An involuntary entry

I have been postponing this entry for a few weeks--mainly because I know that when I see these words, the beginning of the end will be a reality. After almost three years of law school, the time has come to say good-bye. In nine short weeks I will have completed this frightening, exhausting, exhilerating, and memorable journey. I started this blog in August 2006, just a few short weeks after moving to a new state to fulfill a lifelong dream.

For three years I have written about the trivial and the critical wrapped up in law school and life. This blog has been part of the therapy required to get through some of the rough spots. Writing has always been an outlet for me. Most of my private journal entries are lengthy ramblings about whatever is on my heart. This blog allowed me to publish some of those thoughts--opening a window to my soul.

So in the nine weeks that remain, I hope to find time--even to make time--to record these kaliescope of emotions as the antediluvian law student prepares to graduate.

What's a snow day without salsa?

Ever notice that on a snow day you realize how much food you don't have in your cupboard? Sure I have hot chocolate, marshmallows, lots of soups, frozen meats, popcorn, chips and (of course) milk and bread; but, I don't have salsa. Somehow I let a snow day sneak up on me without a single jar of salsa in the house. Do you know what I have thought about all day? Salsa. I even tried eating a few chips without salsa, but decided I'd rather gnaw on the telephone book cover instead.

Have you ever realized how pissed off people get when they expect it to be a snow day and it isn't? Oh, that was me on Monday. Everyone in Virginia had snow Monday morning except the 10 mile radius around my house. I had been up all night (literally) working on a paper. I must have looked out my window a dozen times--just praying for a few flakes. A snow day on Monday would have been like a gift from God. Folks on the radio were talking about snow, folks on the television were pointing to snow, but all I got was "cold" and no snow. And everyone at school was in a foul mood--much like me--because they had built up their hopes for a snow day only to be robbed.

And, when it snows, there are two types of people in the world. There are those who must drive in it and those who refuse to do so. I lean toward the latter category and have noticed that most men lean toward the first category. For example, my late husband was quite the lazy man and rarely rolled out of bed before noon. But, if it was a snow day, he was up at the crack of dawn, layering up in clothing, warming up the car, clearing the driveway, and heading into work. Why he made such effort to do so was beyond me, especially since he ran a retail book store and he was unlikely to have three customers the entire day. And, on snow days, he loved to drive me to work. Any other day if I said, "Honey, my car's broke down?" He'd pillow mumble, "Can't you catch a ride with someone?" But, let some snow fall, and he's my Prince Charming, whisking me off to work, where I don't have to be anyway because it's a snow day! Why, oh why, couldn't I be like everyone else, staying at home, in the warmth of my four walls, rummaging through the kitchen, and working on a grocery list of all the snow day items I didn't have handy.

(By the way, by "late" husband, I don't mean that he's deceased...he was just always late....except on snow days.)

We have had a steady stream of sleet and ice for the past twenty-four hours (unfortunately it didn't arrive before my Monday deadline). Ice is especially treacherous. I definitely am not going to be driving in icy conditions. I don't even like to walk the dog when it's this icy. Tree limbs are weighted down, and the grass is crunchy. And all I need to do is hit one slick spot on the sidewalk and it gets real ugly from there. I am a big girl, and big girls fall fast and ugly.

I have spent the entire morning obsessing about my lack of salsa. I was so disappointed in my lack of preparedness for this snow/ice event--that is until I discovered that--in spite of the salsa shortage--I had all the ingredients for a big pot of homemade chili. While the chili doesn't replace the salsa, it is a valid substitution. So, my chili is simmering on the stove right now. I've also made some rice, chopped up some celery sticks, and made a gallon of sweet tea. Now, if I only had some sour cream....

Obituary for Abigail: March 1994 - January 2009

On Thursday, January 8, Abby and I took a long walk. She sniffed and smelled. She pee'd and poo'd. I sat on the ground and just let her be the ol' gal that she wanted to be before we had to go. And while I sat there, I prayed that somehow she would know how much she had meant to me, to my kids, and to our family. Never before had I wanted to communicate my true feelings so badly with anyone. She had become so intertwined into our family's history that it is hard to imagine us before she came along.

Abigail (better known as Abby) was born the daughter of a Labrador Retriever and German Shepard. She was almost three years old when we adopted her. Abby would fetch a ball, but you had to wrestle it out of her jaw. She would shake your hand with either paw for a mere verbal reward of "good girl." She would also roll over and "sit" upon command. Most of the time, when she did sit, she would sit "on" you, not "next" to you.

The day we brought Abby home, both kids and Abby sat in the back seat of the convertible with Abby perched in the middle. I can still see all three of them in the back seat. Their hair is blowing. Abby is panting. It looks like she is almost smiling. Both kids are holding on to her and talking to her. A friendship is being formed in the back seat of that convertible. I watched it all from the rearview mirror, and my heart took a picture.

I look back now and realize how much she enjoyed that car ride. I wish I would have taken her on more car rides; but, instead, she soon learned that the car ride eventually involved the vet's office, and she did not like going there at all. By the time that I started tossing her in the back of the truck for a long-distance trip home, she would stay petrified for two or three hours--just waiting for the vet's office to appear on the horizon, I suppose.

For most of her life, Abby lived in a wonderful, fenced-in back yard, and she loved to patrol the perimeter. She had friends on the other side of the fence, and they would often chase each other up and down the fence line. Abby also loved to chase birds and rabbits. In her younger days, she caught quite a few of them and would leave them at the back door for me to find after she had finished playing with them.

Abby never tried to escape from the back yard. She loved it there because we were there--in the pool, playing basketball, or working in the shed. Whatever we were doing, she was there. Other dogs seemed to be jealous of her life and would actually try to break into the back yard, so we finally had to lock the fence to keep the riff-raff out.

Abby loved to stay outside during the day time. She would soak up the sun (when she wasn't chasing the birds). She would also patrol the fence. And she looked ferocious, but she was as gentle as a lamb. The only time Abby did not want to be outside was during rain or a thunderstorm. We often joked that "rain affected her beauty." She did not like getting wet. And thunder frightened her tremendously. Sometimes I would get a call from Carol, next door, and she'd say, "There's a storm coming up, so I put Abby inside." And that was fine with me. At night, when we were all home and spending time as a family, she would stand at the back door and scratch to come in. She knew she was part of the family and she wanted to be a part of whatever we were doing.

In June 2006 I made the decision to move to Virginia to attend law school and I was advised to give away the pets so that I would not be distracted. Within a week of renting an apartment where no pets were allowed, I regretted that decision. I immediately took a day off work, drove back to Virginia, found another place to live that did allow pets (at a much higher rate), signed the lease, and then begged the first landlord to let me out of that lease. Fortunately it all worked out, and in July it was me and Abby on our way to law school in Virginia.

In Virginia, Abby no longer had her own yard to play in during the day. Instead, her days were spent inside an apartment. When she did go outside, she had to be on a leash. She lost a lot of freedom, but never complained. She was part of the family and family members make sacrifices for one another.

In the past few years she had developed cataracts on both eyes and she had lost most of her hearing. She would bump into doors and walls or get lost in dark rooms. She had arthritis in her hips and had lost most of her muscle tone. She had trouble with staircases and seemed embarrassed when we tried to help her. She would stand for extended periods of time because it was just too painful to sit. She also had tumors that were robbing her body of the nutrition it needed. She would eat three times a day like a starved animal, but she was still losing weight while the tumors were getting larger. The surgery was expensive--not to mention that it was risky for such an elderly dog. Her health and quality of life deteriorated very quickly.

While I sat on the ground Thursday, I thought about all those years we had together. And I cried. I cried because I knew how the day would end. I cried because I was losing my friend. I cried because I had to make this awful decision. And I cried because my heart was breaking.

Mom had bought her a bone that she thoroughly enjoyed, and then we loaded up in the truck for one more ride. As usual, she was petrified--and for good reason. When we got to the vet's office she was so good about walking in and sitting down. I, on the other hand, was a basket case. (You would have thought they were putting me to sleep!)

We went to the examination room and waited for the vet. He explained the procedure and said we could stay or go. I decided to stay. She was being such a brave girl, I felt it was the least I could do for her. She was laying across my feet--like she had done on so many occasions--and the doctor just sat down on the floor next to her. He placed a needle in her front leg and injected the fluid. I was rubbing her head and talking to her, and she did not fight it. She did not whimper; she did not recoil. She barely breathed two breaths after the injection and then she just drifted off to sleep. I took that as a sign that she was tired and ready to go. The vet let me stay with her for a few minutes afterward. I got down on the floor with her and just petted her and told her what a great friend she had been for over twelve years. I kissed her forehead and shook her hand one more time and said, "You are a good girl."

The fool has said in his heart, there is no God (Psalm 53:1). Abby was one of a kind. There will never be another like her, regardless of how long this Earth remains. To think that not only is every human being unique, but every animal as well--every dog, cat, rabbit, sparrow, cricket. Every creature, every plant, and every day is one of a kind. To wrap my head around that just makes me marvel at the God of this universe who can do such an amazing thing on a daily basis. And to know that I was the one chosen to know, love, and be blessed by Abby for twelve years made me feel like a steward entrusted with the care of the master's prized possession.

I knew this day would come, but that knowledge didn't make it any easier. Tonight I will listen for her toe nails going clickety-clack down the hallway to my room, and I still expect her to wake me up in the morning by nuzzling close to my pillow and giving a loud snort. But, instead, I'll be reminded that we brought her home and buried her in mom's back yard. While a friend was digging the hole, I sat on the ground with her again--almost in the same place we had been a few hours earlier--just stroking her head and loving her one more time. She had been my companion for twelve years. She was my side kick. She was so obedient, humble, and easy to train. She had never been a burden. Even in death she didn't inconvenience anyone, but left graciously, like a lady.

I don't like to sleep alone

Wide awake at three a.m. Sleeping alone tonight for the first time in a while, and, actually, I'm not sleeping at all.

Charlie went to the vet this morning to get spayed and they kept her overnight. I packed a little bag of food for her and took her bed and her favorite toy--the squeaky squirrel. She was very excited about the ride in the truck; the fuzzy tail stopped wagging though when we arrived at the vet's office. Before I could get her checked in, the tail was tucked between her legs, and she was already shaking.

Have you ever seen a grown woman standing in a vet's office carrying a little blue bed, squeaky squirrel, and a bag of food with her dog's name written on it? I wonder how ridiculous I looked, which was only amplified by the tears in my eyes. The picture should be captioned "no wonder this woman can't get a date."

Charlie only sleeps in her bed when I'm away during the day, when I study, work at my desk, or on the long drives home. At night, Charlie sleeps with me. If I take a nap, Charlie is right there as well. Since the first night that she called this place home, she has slept on my pillow, as close to my face as possible (without smothering me), and I take whatever portion of the pillow that is available.

There's no sleep for me tonight. How can I sleep on an entire pillow? How am I supposed to drift off to sleep without the sweet scent of puppy breath? How can I sleep when Charlie is alone and afraid and so far from home? There's no sleep for me tonight, but plenty of time for that tomorrow, when Charlie comes home and I don't have to sleep alone.

it's been one of those days...

Appropriately enough, yesterday my quote of the day email said, "Link what you say to the cheerful things of life, and leave out the doleful telling of your ills. If you write too often about your trials and troubles you will give your reader the notion that you enjoy them, or at least that you enjoy them for the pleasure they give you to tell about them." Royal Bank of Canada, The Communication of Ideas 76 (rev. ed. 1972).

As poetic and proper as that advice may be, I am going to totally ignore it and tell you about my Monday morning....

It's the week after final exams. Most law students have gone home. I am still in Lynchburg working on two more major assignments. Paper #1 is due Wednesday (December 17) and paper #2 is due December 22. Because of the impending deadline for paper #1, I worked on it until 4 a.m. Monday morning. The dogs woke me up at 7 a.m.--hungry and in need of a walk. By 7:30 a.m. Monday morning, I was back at the computer--staring on paper #1. But there was personal stuff I had to do as well, so I decided to get that out of the way.

First, I spent an hour applying for a new health insurance policy before my old policy lapses. My old policy is with BCBS of North Carolina, and my new poicy is with BCBS of North Carolina, but just to transfer me from one policy to another is much too easy. So, instead, I have to spend the morning answering lots of stupid questions about my health--which BCBS of North Carolina already knows--and I was a little annoyed at what I deemed to be a waste of time.

The next item on my agenda was to find my Ram's Club membership card. Tomorrow is an open basketball practice for Ram's Club members. In spite of all the deadlines, I have worked this trip into my schedule. Tomorrow is reserved for my trip to Chapel Hill; Melissa and Mike (her fiance) are going with me, and we're going to make a day of it. Hopefully Wes can join us, but that's still up in the air. Anyway, I will need my Ram's Club card (I think) to get into the Dean Dome tomorrow. I am also wondering if I should have received tickets for this event since I registered online? Hmmm....Anyway, I search for about an hour in my desk, on my desk, in my wallet, in the filing cabinet, etc., trying to find my membership card. I finally pull out the drawer where I have been dumping all my "important papers" this semester (it is stuffed to the brim!) but no Ram's Club stuff near the top in there either. Then, I can't get the drawer to close. The drawer is stuck on something and will not budge. It feels as if the drawer has locked itself open. I push, I pull, I hit, I scream. I seriously consider taking a hammer to it!

During this scenario, Melissa calls (in response to an earlier text from me) to "chat" about the details of tomorrow's trip. She is energetic and bubbly, but she soon realizes that I am dangling at the end of a frazzled rope!!! And she cannot get off the phone fast enough!

My attention returns to the drawer. I know I can't get in through the back. I can get in from below, but I'll have to tip the table over, which means moving my printer, etc. All the while I am muttering, "I don't have time for this. I don't have time for this!"

Oh--let's make this a complete I-Love-Lucy moment--while searching for the Ram's Club membership card on my desk, in my desk, and in the drawer of "important papers," I also start finding various piles of stuff sprinkled on my desk, in my desk, and in the drawer that needs to be with my bar application (like my birth certificate, print outs, criminal record, etc.). Just finding this stuff ticks me off because I do NOT have time to screw that up! How pissed am I going to be when I am in North Carolina over the holidays, finalizing my bar application, and half of what I need is sitting on my desk in Lynchburg? Ugh!

Somehow, I finally get the drawer to budge and I just leave all its contents spread out on the floor. I cannot stand to live in such disorder!! But that describes my entire life this semester...total disorder! Anyway, still no Ram's Club card...so I send an email asking "Do we really need that card tomorrow?"

While I'm checking my stack of snail mail (yes, there's a stack...more disorder)...to make sure tickets haven't arrived, I see a credit card statement. This story is too long to tell, but in November I learned that someone used my credit card to make some unauthorized purchases online. The card was canceled and I didn't get hit with any charges, but it's just another frustration. Now, according to the latest bill, I've been hit again. Great....so I try to contact the company about the additional fraudulent charge. While I'm on hold I hear the pleasant "ding dong" of incoming mail. Oh how I hope that's the Ram's Club office replying to my earlier message. But, no; the email is from the law school librarian saying that two books checked out for my law review article (paper #2) must be returned by Dec 17. Isn't that swell...considering my article (paper #2) isn't due until Dec 22 and I can't work on paper #2 until I finish paper #1.

I literally wanted to scream STOP THE MADNESS! I hung up the phone and decided that I really, really, really needed to focus on paper #1 so that I could (hopefully) enjoy tomorrow's trip to Chapel Hill and then work on the law review article (paper #2). In the alternative, I could find a rusty spoon and slit my wrists. Instead, all I could do was just sit at my desk in stunned silence wondering how I had spent so much time this morning doing so many things with so little to show for it. Somewhere over my head I envisioned two mischievious angels saying, "This was fun, but I think she's had enough."

I didn't enjoy the madness of Monday morning, but I have found enjoyed telling it. In compliance with the quote of the day, let me link what I have said to the cheerful things in life....The Ram's Club card was in my wallet--in that special hidden compartment that I put it so that it would not get lost. I finished paper #1 at 3:30 a.m. The trip to Chapel Hill went as planned and made up for all the madness.

Sixteen to go

It's been a quiet Saturday. I completed my final exam yesterday. There are still two more papers due next week, but at least the exam is behind me. The only noise around the house today has been the voices inside my head. Even now, as I'm tapping out this message, I am watching my Tarheels with the sound muted.

After being in law school for three years, I totally understand what is expected of me during exam season; but, knowing that, only makes it worse. Even though I dread the thought of writing two more papers before I can put a "closed" sign on this semester, I would rather be tortured with a paper than with an exam.

The good news is that there's only one more semester of exams and then this journey is through. I will feel this way one more time--in May--oh, and probably again in July, after the bar exam. Once again I will be warring with the voices in my head that I did my best, I gave my all, and it's out of my hands now. I will also remember how totally spent I am when the exam is over--how completely drained I am of energy and thought.

A few more pages, a few more papers, a few more exams, and sixteen weeks later, this journey is done.

The Saturday Morning Scenario

Charlie: I think she’s dead.
Abby: No; she’s not dead. I can see her breathing…..could be a coma, though.
Charlie: What do we do?
Abby: We wait.
Charlie: We can’t wait; we need to do something.
Abby: You need to learn to be patient.
Charlie: If we’re too patient, she’s going to be late for class.
Abby: She’ll wake up. Just be patient.
Charlie: I think we need to do something. Why don’t you poke her?
Abby: Are you crazy?
Charlie: Yes…poke her…with your nose. That’ll wake her up.
Abby: That’ll get me slapped is what that’ll do!
Charlie: No it won’t…especially if you move fast.
Abby: Yeah; let’s see how fast you move when you’re my age.
Charlie: Go ahead, poke her.
Abby: If you want her poked so badly, then you poke her.
Charlie: Okay, then, I will. I will just press my nose up against her lips like this, and…
Jackie: Gimminie Cricket Charlie it’s 4:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning! Don’t you know it’s Saturday!!
Abby: Well, that went over like a box of poo.
Charlie: At least we know she’s not dead.
Abby: I’m going back to bed
Charlie: You think I should poke her again?

Birthdays and flowers and travels and God

My daughter called to tell me that someone had left a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a card at the door. I had left for North Carolina the day before, on Friday. I didn't need to be in North Carolina until Saturday, but I was feeling restless. So I hurriedly packed and hit the road.

Mom was happy to see me. She and Charles took me to a new restaurant and treated me to a delicious steak dinner for my birthday. On the ride home I asked mom, "Have you heard from Aunt Sallie?" Mom seemed puzzled about why I would even ask, so I reminded her, "You know, today is the day William died." Mom just said, "Oh," and neither of us said much more after that. It was late; the interior of the car was dark, and I pretended to be very interested in the view from the passenger window.

The drive to North Carolina had been quiet. I did a lot of thinking. Sometimes I'd laugh and sometimes I'd cry. Eventually I did listen to the radio, but most of the trip the only noise I heard were the tires, the engine, and my raging thoughts.

A lot has happened in 26 years. I got married and divorced. Me and God raised two beautiful children. I went to undergrad, graduate school, and law school. And 26 times I lived through October, November, and December.

October is always a hard month for me, and November isn't much better. William was my best friend; he died in October--26 years ago--and we buried him on my birthday. Twenty-six days later, in November, we buried my dad. Nineteen days later, in December, is William's birthday. So, for 26 years I have said, if I can get through Christmas, the worst is behind me. But those last three months of the year are hard--hard, indeed.

My son, Wes, is 20 years old; the same age as William when he died. Don't think I'm not cognizant of that. Wes is the main reason why I traveled home a day early; I felt like I had to see him. I had to touch him, hug him, hear his voice, and just listen to him talk. On Saturday morning I couldn't get to him fast enough, and I spent every possible moment with him (which he would probably define as "smothering"). We spent the day together, until he had to go to work; and then I returned to Mom's. On Sunday, Mom cooked a fabulous lunch in my honor. There was so much food and so many people there, it was like a prelude to Thanksgiving. Wes came for dinner, but had to leave early for work; I hit the road soon thereafter.

By the time I got home I was mentally and emotionally exhausted. Many birthday cards awaited me, and the bouquet of flowers that my daughter had placed in a vase with the sealed card propped against it. Who would have given me flowers for my birthday? I was intrigued, but I must have spent ten minutes just looking at the card--trying to solve the mystery before opening it. But, if I had made a thousand guesses, I would have never gotten it right. When I finally gave up my guessing game and opened the card, it read, "I know today is a tough day for you and I have been thinking about you all day. I have prayed that God would comfort you with great memories of your cousin that make you smile. Thoughts and prayers....and happy early birthday."

So, who sent the card and flowers? It had to be you. Only you know about William. Only you who read this blog. Only you who know where I live. So, to you, I say thank you so much for the flowers. They were (and still are) beautiful. And what a wonderful reminder they are that God knows our every hurt, and our every thought--even those we don't even bear to whisper, while traveling down the highway trying to outrun the pain.

Busy squared

Less than thirty days from now, this semester will be over and we'll be preparing for fall exams. Just looking at all that must be done before then is nothing less than overwhelming. But, if I can survive until Thanksgiving, I will finally get a decent break and also get some well-deserved rest....oh wait, no, that won't work because I have to write two papers. And by write, I mean research, outline, write, proofread, rewrite, repeat, and then submit both papers before the December 4 deadline. But, after the papers are completed, I can take it easy....well, not quite, because I then have to focus on studying for the Estates and Trusts exam on December 12...but after that the semester wil be over and I can....oh, I can and must complete my Comment for Law Review by December 21 (30-page minimum and same drill as the other papers, i.e., research, outline, write, proof, rewrite, etc.)....then, what's next? Christmas? Hmmm...guess I better start shopping online or else consider shopping December 22, 23, and 24....but, it will certainly be nice to rest during the remainder of Christmas break with no looming deadlines....I think ....hmmm....let's see when that Bar Application is due....yep, January 6. So, after Christmas and before January 6, I need to prepare the Bar Application and gather all of the attachments (birth certificate, complete criminal record, complete civil record, copies of all civil documents [divorce, separation], certified copies of all college transcripts, two sets of fingerprints, etc.) .....and that's ok, because after January 6 my life is going to be so much easier, and I'll have time to enjoy the last few days of Christmas break ..... until spring classes start on January 12. ....Oh, wait, I better use those dates to get some more letters and resumes in the mail because I'm still looking for a job. Who said the 3L year was easy?

Charlie

My foot is asleep. Completely numb--except for the pain shooting up my leg.

I have been working at my desk for hours--long before the sun came up--tapping out resumes and cover letters. And my right foot has been in the same position for most of that time, with Charlie draped across it.

Charlie is the new love of my life. She is a four month old puppy--part toy poodle and part bishon. She is white, and has the darkest eyes I've ever seen.

I wasn't looking for a puppy. My old dog, Abby, is still alive--although deaf, blind and crippled.

Life as a 3L is complicated enough without adding a pooping and peeing machine to my list of responsibilities. Charlie needed a home, though, and I couldn't say no.

Charlie's real name is Charlotte. She is part lady and part tomboy, so we're calling her Charlie.

Charlie moved in about two weeks ago and has rarely left my side since. Wherever I am, she is there. And, she is not content to be "in the room" with me, but she must be touching me. It may just be a paw or her snout or she may snuggle up next to me on the couch while the laptop occupies my lap, but she must be touching me. When I am at my desk, her favorite place to be is in my lap. But, if that's not possible, her next favorite place to be is under the desk draped across my feet. So, this morning, as the sun rises, and I try to make this a productive day, Charlie is sleeping on my feet.

Even when Charlie plays, she wants me to play. She will bring her tennis ball, bones, stuffed chipmunks and other toys and just drop them at my feet. She will nudge them my way. She'll give a slight growl to get my attention, and her ears will perk up when I notice her. She will get into "pounce" position, ready to attack the stuffed chipmunk or chase down the evil tennis ball. When I scoot off the couch and onto the floor to play, her energy level skyrockets. She runs and jumps with pure abandon. She is ecstatic. And I know that in 15 minutes, she will be absolutely exhausted and ready for a rest.

Typically, after playing, she will go to the laundry room and whine. She will look at her bed and then look at me. From the first day she arrived, I trained her that this is her bed. I took it with me from room to room and let her lie in it with it positioned next to me. Now, when she's tuckered out from playing, she wants to lie in her bed--just as I trained her--but now I'm the one who's trained to retrieve the bed and bring it near me. And, if I don't, she'll eventually drape herself across my feet.

When I run errands or go to school, it doesn't matter if I am gone for five minutes or five hours, Charlie is ecstatic upon my return. I know I am going to be greeted with jumping, barking, and a wagging tail. And she will not be happy until she is picked up and licking as much of my face as possible. Soldiers returning from war do not receive a warmer welcome.

When it's time for bed, I have to help her on and off the bed because she is much too small to jump. Typically there are two to four pillows on my bed, but Charlie must sleep on the same pillow with me. She has to be near my head or face. Usually I fall asleep to the aroma of puppy breath and wake up with a paw poking me in the eye or ear. And, in the middle of the night, should I move to another pillow, she will notice; and she will groggily follow suit.

In two short weeks I have trained Charlie where to poop and pee, when it is appropriate to bark, and when she may sit in my lap. I wonder if God wishes sometimes that he would have just stopped with dogs. They would have been far less trouble than people. They would have given unconditional love and never demanded anything in return. They would have wanted nothing more than to be close to Him, drape across His feet, and snuggle so close as to smell His breath. Oh, and they wouldn't have said, "there is no God"; even dogs aren't that stupid.

I wasn't shopping for a puppy and I wasn't looking for a lesson, but then came Charlie.

I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand. You guide me with your counsel . . Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you. . . . As for me, it is good to be near God. Psalm 73.

Irregular People

Irregular People is a wonderful book by Joyce Landorf Heatherley. I read it over 20 years ago. As a result of events this past week, I searched feverishly--to no avail--to find my worn-out, highlighted, dog-eared copy of that book. Either it got lost in the move or--more likely--I let someone borrow it.

Amazon only has used copies of the book available, but I ordered one for less than a buck (plus S&H). Today I feel like I need a dozen of 'em to pass out to family and friends who are tortured by the irregular people in their lives.

While googling the book title, I discovered a blog at Wordpress.com that said everything I intended to write today about my own Irregular Person (IP). The author writes: In my younger days, I was insecure enough that I felt responsible for the times when other people seemed unhappy with me or something I was doing. There were a couple of people in my life that could always find fault or ways to be disagreeable, no matter what I did. . . . I’ve recently been dealing with a person close to me who is as irregular as one can get. In fact, a regular Jekyl-Hyde personality. On good days, IP [Irregular Person] is a very giving, caring person who tries to help those in need, care for those not well and pleasant to be around. On bad days, IP disagrees with everything you say in an angry, hateful way. Then IP remembers everything IP’s ever done for you and uses it like a club to beat you over the head with and let you know what a terrible, unappreciative human you are. Of course, IP feels sorry later and uses excuses like not feeling well, didn’t understand, etc. or IP says IP doesn’t remember what was said.

The only comment that I would add to this blog is that the book taught me that I am not the Irregular Person. I am not at fault. More likely than not, nothing I say or do will ever change the Irregular Person. All I can control is how much I let this person control my life. Do I let her make me angry? or sad? or malicious? Do I blame her when I drink too much? or curse? or have a bad attitude? If so, then I have let this person have far too much power over me; and, in reality, perhaps I am even using this person as a crutch to continue in some bad habits, e.g., "She makes me so [fill in the blank] that I just had to [fill in the blank]."

In chapter one, Joyce writes, "Most everyone has one person in their life who truly makes living one continuous pain in the derriere. What heightens the pain is that this person is not a mere acquaintance of ours. No, unfortunately, it is more complicated than that, for we are related to them, by birth or by marriage." Joyce described my IP perfectly when she said, "this person is deaf, dumb, and blind to your needs no matter how hard you try to communicate. This person regularly breaks your heart with insensitivity and rejection."

For so long I felt like no one else shared this struggle, and it was isolating. Every other family seemed to be happy at birthday parties, weddings, and graduations. I didn't understand why my family's events typically had a dark cloud looming overhead. I wanted my family to be like the others, so naturally I thought I could fix this problem, and I would start by fixing me. I would be perfect. I would do everything that my IP expected of me. But, as you can imagine, that didn't work either. I would come away from a family gathering--or even a phone call--more perplexed than ever about how I could make this relationship "normal." The words from Irregular People were like a balm. This book helped me see that the IP is not happy when I am happy unless she is the one who has "made" me happy. She is going to be a negative person even in the most positive of situations, e.g., at an outdoor wedding, she must say, "It's going to rain; I told them they shouldn't have this wedding outside. This day is ruined."

When I confront the IP and tell her not to bother showing up (i.e., ruining) my daughter's birthday party if she's going to have a negative attitude, she shows up anyway, sits in the middle of the room, arms crossed, and lips buttoned, refusing to even say "Hello" when addressed. When finally asked, "What's wrong with you today?" She says, "I was told if I couldn't say something nice then I couldn't say anything." Once again, she must be in the center ring of the circus or she is absolutely miserable and will make you miserable as well.

And the list of scenarios could go on and on. I have a lifetime of stories that could crash blogger's server if I even tried to relay half of them. The bottom line is that this book finally made me realize that I am not the one with the problem, and I cannot fix the problem. I can only fix me--by the grace of God. I cannot cut my IP out of my life, but I can control her influence in my life. When I read Irregular People, I could feel myself healing. Joyce helped me understand the nature of my IP (and her maddening behavior), develop strategies for coping with her, recognizing (and handling) my negative reactions, and (the hard part) keeping forgiveness and reconciliation active in my life (without being her doormat).

If you do not have an irregular person in your life, fall to your knees and thank your Maker because you are truly blessed. But, if you have trouble with someone in your life--someone that you cannot walk away from because of family or marital ties--this book is for you. Even though it was written twenty years ago, its message is just as relevant today as then. I highly recommend it.

My daughter got engaged last week. I am so happy for her and her fiance and already consider him part of the family. Now there's a wedding to plan and, look, is that a dark cloud coming our way? Yes, I ordered the book and requested expedited delivery.

I am not a pussycat.

I have approximately 26 weeks left in law school (but who's counting). If anyone is ever interested in visiting law school--to see what all the fuss is about--consider this your open invitation to occupy the seat next to mine on any given day. I'll even let you sit between me and my friend, Jennifer; and I guarantee it will be an experience you'll never forget.

Law school can be intellectually stimulating; but, most semesters can be summarized as 12 weeks of boredom and busy work, followed by two weeks of intense studying, followed by two weeks of exams. Some students actually try to learn stuff during those first 12 weeks. I try to keep my sanity by not taking this Socratic method of learning too seriously.

Part of the therapy for surviving those first 12 weeks involves a combination of distractions, including instant messaging. I have developed a talent for looking intently at the professor, glancing at my book (as if taking notes from it), and then glancing back at the professor, all the while chatting online with a friend who is in the library or sitting three rows up. And some of the best laughs that I have ever had have occurred in the past two years--mainly because law school classes are not intended to be humorous; so, half of the humor in any given situation is in trying not to laugh--in the middle of estate tax class, while learning about powers of appointment--while chatting with someone online.

I have a top ten list of the funniest things ever to happen in our law school classes. Last week, a new No. 1 was crowned, and all the others were booted down a notch or two. I don't know if I can do this story justice in print, but I am going to try. If your sides aren't splitting when you read this, please call me and demand that I tell the story instead. I promise you that after 2+ years in law school, it is the funniest thing that has happened in class to date and literally brings me to tears every time I repeat it. Here goes:

Thursday is a long day for me. Classes start at 8:00 a.m., and my last class ends at 8:30 p.m. Except for a quick lunch break, I am in class or at work (in the lab) the remainder of the day, and by 6:00 p.m.--when the last class starts--I'm already a little punchy.

Last Thursday we had a guest speaker for Juvenile Law (the last class on Thursday)--a local juvenile court judge. In his bio, he told about his wife and kids, but, still, he was a bit effeminate. To pass the time, my friend, Jennifer, and I initially started betting on how many times he could flail his arms in one minute. On instant messaging, here's how that conversation got started:

6:26 PM me: this sounds like a coming out of the closet story
6:33 PM Jennifer: almost as exciting as a box of hair
6:36 PM me: what is in the water in salem?
6:42 PM Jennifer: this is horrible
6:43 PM me: nice guy, but definitely a flower child
Jennifer: do you think he does marijuana and crack, or just drops acid?
6:44 PM me: it's just a clear example of too much sweet tea
6:54 PM Jennifer: what is he talking about?
6:55 PM me: i left 7 minutes ago
6:56 PM Jennifer: Has time stood still?
me: let's count the times he flails his arms like clay aiken
Jennifer: 29, 30, 31, 32
33
6:57 PM 34
35
36
dickens!
42
me: STOP!
7:03 PM Jennifer: and we got 26 arm flails on that story
me: ohhh, reverse wave! ....what does that count?

The arm flails were quite distracting, and I was getting a little "giggly," as a result. And, in law school, the code of honor requires that when one student sees that another student is about to laugh out loud in the middle of a serious decision, it is that student's duty to push the other completely over the edge. Friend or foe, this is always a good game.

Jennifer could see I was struggling. I would occasionally cough to masquerade a laugh or just to let off some steam. I was trying to maintain my composure and tried even harder to intently listen to the guest speaker. But his mannerisms were just too humorous. His short, stout body, flailing arms, and squeaky voice reminded me of a cartoon character. But, finally, the judge moved on to a subject that interested me, so I asked a follow-up question, which was something like, "It sounds like first offenders are offered a measure of grace in your courtroom, but what do you do when they appear before you for the second or third time?" To which the judge moved closer to my seat (on the second row) and with a double flail of the arms said, "Well, (flailed arms up) I don't want you to think that I'm some kind of pussycat! (flailed arms down)"

And what he said after that is really unimportant, because I didn't hear a word. Instead, in my peripheral vision, I could see Jennifer pouncing on the keyboard, and I was certain that it was about the "pussycat" comment. To diffuse her incoming message (which I was sure would send me over the edge), I rattled off a quick message to her and beat her to the punch--or so I thought...

7:20 PM me: i just made him say 'pussycat' Wow!
Jennifer: hey there pussycat!

Pretty funny, huh? Oh, I hope so. I know I can tell this story a whole lot better than I can write it; but, the humor in it all is that I don't think I have ever heard a judge (or any other grown man) use the word "pussycat" when referring to anything other than a female cat. The entire comment just caught me off guard, combined with the physical and mental exhaustion, and I was now losing the battle of the giggles. And, Jennifer, started throwing everything at me, but a lifeline...

So, while the judge is yammering on and on about how serious it is to be a repeat offender in his courtroom, Jennifer starts bombarding me with the lyrics to Tom Jones' famous song, "What's New, Pussycat?"


7:21 PM Jennifer: what's new pussycat
7:22 PM Jennifer: Woah, Woah

Ok, this was funny. And I smiled. And I thought, "I remember that song. Wow. What a long time ago." But, Jennifer wasn't done.

7:22 PM Pussycat, Pussycat
I've got flowers
And lots of hours
To spend with you.
So go and powder your cute little pussycat nose!

Dang it! She has googled the lyrics and is sending them to me one line at a time.

7:25 PM Jennifer: What's new pussycat? Woah, Woah
What's new pussycat? Woah, Woah
Pussycat, Pussycat
You're so thrilling
And I'm so willing
To care for you.
So go and make up your cute little pussycat face!

I finally was able to gain my composure and send a response.

7:26 PM me: I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!!
7:27 PM 8+ minutes on this question
7:29 PM 10 minutes

And, notice, I was trying to change the subject; but, Jennifer wouldn't let the pussycat song go...not yet.

7:31 PM Jennifer: Last verse....
What's new pussycat? Woah, Woah
What's new pussycat? Woah, Woah
Pussycat, Pussycat
You're delicious
And if my wishes
Can all come true
I'll soon be kissing your sweet little pussycat lips!

One line at a time she fed it to me; and, by the time she got to end, I was a goner. Tears were rolling down my cheeks, and I couldn't even make eye contact with the judge. I sent one final message to her...

7:34 PM me: you are evil

At 7:34 I found the strength to close my laptop without completely losing control. I knew that I couldn't look at Jennifer or we would both burst into laughter, get kicked out of class, and probably expelled from law school. A week later, though, we are still laughing about the entire pussycat adventure. There have been some funny moments in law school, in class, online, and in study groups; but, nothing in these two and a half years has come close to last Thursday evening, with our guest speaker, and the gift that he dumped in our laps when he said, "I don't want you to think that I'm some pussycat!" Priceless!

The story has now circulated amongst our circle of friends, and we are all smiling like Cheshire cats when we greet each other with, "What's new?" I passed a librarian in the hall yesterday, we exchanged the required pleasantries; and then when he was about three steps past me, he said, "Meow." I almost wet my pants.

What's missing?

I attended a luau last Friday night, the capstone of which included a bonfire. I love fire. Summer, winter, fall or spring, I love fire. Indoor, outdoor or both; it doesn't matter.

Friday night it had started to turn cool after the sun went down, and I was drawn to the fire like the moth that I am. I could have curled up on my blanket and stayed all night--ignoring everyone and just enjoying its flame, its warmth, and its beauty.

No two fires are ever the same. They are all a beautiful dance of the chemical oxidation of a fuel with an associated flame. But the flames can be blue, orange, red or white. The fuel can be wood, gas, or wax. The only similarity for me is--Bunsen burner or bonfire--I am attracted to the flame.

I spent a lot of time at the bonfire Friday night. As long as I stayed close, it didn't matter that the night was cold. I wondered if I moved twenty feet away would I be as comfortable. What about thirty? or forty? The shorts and t-shirt that were appropriate attire at 5:00 p.m. were now inadequate for the evening chill, but as long as I stayed close to the fire, it didn't matter.

Wednesday night I attended my first Campus Church meeting this semester (The quip "Better late than never" comes to mind.). Most of the songs were new--new at least to me. I enjoy the Campus Praise Band, so it didn't matter; I didn't need to know the words because I was enjoying the lights, music, smoke, and singing. But then the music program changed. The loud and rowdy became a single repetitive chord from the piano, and I knew the song immediately. It was Everything by Tim Hughes.

Not recently, but in the past six months I have used the words from that very song as a prayer for my working, living, laughing, and playing. Not recently, but in the past six months, it would strum in my head throughout the ordinary and mundane day to remind me: God in my thinking . . . There in my breathing . . . God in my hurting . . . God in my healing.

It's like loving the bonfire, seeing the bonfire, and dying from hypothermia fifty feet away. What's missing? Everything.

death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing, save the limit of our sight

How sad it is to celebrate (or endure) the birthdays of those we have lost. We see the dates approaching on the calendar; and, sometimes, don't we wish that we could just skip that day? or sleep through it? When the pain is palpable, it's a day we endure every waking moment rather than celebrate--as in happier times.

That's where I'm at today, September 8, recognizing that it's my Uncle Willie's birthday. He died in May. He had a wife, son, daughters, grandchildren, brothers, and sisters, nieces and nephews. I'm not any of those people. I'm not even his niece. He's just a cousin that I affectionally called "uncle," and his passing has left a hole in my heart that hurts like hell. But, somewhere in the back of my mind I can hear him saying, “I told you that you’d miss me.” That is classic Uncle Willie.

Since he died in May, I have come to realize that Uncle Willie talked a lot about funerals. Everyone’s gonna have one, so there’s no reason in pretending otherwise. Uncle Willie did a good job of letting folks know just what he expected of them should he be the first to go. He said that when he died he wanted the funeral to be so elaborate that his children would have to go into debt to pay for it. He also said he wanted flowers—lots and lots of flowers—at his funeral. And he wanted his funeral to be “inconvenient”; you know, like you have to take off work in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. According to Uncle Willie, that’s how you know if someone really wants to be at your funeral.

I traveled three and a half hours to attend the family visitation. Then I paid my dues in the I-40 parking lot known as “rush hour” before I finally arrived at the funeral home. The whole family was there; and so was Uncle Willie, in his bib overalls. I hadn’t been there when he had his stroke. I hadn’t watched him suffer that week in the hospital. All I saw was him perfectly at rest, almost like he was taking a nap. I truly expected him to open his eyes and say, “It’s about damn time you got here. What in the hell took you so long?” I leaned over and told him, “Congratulations, Uncle Willie. The trip down here was damned inconvenient.” He would’ve liked to have known that.

I think this was the first time in my life that I saw him with his hair combed. A part of me wanted to reach down and mess it up—just to piss him off and hear him cuss at me or threaten to “whup my ass.” I’ve watched him run his hands through that red hair a thousand times. You knew he was thinking of something profound (or sassy) to say when he’d tussle his own hair and remark, “Jackie Sue, let me tell you something . . . “

He left a bag of trash in my front yard one time—just to let me know that he came by when I wasn’t home. He came to my wedding—after repeatedly threatening not to because it was going to interfere with his Sunday nap. He’d graciously laugh when I’d buy him a gag gift, like a doo rag to calm his red mane; and usually he’d say, “You think that’s funny, let me show you this.” And he’d go to his bedroom and come out with a collection of other gag gifts folks had given him.

Invariably he would ask me one of two questions every time I saw him, “What are you going to get me for my birthday?” or “What are you going to get me for Christmas?” The best Christmas gift I ever gave him was a one-year subscription to a magazine that he found distasteful. He called to cancel the subscription only to find out it was a prepaid gift subscription and he couldn't do it. It took him until about April to figure out that I was the culprit. I can hear him now telling the story of the arrival of the first magazine, then the second, and third. That story never got old; and I’d laugh until I'd cry.

Tonight, Uncle Willie, there are more tears than smiles. This wound is tender and raw. So much of me believed you were immortal—larger than life—and that you would be here as long as there were birthdays and Christmas and the need for laughter. We really could use one of your one-liners right about now (“Joyce is getting too old; I’m gonna have to trade her in for two 25 year olds if she doesn't straighten up.”)

Congratulations, you stubborn man. You were right. We’re gonna miss you for a long, long time.

My First 5K

My shoes are wet, and wet shoes are heavy. They are covered in red clay. I don't know how that happened since I have been trying to stay on the road.

My socks are wet. Wet socks make a squishy sound when you walk.

Water is dripping (and sometimes pouring) off the brim of my baseball cap. The cap isn't keeping my hair dry--only keeping the rain out of my eyes.

My shirt and shorts are now matted to the form of my body; soaking wet. Water drips off the end of my shirt and hem of my shorts. Thank God I can't see myself!

Today I participated in my first 5K race. It coincided with the arrival of Tropical Storm Hanna (Go figure...I'm just lucky that way, ya know). Rain or shine, though, the race goes on. It was a 5K walk/5 mile run for the local CASA group. The registration fee was nominal and went to a good cause.

When registering you had to indicate whether you were participating in the 5-mile run or the 5K walk (5K = 3.1 miles). I chose the 5K walk, but had all intentions of running at least half of it. I have been walking/running about four to five miles per day (3-4 times per week), so walking 3.1 miles is not a problem for me. The challenge would have been to run as much of the course as possible. Unfortunately, the race organizers really emphasized that runners should be in the 5-mile race and walkers should be in the 5K, i.e., no runners in the 5K. I was a little disappointed about not being about to challenge myself with a run, but that disappointment quickly subsided as we started the course and walked .6 miles downhill. That would be the last downhill slope we would see; it would be the same slope we would travel to the finish line, uphill, in the rain (Did I mention the rain?). The remainder of the course seemed to be uphill, both ways. I know that's not possible, but just believe me on this one.

TS Hanna arrived around midnight last night. We had drizzle, rain, downpours, repeat. Most of the race we contended with a steady shower of rain. But, once you're wet, you're wet; and you're not going to get any "wetter" or "dryer."

On Friday I went to Blackwater Creek trails (which are awesome). I usually walk these trails or use the track at school to log 4-5 miles on the days that I walk. On Friday my goal was to time myself as I walked the trail to the 3.1 mile mark. The weather was perfect. The trail was dry, and my time was 48 minutes or basically a 16-minute mile. If you can walk a 15-minute mile, you are really walking fast; anything faster than that usually involves some jogging or running. I was content with the 16-minute mile time and only hoped to maintain that today in the "race atmosphere." What I didn't prepare for were the hills.

I knew that the hills were going to slow me down. And I've never walked (or ran) in the rain (on purpose). My goal today was just to do the best that I possibly could, compete with myself, and try to stay near the 48-minute finish that I had yesterday. Long story significantly shortened: I crossed the finish line at 46:20. It was fun. I will do it again, but first I want to dry off and take a nap.

South Boston

She comes down from Yellow Mountain
On a dark flat land she rides
On a pony she named Wildfire
With a whirlwind by her side
On a cold Nebraska night

Do you remember this classic song from the '70s? It is titled Wildfire, about a girl who dies in a blizzard while searching for her horse. Sung by Michael Murphey, who was pretty much a one-hit wonder. Can you hear it?

She ran calling Wildfire!
She ran calling Wildfire!
She ran calling Wildfire!

I was on one of those three-hour rides between Virginia and North Carolina this afternoon--the drive that has become so mundane that I usually load my ipod with books and podcasts to keep me occupied. This afternoon, though, I was just scanning the radio dial when I heard the opening notes to this song, and I stopped. Instanteously I was transported to the house where my family lived when I was a teenager, and I was lying on my single bed, holding the microphone to my cassette tape player near the FM radio speaker, waiting for the DJ to play my request...Wildfire.

Oh they say she died one winter
When there came a killin' frost
And the pony she name Wildfire
Busted down his stall
In a blizzard he was lost

Isn't it amazing how a memory can do that to you? As the song played, I reached for pen and paper and wrote a reminder to myself to download it to my ipod. It would be the perfect addition to my "favorites" collection (alongside David Cassidy and Carole King).

By the dark of the moon I planted
But there came an early snow
There's been a hoot owl howlin' by my window now
For six nights in a row
She's coming for me I know
And on Wildfire we're both gonna go

On these many trips between Virginia and North Carolina, I have passed several exits to South Boston. And I always believed that the closing lines to this song said:

On wildfire we're gonna ride, oh
We're gonna leave South Boston behind
Get these hard times right on out of our minds
Riding Wildfire

So, today, the mundane trip took on a new interest as I convinced myself that I had a few extra minutes to check out South Boston. As I approached Danville, I took the first South Boston exit, and the road signs indicated it was 29 miles away. Well, that was a little more of a detour than I truly wanted to take, but the adventure was already in control. As I exited the city limits of Danville, there were rolling hills, beautiful homes in the distance, and many horse farms. I could just picture the blizzard, the barn, the beautiful pony, and the girl getting lost in the snow. I was trying to maintain a reasonable speed limit, but I was also quite excited to be visiting this special place mentioned in the closing lines of this haunting song.

With every mile I traveled, though, the horse farms disappeared--one by one--and the rolling hills became flat land, until I felt like I wasn't in Virginia anymore. On the horizon I couldn't see Yellow Mountain; I had never even heard of Yellow Mountain. But I could see South Boston, and I was quite excited about perusing its countryside and quaint city streets only a few miles ahead.

Now, for any of you who may hold South Boston near and dear to your heart, I am pre-empting this paragraph with an apology. I am sorry, but South Boston was a major disappointment. I had driven 29 miles off the beaten path to visit this mystical place mentioned in the closing lines of my favorite song from the '70s only to find a deteriorating downtown, a Sheets gas station, and a few other strip shopping centers. If there is a historic or quaint part of South Boston (and I'm sure there is), I didn't find it. I also didn't find any semblance of a horse farm where Wildfire could have escaped his barn. All in all, it was quite a disappointing trip.

During the round trip to South Boston and the tour I took of its city and outer limits, I had spent a lot of time and a lot of gas and was driving home very disappointed. At one time I had even entertained living in South Boston, i.e., the place made famous by Michael Murphy's song. But, based on what I had witnessed today, that would not be happening.

When I finally got home, I started working through my to-do list--a part of which was downloading the song Wildfire. And, as I am a creature of habit (some would say OCD, but isn't that a bit harsh?), here's the "download music" routine: Download complete, play song, go to lyricsondemand to follow lyrics with song (and sing along if I'm in the mood). Imagine my surprise when I realized that for almost thirty years I have misunderstood the closing lines to the song. It wasn't about South Boston--especially South Boston, Virginia. Duh, "she comes down Yellow Mountain . . . on a cold Nebraska night." The actual lyrics are:

On wildfire we're gonna ride, oh
We're gonna leave sod-bustin' behind
Get these hard times right on out of our minds
Riding Wildfire

Sod-bustin' not South Boston. Oh . . . well, that changes everything.

I am pregnant

Shocking title, huh? Well, since you haven't heard of me slitting my wrists, you can safely assume this is a theoretical pregnancy rather than an actual pregnancy.

As a sidebar, I have about six blogs circulating in my head right now. Unfortunately, I do not have time to write them all (unless this insomnia continues [another blog topic]), but I am hoping to post a blog about the trip to Greece, so don't think that I've forgotten that.

This pregnancy actually occurred in Greece where I was taking a class on Global Apologetics. At the beginning of a class, the prof randomly started talking about writing his first book, and he used the phrase "being pregnant" with the book. He described this process for at least fifteen minutes, and I was hanging on his every word. One of the most memorable things he said was, "It didn't matter how many books I sold; all that mattered was that the book was born because I knew in my being that it had to be born or a part of me would die." He then went on to say, " 'Writing your first manuscript' is not the topic for today's class, but I just felt compelled to share that story with you because someone in here is pregnant with a book." Oh, professor, that 'someone' is me.

Anyone who has known me for more than twenty-four hours knows that I love to write. I write verses, I write devotionals, I obviously write a lot of legal briefs and legal articles.

This blog was born out of my desire to write about this adventure called law school. But there is more inside of me than an occasional blog post. Even as the prof was talking about "being pregnant" with his first book, I could name no less than three books that I have inside me that I would love to--and need to--write. And, like the prof, whether I sale a single copy is not as important as birthing the book--saying what needs to be said.

Last night I listened to Rick Warren talk about the seven months he spent writing The Purpose Driven Life. His daily routine for seven months was to wake up every morning at 4:30, be writing by 5:00 a.m., stop one hour for lunch, and write until 5:00 p.m.; and he did this every day for seven months. He said he didn't know that he was writing a book that would become the best selling hardback book of all time worldwide (the only book in history that has outsold Rick Warren's book is the Bible), but he did know that he was writing something special. He said there were many days he would be writing while the tears flowed down his face, and all he was was the conduit for the book that had to be born. He explicity said he knew this wasn't his creation, but that something divine had impregnated him with this book.

The third year of law school is not conducive to being pregnant--literally or theorectically. And then there's the bar exam, and the job search, and the list goes on. But, amongst all the ohter things that I know I must do now--now that my head is clear--I know that I must birth this book--these books--or a part of me will die. It may be a year or it may be a decade before these books are born; but they are kicking inside me, and I am excited about this pregnancy.

Traveling Mercies

In August 2003 the kids and I vacationed in Hawaii. During the prior 15 years of my marriage, our family had vacationed once. Anything else resembling a vacation was usually when we would tag along to a conference or convention. In 2000, even though my marriage was deteriorating, I made up my mind that my family would not; and I began planning annual vacations. The kids and I had some prime vacations ideas, and Hawaii was at the top of our list. We planned, we saved, we negotiated a great deal, and we made it happen.

After ten days in Hawaii, our return flight from Honolulu left mid-afternoon and was scheduled to arrive in Los Angeles that evening. I believe the actual flight time was about five or six hours. We had been in the air for several hours. We had been served a meal, and an in-flight movie was playing. I was reading a book, rather than watching the movie, when the stewardess made some announcement about a lost camera. Well, I knew I hadn’t lost my camera, so I didn’t pay much attention to that announcement. Less than five minutes later she made another announcement--asking passengers to please check bags to ensure that someone had not lost a camera. I disregarded the announcement, but I noticed that the folks who were watching the movie were getting annoyed at the announcements interrupting the audio in their headphones. At least five more minutes must have passed when the movie stopped, the cabin lights came on, and the stewardess said, very sternly, “I want everyone on this plane to get up and check your bags to make sure that you have not lost a camera. This means everyone!” And, this time, I could tell by her tone that we were dealing with something more important than a lost camera.

All three of us had cameras of some sort—underwater, disposable, digital—so I got up to check the bags (even though I knew the cameras were there) and found my camera right where I had packed it. The kids were sitting a few rows up, so I motioned for them to check their bags as well, and we all confirmed that we had our cameras. This exercise went on for a few minutes until everyone on the plane, it seemed, checked their bags.

Passengers were starting to whisper and there was a defined tension in the air. That’s the first time I heard someone say the word “bomb,” and it got my attention.

It seemed like a lifetime before the next announcement, but when the stewardess finally started her next announcement, she had our undivided attention. She reported that no one had claimed the camera, and it had been found on the plane after takeoff. She said, “This causes us great concern. The pilot will be speaking with you in a few moments.”

While we waited to hear from the pilot, a few stewardesses collected all the blankets and pillows and took them to the back of the plane. (My seat was approximately 10 rows from the back, so I could hear a lot of activity back there—and a lot of whispering.) The best I could ascertain, some type of emergency plan was being implemented. Meanwhile, other stewardesses came down each row to make sure that families were seated together. The folks beside me knew that I had two children on board, and they were gathering their personal items—preparing to move—before the stewardess even made it to our row. It only took a few minutes, and our game of musical chairs was complete.

The pilot explained the situation to us very candidly. All airlines had been made aware of heightened terrorists threats in the recent weeks. I think he even said, "As you may have heard on the news...." Well, we hadn't heard anything on the news because we had been on vacation for ten days, so this really was news to me. One threat included a small explosive device that could be activated via any electronic device, like a disposable camera. This explosive device could automatically be activated when the plane reached a certain altitude and detonate on descent. Because no one had claimed the “lost camera” there was no way of knowing whether it was simply a lost camera or an explosive device. At this time we were approximately two hours from LAX or moments from death.

The stewardesses did a great job of going row-by-row to answer any questions from the passengers. They were calm and professional, but there was also an air of concern.

So what do you do when you know you could be living your last hour. Of course, I prayed, but it wasn’t a rocking-back-and-forth-dear-Lord-spare-me kind of prayer. Ironically, even though I was concerned—especially for my babies—I was remarkably calm. (I guess that’s why He’s called The Prince of Peace.) I remember I basically said, “God, I am yours, you know my heart, and you know the number of my days. You know where I am in the middle of the air, hovering over a great big ocean. I am asking for your protection, especially for my children. Keep them safe and do not let them be afraid. Help all of us to trust in you—especially since that’s all we’ve got to hold on to right now. And let me be a witness to anyone here who might not know you. Amen.”

I didn’t want to get upset; I thought that would upset my children as well as others. After praying this prayer quietly to myself, I then leaned over and asked the kids if they would pray with me. I basically prayed the same prayer substituting “our” for “I” and “us” for “them.”

You could hear passengers whispering, but the movie was done for the flight—out billed by our own unscripted real-life drama. I wondered whether I should call my mom or let the kids call their dad; I remembered how people cherished those sky phone calls that they received on 9/11 from their loved ones. But, I was really afraid that if I made such a call, I would lose control, I would choke up, I would cry, and I just felt like it was very important (for everyone) that I maintain my composure and not needlessly heighten the fears of the children. I also looked around, and no one else was making calls, so I decided not to as well.

The pilot made a few announcements about what would happen when we landed; I liked his optimism of “when,” and not “if.” At first he said we would go straight to the terminal and remain on the plane while the federal agents boarded the plane; later that plan was changed and we were instructed to leave the plane as quickly as possible when we got to the gate. It was the first time I ever remember that we weren’t told to “stay seated until the plane has come to a stop.” One time we were told we would exit through the emergency chutes, but later that was changed to exiting through the front door. I’m certain there was a lot of activity on the ground at LAX and a plan was being developed for every scenario. I didn’t mind that the plans were changing. I wanted them to develop the best plan possible and just let me know my part in that plan.

All air travel into and out of LAX was stopped, awaiting our arrival. If the “camera” hadn’t detonated during our descent, perhaps it was supposed to do so during the jolt of landing so that the terrorists could make a spectacular display of carnage on the tarmac. At least, that was one theory.

As we approached the runway, there were flashing lights, fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances for as far as we could see. You could also see that the entire terminal had been cleared. That plane taxied to the gate faster than even I thought was safe, and when the doors opened, we were all ready for the quick exit.

All passengers from our flight were ushered to a secured area for identification and questioning. Our wing of the airport terminal was like a ghost town—except for law enforcement, fire, and rescue. Federal agents and a bomb squad boarded the plane. After about an hour, an officer told us that the “lost camera” turned out to be a “lost camera” indeed. In addition to dismantling it, they had been in contact with the crew in Honolulu and confirmed that a “clean sweep” of the plane had not occurred prior to takeoff. The “clean sweep” is the procedure where they search for lost items, but also ensure that nothing is on the plane that doesn’t belong there.

The kids and I headed to another terminal to catch our next flight. Fortunately we had about a two-hour wait. The kids seemed okay; and I seemed okay. We boarded our next flight as if nothing had happened (although I did do my own “clean sweep” of my area of the plane before takeoff). We survived the bomb scare and had another great story to add to all the others about our Hawaii vacation.

I am reminded of this story as I prepare to leave for Greece tomorrow. This is my first European trip and my first international trip. Needless to say, I am so excited about visiting this beautiful place that I have only seen in pictures. But the excitement is tinged by the reminder that there are evil cowards in the world who use innocent victims to promote their agenda. I do not desire to be one of those victims (seriously, who would?); but, if I let these cowards dictate my passions, then am I not already their victim?

Should some evil befall me, I will miss this life and possibly regret that so many dreams were left undone; but my dreams pale in comparison to God’s plan and His perfect timing. My children know that I love them; I could not have ordered two greater kids. They are smart, kind-hearted, hard-working young adults who make me smile at just the thought of them. And the circle of friends and family that surround me makes me one of the richest people in the world. The only thing better than this life is the next; and while I am balanced between the two, I am going to Greece. God speed!

Mom's Quotes

After a summer with my mom, I have collected quite a few of your quotes. Some are priceless, some are humorous, and some just leave me shaking my head in disbelief. My mom doesn’t have the greatest sense of humor--especially when she is the butt of the joke—so I’m hopeful that she doesn’t find out about this posting until long after my funeral is paid in full. Enjoy a glimpse into living with Ivisbelle…

THE AWARD: Stupidest Question Ever!
THE SETTING: A discount department store where mom has several outfits picked out.
MOM’S QUOTE: Do you think they’ll let me try these on?
MY REPLY: None. I just bit my tongue.

THE AWARD: Stupidest Question Ever! Runner-up
THE SETTING: A Chinese restaurant that features a nightly buffet.
MOM’S QUOTE: Do you think they have a bathroom?
MY REPLY: No; it’s against their religion.

THE AWARD: Geriactric Ebonics
THE SETTING: Prelude to a shopping trip.
MOM’S QUOTE: I need to go to Starburst to get a gift certificate.
MY REPLY: Would that be Starbucks?
MOM’S REPLY: I don’t know.

THE AWARD: Credit Card Stroke
THE SETTING: Same shopping trip…trying to find mom some Rainbow flip flops. I had told mom that Rainbow’s are the best, but I had forgotten to tell her that they are also pricey. So, we find ourselves in this really hip store, and we are the oldest people within a quarter mile, when the clerk totals mom’s purchase of one pair of Rainblow flip flops.
THE CLERK: That will be $52.50.
MOM’S QUOTE: Say what?
MY REPLY: That’s ok.
MOM’S REPLY TO ME: Say what?
MY REPLY: Hysterical laughter.

THE AWARD: Motherly Proverbs That State The Obvious
THE SETTING: Anywhere, anytime
MOM’S QUOTE: If you’ll go ahead and do it, it will be done.
MY REPLY: Genius!

THE AWARD: Best Hick Translation of The Bible
THE SETTING: Mom studying for her Sunday School lesson—conveying the topic to me.
MOM’S QUOTE: God’s on top of the man and the man’s on top of the woman.
MY REPLY: Unspoken for fear of blasphemy

THE AWARD: Recliner Martyr of The Year
THE SETTING: I have come to mom's house to watch a baseball game. In mom's living room, there is a full-sized couch, two recliners, a bench, and lots of floor space; and all seating faces the television. Mom is sitting in "her" recliner, and she is the only person in the living room as I walk in and she says:
MOM'S QUOTE: Do you want to sit here?
MY REPLY: I don't think that recliner can hold both of us.

More to come....

Tuesday is trash day.

Who says you can't go home again? I returned to the great State of North Carolina on Sunday, May 25, in order to work as a law clerk for the summer. To say that my mom was thrilled to have me home would be an understatement. Mom is a bit overbearing, at times; she means well, but her good intentions can drive you crazy. So, within a few days of my arrival, I was thrilled to be able to move from the spare bedroom at my parents' house to the rental trailer that is adjacent to their lot. As I've mentioned before, it's not the greatest place on earth, but I have tried to focus on the positive aspects of my humble abode, e.g., it is rent-free, it is quiet, it is peaceful, and I am not living out of the spare bedroom of someone's house for an entire summer.

Once I had set up house, mom came over on Monday, June 2, to inform me that "Tuesday is trash day," which meant that I needed to take all of my trash to their receptacle. My mom moves the trash receptacle to the side of the house on Monday afternoon when she gets home from work—the side of the house being about thirty feet from the back of the house. Why does she move it there? I don't know, unless it is to serve as a visual reminder to my stepdad to take it to the curb. Week after week, mom only moves it to the side of the house, and my stepdad takes it from there, down the sixty feet or so to the end of the drive. Well, on this particular Monday, I had only been living in the trailer for a day or two, so I hadn't accumulated enough trash to warrant a trip to the receptacle, but I was glad to know about trash day.

The next Monday, June 9, I came home from work, and immediately started changing clothes in order to go exercise, when I heard my mother banging on the door and calling to me from the front porch. I threw on some clothes and hurried to let her in. “Tomorrow is trash day,” she said as I opened the door. “Ok,” I replied, and then we both just stood there staring at each other. “Do you have any trash?” she asked me. “I don’t think so,” I said. And, after a few other pleasantries, she walked away empty-handed, heading for the trash receptacle—moving it around to the side of the house.

On Monday, June 16, mom called me on the intercom. (Yes, we have an intercom system between the two houses.) “Remember, tomorrow is trash day,” she said. I pressed the intercom button and said, “I know that!” and released the button. “How in the world have I functioned as a normal adult without my mother around to remind of such important events as ‘trash day’? I have married, divorced, birthed and raised two stable children, moved to another state, and gone to law school, yet she feels the need to remind me on a weekly basis that ‘Tuesday is trash day.’” All of which was said after the intercom button was released.

For the record, I have not been accumulating trash like some Howard Hughes recluse. I regularly take the trash to the large trash receptacle located behind mom's house; but I just don't do it on Mondays. I may do it on Thursday afternoon or Saturday morning. Since the trash is picked up on a weekly basis, I just don't see the urgency in making sure that all of my trash is in the receptacle by Monday night. Should I miss this trash day, another one will roll around in a week, ya know? Do I really need to explain this to her? I don't know. What I do know is that this was the third week in a row that I had been reminded about trash day, and it was getting on my last nerve!! But this story only gets better!

On Monday, June 23, mom comes over after work to visit. She sits down and we chit chat for a while. I know that she is here to remind me about the trash, but I play it cool. When she gets up to leave she says, “Well, I’m going to go. Why don’t you let me take your trash for you?” And as I reply, “I don’t have any trash,” my mom starts heading for the kitchen trash can. “Jackie this trash can is almost full,” she reports to me (as if I didn’t know). “Leave it alone,” I say. But she’s already on her way to the bathroom, and she yells to me, “This trash can in here needs to be emptied too.”
“Leave it alone,” I say louder.
“I can take it with me,” she persists—still yelling at me from the bathroom.
“DON’T TOUCH THAT TRASH, WOMAN!” I yell back. I am already envisioning the 9-1-1 call and the deputy’s incident report that reads, “Violent domestic disturbance between mother and daughter about trash.” Back to reality, though, there is silence in the bathroom, followed by her footsteps coming back down the hall. Fortunately for her, she is NOT carrying the trash bag. She walks right by me and says, “Well, just call me if you want me to come back after it,” and she leaves.

Is this how people go insane? Is it the slow, methodical chipping away at their intelligence until all that is left is the hollow shell of what could have been but for “trash day” reminders? I don’t know; but I think it warrants investigation.

Do you think I’ve heard the last of trash day? If so, you are mistaken. Last Monday, July 7, as I walked into the house after work, I just stopped and stared at the kitchen trash can. It was empty. The bathroom trash can was too. All that was left was the empty container. My trash had been stolen or else I am one step closer to going insane.