Commander of NAS Oceana.  In his eyes, I looked for the little boy who had been hung upside down by his heels and chased his older brother with a baseball bat.   But what I saw there was a brave, capable man who I am so incredibly proud to call my brother-in-law.

Congratulations, Mark!  We’re proud of you.  We love you and we’re praying for you.

 Note:  This blog was written a few weeks ago but was held up in my editing department.  Thanks for reading it anyway!

A Lovely Plague

Today’s blog is starting off with a little quiz.  Don’t worry…it’s only two questions and spelling doesn’t count because it’s multiple choice.  So dive right in and see how you do!

1.  In the last week, the Rich family has been diagnosed with:

• a) Bronchitis
• b) A sinus infection
• c) Thrush
• d) Strep throat
• e) All of the above

2.  The diagnosis of the above germ(s) has prompted Kieran to:

• a)  Be cranky.
• b)  Crave chocolate.
• c)  Postpone her blog update until next week.
• d)  Rely heavily on Clorox wipes.
• e)  All of the above.

If you guessed “e” to both questions, you’re right on target.  Come on over if you’d like to borrow a cup of plague!  I’m sure we could still infect you with a wide variety of options.  Otherwise, we’ll see you next week.

Kieran

Our Best Nights

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Friday nights are date nights for Jeff and Kieran Rich.  We take turns planning dates and try really hard to come up with something original once in a while — something that doesn’t include the standard “dinner and a movie.”

As a result, we’ve had some interesting dates.  One such date included a play, a downpour, and an improvised umbrella.  The play, “Smoke on the Mountain”, was fantastic and in a surprise ad lib in the dialog at the end, I got baptised.  Earlier that night during a summer downpour in Atlanta, I stepped in a puddle that went past my ankle.  It has become another “look back on it and it’s funny” kinda memory.  And the improvised umbrella?  Well let’s just say that sunshades were designed to keep the interior of cars from baking in the sun and they were never meant to keep anyone dry.  Just ask Jeff!

Another favorite date included a well-crafted plan, a blindfold, and a big surprise.

Kidnapping Jeff after work, I took him to the hotel where we had previously spent our wedding night.  To get him there, I had blindfolded him and drove him around Atlanta during rush-hour in an effort to confuse him so he wouldn’t know where we were going.  Driving during rush-hour in Atlanta even if you’re not blindfolded is confusing and nobody knows where they are going, so I had Jeff pretty turned around in short order.

I planned for weeks for this wonderfully romantic evening.  In my best laid plans however, I did not account for the model citizens that rented the room across the hall from us.  In a totally non-smoking hotel they decided to smoke something that was neither moral nor legal and, just as I was leading the blindfolded Jeff to our room, they managed to set off the fire alarm.

As the alarm screamed in my ear I stood in dumbfounded shock and chest-pounding fear.  It took me a minute but I finally did tell Jeff that he could take off the blindfold.  He was definitely surprised but certainly not for the reasons that I had intended!

The evening ended well.  We were upgraded to a suite, got free breakfast the next morning, and built a memory that neither one of us will ever forget.  We still laugh about that night and it has become the source of many private jokes between us.

Another one of my favorite dates was a few months ago when Jeff and I had a slumber party.  Again it was my week to plan so I had him change into his pjs as soon as he got home.  We had pizza for dinner, did a craft project, and played “Spin the Bottle.”  I skipped the slumber party staples of sleeping on the floor — we’re too old — and painting each other’s fingernails — Jeff is too male; but we did watch “Schoolhouse Rock” videos as a tribute to my childhood and my beloved Saturday morning cartoons.

Our weekly dates give us a set time to reconnect and renergize our relationship.  I can’t remember starting the “date night” tradition.  It’s just always been a part of us and I’m so thankful that it has.  So many of our favorite memories as a couple revolve around our Friday nights together. 

This past week was no exception and it was a date that I will remember for a long, long time.  It was one of those special dates where we simply knocked each other’s socks off.  We planned it collectively and unfortunately, it’s entirely too expensive to do weekly or even monthly — although I would be perfectly willing!   This Friday we spent our date night in Virginia.

We went out for dinner at a place called “Max & Erma’s”.  It is a favorite from our Atlanta days and we were pleasantly surprised to find that there was a franchise in Virginia Beach.  After we got back to the hotel, we put our our sneakers, and most everything else that was in our suitcases (It was cold!), and went for a walk.  Though it was already dark and getting colder by the minute, our hotel was steps from the Atlantic ocean and we just couldn’t let the opportunity for a “beach date” pass us by.

So we held hands and cuddled together and shivered.  We walked and we talked and as the mesmerizing sound of the surf washed over me again and again, I found myself wishing time would stop.  We were in the midst of one of those perfect moments when I felt that if I just knew where to reach, I could touch God. 

As we made our way back to the hotel, I happened to glance over my shoulder at our footprints.   In the bright moonlight I could see two sets of identical prints.  Not only do Jeff and I have the same sized feet, we also wear the make and model of athletic shoes.  But that was where the similarities ended.   As I looked back, I could see portions of our walk that we were absolutely together, our feet landing stride for stride right next to each other.  But there were also portions where one of us swayed out to the side, making the space between the sets of prints far apart for a while before eventually joining back together. 

“That’s an awful lot like marriage,” I thought to myself in a bit of an “Ah-ha” moment.  Sometimes we’re right together, mirroring each other step for step.  Other times we’re out of sync and our gaits become uneven and unmatched and drift apart for a while before eventually coming back together. 

Friday was one of those nights when we matched each other stride for stride.  As we walked and talked about everything, I felt so close to my husband.  I tried very hard to remember every detail about the night almost as a deposit for those times when our walk together is more of a fight than a stroll…for those times when words fail and communication breaks down. 

Our date nights have given me lots of those “deposit” moments and I’m incredibly thankful for every one of them, for the man I get to share them with, and for the God who brought us together.

It was one of our best nights…

The Promise of Spring

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

It’s a frosty morning here in middle Tennessee.  It’s so cold that the cats won’t even sleep in their climbing tower — which is situated in front of the only window in our office.  Usually, the tower is the coveted cat location and we have fur-flinging fights over who gets to sleep there.  But not today.  Today, they glare at me from across the office as if to imply that the chill in the air is entirely my fault.

I feel bad for the little critters, I really do.  But not enough to turn up the heat and subsidize the gas company any more than we already do.  I do understand that being cold is no fun.  Trust me on this — I’ve decended to a whole new level of being cold this winter.  I’ve taken trips to both Colorado and Nebraska and both states heralded my arrival by producing big snow events — just for me!  I’m so sorry but I’m just not feelin’ the love!  I’m hoping my next trip will be filled with sunny days, starry nights, and day-time highs of at least 70 degrees.

And then there is Tennessee.  I had a conversation with the checker at that grocery store this week.  She was complaining about the crazy weather.  We had thunderstorms and a tornado watch on Wednesday followed by bitter cold, wind, and snow flurries.    “Is this a normal winter?” I cautiously asked the checker. 

“I’ve lived here my whole life,” she said.  “Never seen anything like this.”  Dandy.  At least, unlike our cats, she didn’t look at me as if I alone was  responsible for the current selection of weather.

No matter what Jeff says, Atlanta does not have winter.  Ever.  That’s just the way it is.  Winter is snowmen and mittens and days in front of the fire — not tornado warnings on New Year’s eve and mosquitoes for Valentine’s day.

I loved growing up in Colorado because Colorado is a place with seasons.  Yes, they did get a little confused at times — popping out 70 degrees on Christmas day and snow over Memorial day; but for the most part, the seasons are clearly defined and moved along in a nice, orderly fashion  —  year after year after year.  Winter follows fall.  Fall follows summer.  Summer follows spring.  Spring follows winter.  That’s just the way it is.

God’s seasons, or the seasons of the heart, aren’t so clearly defined nor are they predictable as to when, exactly, they’ll show up or how long they last; but they too move along in a similar, orderly fashion.  Winter follows fall.  Fall follows summer.  Summer follows spring.  Spring follows winter.  I’ve learned much about this order in these past few weeks.  I’ve also learned that as much as I may want to, skipping through winter to get to spring is simply not an option — no matter how long I sit here and glare at God, I still have to endure winter to get to spring. 

You may not know this about me but I am a preschool drop-out.  It’s true!  Remember, you heard it here first!

Kieran the preschool drop-out!

When I was 4, I went to preschool three days a week at the YMCA.  For the first semester, I loved school.  My teacher, Mrs. Morton, was wonderful.  She allowed us to learn by exploring and by being creative.  If the snowman in my painting had three eyes, so what?  “I’ll bet he can see a lot better with three eyes,”  Mrs. Morton said with a twinkling laugh. 

The preschool also had good trucks to play with.  Music time included a piano and sometimes Mrs. Morton even played her violin.  At Thanksgiving, we roasted pumpkin seeds.  What’s not to love?

After Christmas vacation though, I got a new teacher.  Without warning, Mrs. Morton was gone — replaced by Mrs. Evans.  Mrs. Evans didn’t want me to play with trucks because I was a girl.  Every time I turned around, she was handing me a doll.  Music time no longer included a violin, just our poor, abused classroom piano that Mrs. Evans played with obvious intent kill a musical instrument.  And there were no more pumpkin seeds, no more encouragement, and no more laughter.  School became boring and miserable and I hated it.

For a few weeks, I grudgingly went to school because it was what I was supposed to do.  But then, creative child that I was, I began coming up with ailments every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Coughing, sneezing, sore throats, stomach aches, headaches — any kind of ache I could think up.  My parents caught on pretty quick and I went back to being a regular attender even though I cried every time they dropped me off at school.

One morning, my dad was trying to cheer me up about the impending doom I called “preschool” and told me that we were going to be planting flowers that day.  That sounded kind of interesting to me and I perked up.  For the first time in weeks, I was interested in school.  Indeed that morning we all got a flower pot and a tulip bulb.  We planted the bulbs and put the pots in the refrigerator so they would think they were outside surviving winter.

The growing of tulip bulbs was certainly a process and that process drove me completely insane.  Everyday we checked our pots and we dumped water in them.  Everyday there was no progress.  I didn’t understand that it would take weeks if not months to see anything.  I didn’t understand why the pots had to be all alone in the cold, dark refrigerator.  (This bothered me a lot!)  I didn’t understand why my flower wasn’t growing.  In my mind, it should already be at home blooming on my dresser.

In frustration and fear for my flower, I did something incredibly naughty.  I snuck into the kitchen one day while we were supposed to be napping.  Mrs. Evans was napping quite nicely and didn’t even notice that I had left.  I took my flower pot out of the refrigerator and there, on the kitchen floor of the Littleton YMCA, I dug my tulip bulb out of the dirt.

It didn’t look any different than when I had planted it.  I think I expected to find a beautiful tulip under all that dirt; but there was nothing — just the hard, nut-like thing that I had buried.  In a fit of something, I started to pick apart the bulb.  I thought that if I peeled enough layers off of the bulb, I would eventually find the promised flower.

When Mrs. Evans found me, there was dirt and pieces of tulip bulb all over the floor.  There was also one tearful, seriously disillusioned 4-year-old who just wanted to see the beauty of the flower — not the hardness of the seed.  Of course, in my quest to find the bloom, I killed the bulb and there would never be a flower.

I had to go home early that day.  Based on Mrs. Evans reaction, you would have thought that I had single-handedly killed Holland rather than simply destroying one little tulip bulb.  I never went back to preschool after ” The Great Tulip Incident of `74″; but, I did learn a very profound lesson that day…one that has stayed with me all these years.  You can plant, you can nurture, you cultivate, you can love, and you can encourage; but you can’t force something to grow.  Forcing a bloom that is not ready is tantamount to murder.

For the past month, I have been trying to force myself to by-pass the frigid harshness of God’s winter in favor of the warmth of His spring.  It didn’t work.  Spring always follows winter.  That’s just the way it is.  In the process of trying to skip this season of stark, aching, dormancy, I have nearly managed to kill the beautiful bulb that God planted in me with the promise that in His time, it would bloom.

I didn’t want to wait.  I wanted it now.  I wanted the flower without the waiting.  The spring without the winter.  The growth without the pain. 

I’m not sure what this Godly winter will look like for me.  I don’t know how long it will last.  I don’t know how stark it will be or how fierce the winds will blow; but I do know this…I will never be alone because He promised never to leave me or forsake me; and, at the end of this season, spring will come.  I will bloom and it will be radiant — simply because He made it so.

And while I wait, I am coaxing a little bulb of hope to take root in my soul as I look forward to the beautiful, enduring promise of spring.

 

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1,9-14

A Painful Epiphany

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Something happened to me last Sunday that has never happened before.  Jeff and I were visiting the next contestant in our seemingly ever-present quest to find a new church home.  Nothing unusual there.  We were enjoying the experience, although the church was on the smallish-side, thus making Jeff and I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb.  Some people may love the extra attention a situation like that generates; but, Jeff and me, charter members of Introverts Anonymous?  Not so much.  Everyone was so genuine and friendly though, it was hard to feel uncomfortable.  Mostly.

The youth pastor/children’s director/utility infielder gave a very thought provoking devotion before Communion and then they began passing the trays.  I have never had a problem taking Communion in a church that was not my own because I understand the concept of open Communion being just that — open to all believers, regardless of church affliction…I mean affiliation.

That wasn’t the problem.  The problem was, of all things, God.  As the tray was passed to me, a little nugget of Scripture popped into my head with a little ding — like an email popping into my in-box — and it caused the “Holy Chiclet” train to come to an immediate and screeching halt.

The scripture was from Matthew 5 – after the Beatitudes…after Jesus talks about being salt and light…oddly, when I looked up the scripture later Sunday afternoon, I found it right smack in the middle of a paragraph on murder.  An interesting topic for a personal Communion meditation, don’t you think?

 The scripture that popped into my head was Matthew 5:23-24. “”Therefore, if you are offering your gift at the altar and there remember that your brother has something against you, leave your gift there in front of the altar. First go and be reconciled to your brother; then come and offer your gift.” 

So I passed the tray to Jeff without taking Communion and I looked at the floor rather than meet his questioning gaze.  “Have you already written off this church?”  He whispered.

“No, my heart hurts,”  I sniffled.  “Communion…I can’t…I’ll explain later.”  And I did.  Or at least I tried.

This was one of those times when I felt decidedly female as I tried to explain my emotions and the conflict of my heart to one who is decidedly male.  Don’t get me wrong…Jeff is an unusually good listener but he is also about as male as they come.   It requires serious effort and restraint on his part to not have my problems solved before I’ve even finished telling him about them.  If it is true that women are from Venus and and men are from Mars, then Mars and Venus aren’t nearly far enough apart. 

But I gave it my best shot and tried to explain to Jeff about all of the conflict and confusion and anger and pain in my heart.  And he listened and tried to understand as I told him how a very personal situation had caused this pain and anger of mine to absolutely explode and how the aftermath of destructive debris was still continuing to rain down.  I tried to explain how hard it’s been to even pray about the issue because each time I do, old wounds are re-opened resulting in raw, mind-searing pain.  I hurt for God.  I hurt for all of the people that are involved and yes, I hurt for myself too. 

Hurt is nothing new though.  I’ve taken Communion plenty of times with a heart full of hurt.   At those times, I have found the act of Commuion to be a comforting invitation and a time of sharing my hurt and sorrow with the ultimate Healer.   It has always been very soothing.

The difference this time was that attached to the hurt was a lot of anger and malice.  That is something new for me.  And there’s so much anger to go around, it’s hard to even keep up with who I’m angry at.  Myself?  Yep.  My friends?  Probably.  My family?  Uh-huh.  God?  Absolutely.  Some kid that I don’t even know.  Yeah.  I’m angry. 

So granted, there has been a lot going on in my head and my heart but I’ve managed, until this point, to compartmentalize very nicely, thank you.  But when God tells you not to take Communion?  That’s a pretty serious wake-up call and well…you sort of begin to notice these things that until then you’d been able to ignore.

I mentioned last week that the default theme for February seems to be “living with courage.”  And again, this week’s blog has fit nicely into that theme without any planning or preparation on my part.   Coincidence?  I think not! 

So where do I stand now?  I have no plan of action on how to solve this problem.  I could just not take Communion ever again; but you know as well as I do that the Communion issue is only a symptom of a greater disease.  And now I am left with this blossoming sense of dread that I’m entering into one of those painful, lonely periods of Godly growth.

Courage aside, to be completely honest, I’m not really interested in growing right now.  I kinda liked where things were.  But God has made it painfully obvious to me that some change needs to take place — not on the surface but deep in my soul where the salt burns. 

One of my favorite movies in the world is “Remember the Titans.”  For me, it has all the markings of a great movie.  It has football, it has a good story-line, it has humor, and it was based on a real moment in history.  There is a quote part way through the movie when the head coach is trying to get his newly-integrated, racially charged, football team of 1971 to come together.  Coach Boone takes the team on an early morning run through the woods.  A run that ends at Gettysburg.

As they stand panting and gasping for breath, watching the pre-dawn fog rise over the battlefield, Coach Boone tells his boys, “This is where they fought the battle of Gettysburg. Fifty thousand men died right here on this field, fighting the same fight that we are still fighting among ourselves today. This green field right here, painted red, bubblin’ with the blood of young boys. Smoke and hot lead pouring right through their bodies. Listen to their souls, men. I killed my brother with malice in my heart. Hatred destroyed my family. You listen, and you take a lesson from the dead. If we don’t come together right now on this hallowed ground, we too will be destroyed, just like they were…”

I’m not playing football.  I’m not fighting the segregationist fight.  But I am in a battle.  I do have malice in my heart and that malice and hatred is threatening to destroy my family.  I take that pretty personally.  However I’ve realized, through the course of this week, that at its very ugly heart, the malice and anger and hatred that I’ve been feeling aren’t as nebulous as I first thought.  All of those feelings do have a focus.  It’s not directed at God or my friends or my family or even that kid I don’t know.  It isn’t directed at anyone but me.

Somewhere along the line, I have become the enemy.  And in the midst of my anger and utter loathing, I’m rehashing the same battles that Jesus fought over 2000 years ago.  

And now I’m at a crossroad.  No pun intended.  I can either accept the victory…the one that Jesus bought with His own blood or I can keep fighting a fight that I will never win.   Seems pretty pointless, doesn’t it?  And yet I fight…

Later today, I will go to church and I will worship.  I probably won’t take Communion because my gift is unacceptable until I’ve found a way to be  reconciled with God and with myself.   That hurts; but, there is comfort in honesty and in knowing the truth.

I guess the only question that remains is which I love more — My God and my Father, the One who knit me together in my mother’s womb, or those comfortable, familiar parasites of anger and malice and loathing that I wrap around myself like a cloak.

The time has come to make a choice.

To Live with Fear

By Kieran Lin Rich – KRich13@bellsouth.net

Note:  This blog has been kicking around in my draft file for several months now as its subject is something I truly struggle with and am not exactly comfortable writing about.  Every time I’ve written on this file, I kept asking myself, “Do I really want to put all of these raw thoughts and feelings on the world-wide web?  The answer was invariably “no” so I would just save the file and allow it to get lost in the depths of my draft folder for a few more months before the process would start all over again.  However, since February’s default theme seems to be living courageously, I decided that maybe it was time to have the courage to finish this blog.  And away we go…

 

Planning a wedding can be overwhelming and just flat-out stressful at times.  There are so many decisions to make, so many plates to keep spinning, so many opinions and ideas to incorporate — no wonder a large number of brides cry on their wedding day.  For the record, I did not cry on my wedding day.  Jeff graciously handled that little responsibility for our family.  🙂

People use all sorts of tricks to simplify and de-stress the nuptial planning process.  For instance, I have a friend who has already started to plan her daughter’s wedding — even though the identity of the groom is still completely unknown to everyone but God.  Gotta love that pre-planning!

Another trick that is often used is choosing a quote or a saying as a kind of a ready-made wedding theme.  I have to admit that Jeff and I were seriously lacking in the pre-planning department.  The process of putting our wedding together felt an awful lot like a stint on “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”; but, when it came to choosing a quote?  We jumped all over that one.

However, our quote was a little different as it did not come from the Bible.  It did not come from Plato or Gandhi or Socrates or even Shakespeare.  Our quote came from what many may see as an unlikely source.  Dr. Seuss.

As our wedding day approached and I was grasping to find a way to sum up my feelings about our impending marriage, the good doctor once again gave voice to exactly what I was feeling when he said this:

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”

As a little girl, I used to lay in bed at night and plan my perfect wedding right down to the final detail.  I would pick the dress, the wedding party, the venue, the flowers, and the music.  Why, I would even piece together the perfect groom!  In case you’re wondering, the groom usually looked a lot like  G.I. Joe.  I didn’t want to make Barbie jealous by marrying Ken!  My groom had the humor of Alan Alda, the charm of Christopher Plummer, and the money of an Egyptian king.  What do you expect?  Pulling off my perfect wedding was going to take some serious cash!  With all the details in place,  I would fall asleep and have beautiful dreams of my wedding in vivid technicolor.

The trouble with dreams though is that you have to wake up to reality and reality was always such a rude shock.  Why do I have to take a spelling test?  Spelling is totally underrated anyway.  What do you mean my brother is trying to clobber me again?  Tell me something I didn’t know.  Baseball practice?  Please!  Who has the time?  I have a wedding to plan here!  There were many, many days that I would find myself counting the minutes until I could once again enter the delightful world of my dreams.

And now, in all those days between then and now, reality has become better than my dreams.  Most of the time I still go to sleep feeling like I’m living a fantasy — like I have stepped into someone else’s life because incredibly good stuff, like a wonderful marriage to an amazing man, just doesn’t happen to me.

No, it hasn’t been all bliss.  There have been days when I didn’t like Jeff much and I know he’s felt the same about me.  We fight about stupid things and manage to hurt each other without ever trying.  But “like” and “love” are two very different things.  And it’s that deep, rich, enduring love that  has me reaching for Jeff in the middle of the night to make sure he’s really there and not just some imaginary friend I’ve conjured up after going to sleep with a full stomach.

My 6 faithful readers, as well as any guests who may have accidentally stumbled across this blog, are probably gagging uncontrollably by now.  But I really mean it.  I’m completely, totally, inexplicably in love with Jeff.   He is the man God created for me to be with.  He is my other half.  He is the one who completes me.  I know all these things without a doubt.  My marriage has been the single biggest blessing of a life that has, at times, been very difficult.

So what’s the problem?  Why am I writing a blog entry entitled “To live with fear?”   Well it’s because I’m so darn happy, of course! 

Let me try to explain…

I live in fear because I don’t want my life with Jeff to ever end.   I got married late and there is quite an age difference between Jeff and me.  The movie we watched for our date night this week had a scene where a middle-aged woman held her older, frail husband as he struggled through the last days of his life.  Jeff made the light-hearted comment of “That’s us in 20 years.”

But his comment made my brain explode in an internal tirade that mostly consisted of the word, “No!”  I don’t want 2 years or 20 years.  I want 200 years.  I want 2000 lifetimes.  I want forever.

And I am afraid.

Afraid of Jeff being taken from me.  Afraid that the wonder of our marriage will be stripped from my grasp.  Afraid that the happiness we have found together will simply evaporate.  Afraid that I will wake up one morning and he will be gone.  I am afraid.

So what happens when fear controls my life — or even a portion of it?  Joy receeds.  I step back from God.  Satan steps in.

That’s where I am right now.  Fear is keeping me from truly enjoying my marriage and my husband.  Fear is allowing satan to get a foothold in my life.  Fear has grown from a grain of sand to a pebble to a rock to a boulder to a mountain between God and me. 

I do believe in eternity and I know, without a doubt, where I’m going when I die.  I also know that I will see Jeff there but again, fear grips me because in my feeble, human mind, I cannot grasp what heaven will be like.  I cannot wrap my brain around the thought that eventually I will get to spend forever with the man I love in the presence of God who breathed life into us.  I can’t imagine what it will be like to see Jesus — the One who willingly suffered and died so that I might live forever — in spite of all of the evil things I’ve done in my time on earth.  I cannot fathom any of this so I fear it instead.

I am finally beginning to understand, as dense as I can be sometimes, that the opposite of fear is faith.  Faith is knowing that if Jeff dies today or tomorrow or 60 years from now, that God will sustain me.  Faith is understanding that God wants only His very best for me and if I get out of the way and allow Him to work, He’ll give it to me.  Faith is deciding to step out from under the shroud of fear and truly begin to enjoy whatever time we have.

So today, I will reach back toward God and allow Him to remove the mountain of fear that has come between us.  I will live courageously and rely on God for my every need and I will continue to love Him above all else.

Even if my earthly life with Jeff ends tomorrow, today it feels great to be alive and to be here with him, enjoying the gift of the precious present.  Whatever tomorrow or the next day or the day after that brings, my world will not end.  So today, right now on this beautiful, amazing, almost spring-like day, I’m going to go enjoy the company and laughter and touch of my husband and I’m going to love every minute of it without fear that it will end.  Today, I will live with courage and faith and comfort in knowing that this is the way God intended life to be lived.

But because of His love and providence and the amazing gift of this life that God has given me to live,  reality is finally better than my dreams.   And I am so incredibly thankful.

Happy Valentine’s Day.