LOST weekend

Neither Randy or I are into science fiction or fantasy. So imagine our surprise when, on a whim last winter, we rented the first season of the TV series, Lost. Oh my goodness. One episode and we were hooked. It was like eating potato chips. We couldn't stop. Just one more, we'd say to each other, then we have GOT to go to bed. An hour and a half later, we'd drag ourselves to bed, then be unable to sleep for thinking about what was going to happen to Sawyer, Jack, Kate, and Lock next.

A couple of weekends ago, we did it again. The second season was finally released and we became living room slugs. Could not get anything done until we'd watched every single one.

So, if you're looking for a great way to blow a weekend - get LOST!

Three Book Minimum

A couple of months ago, my dad and I met in Dallas. My mom was having surgery and, not believing anyone should be left alone in a hospital, we were there to keep a three-day bedside watch on her. Soon as I arrived, I phoned my dad to find out my mom's room number. Helpfully, he met me in the hospital parking lot to help me bring in my things.

He picked up my tote bag. "Baby girl," he staggered,"what have you got in here, bricks?"

"Nope. Just books."

"How many did you bring?"

"Four," I said.

"But you're only here for two nights. "

"I know," I said. "I couldn't decide." Four books for two nights. He was right. What was I thinking? I decided to leave all but one in the car. But then I asked. "By the way, Dad, how many books did you bring?"

He shot me a grin. "Okay. Four. No. Make that three. I put one back on my way out the door."

No big surprise. It's a quirky family trait. We may forget our toothbrush and only pack one pair of clean socks, but no member of my family will ever be caught without something good to read.

I suppose there are worse things.

Need something good to read?

But Did Yours Bark?

We had Whataburger for lunch today. Randy and I'd stopped there on our way home from church for two reasons. #1. Whataburger is quick and since I was on my way to a friend's afternoon booksigning, we needed quick. #2. Whataburger is Randy's favorite fast food joint in the world.

My sly husband has so perfected the nonchalant, "how does Whataburger sound?" that more times than not, I find myself standing at the counter, ordering up a number four before I even realize we've stopped at the place.

Today, while filling his diet Coke cup, Randy struck up a conversation with a harried young mom trying to corral her rowdy children.

"These kids are driving me crazy!" the mother of three confided.

"Don't worry," Randy said, "they grow up fast."

"Not fast enough!" she said.

"Yes, they do. Really," Randy said. "It's hard when they're little. But it gets better. Trust me, all this is over before you know it. You'll forget about all the bad stuff."

"So tell me," said the mom, "did yours ever bark in public?"

"Well, no," Randy, Mr. Child Expert, suddenly at loss for words. "I guess they never did that. I suppose we had different problems."

Yes.

We did.

And yes. It was over really, really fast.

Knit Three, Purl Three

I learned to knit in my teens, enjoyed it, but then put my yarn and needles down until a few years ago. It was a visit with my Minnesota cousin, an accomplished knitter, that prompted me to try knitting again. I bought some yarn and a set of needles and began churning out scarves. About a million of them. I made so many scarves people started running when they saw me for fear they'd have to feign gratitude for yet another neck wrap.

Here in east Texas where it rarely gets cold, a person only needs so many scarves.

Since scarves are a beginner's project, I decided to to move up to try a sweater. It would take longer than a scarf and be more of a challenge, I reasoned. Big mistake. The intricate pattern drove me nuts. This is how it went. Knit a row. Rip out a row. Knit a row. Rip out three rows. I hated it. Because for me, it's not the finished project that gives me the pleasure. It's the process, the repetition, the rhythm of mindless, don't-worry-about-the-pattern knitting that I find calming and enjoyable.

So. More scarves? Thankfully no.

Last winter I stumbled upon the perfect project, the prayer shawl. Prayer shawls are knit in a simple knit three, purl three pattern. They are designed to be knitted with intentional love and prayers and to be passed on to someone in need of comfort and warmth. The repetitive three stitch pattern lends itself to simple, three word prayers and reflections.

Father, Son, Holy Spirit
Faith, Hope, Love
Death, Burial, resurrection
Hope, Health, Healing
Love, Joy, Peace
Past, Present, Future

www.shawlministry.com is a great site for instructions, prayers, the history of, and information about Prayer Shawls. I hope you'll check it out.

Hip Hair

I am neither young, cool, nor hip.
Have I ever been?
Young?
Yes.
At one time I was.
Cool and hip?
Not so much.

But, thanks to my friend, aka, The Stylist, for the past almost two years, forty-something-year-old uncool me has sported decidedly hip hair. Hair that shines. That moves when I walk. My husband likes my hair. My friends like my hair. I like my hair. In order to maintain this hair of mine, I see my friend, The Stylist on a regular basis. For two hours about every two months, The Stylists combs and colors, snips, shapes. And talks.

The Stylist is one interesting dude. He's a free spirit. Passionate about many things. He's way taller than six feet. Has a shaved head. Colorful tattoos. And a seeker's heart. We get into great discussions, The Stylist and I. We talk about life and death. Sin and suffering. Kids. Friends. What it means to be honest and true to oneself.

Lately, what we talk mostly about is God.
About God listening.
About us listening to Him.

The Stylist is getting surer and surer about God. About church, not so much.
Someday, I tell him, you might change your mind. But in the mean time while I'm wearing the cape and he's wielding the comb, The Stylist and I carry on.

Our own Come to Jesus meeting right there in the salon.

Flight of Summer

Remember nine years old?
Free.
Fearless.
Ready to fly.
I'm not sure life gets any better than nine years old.
This photo of my niece captures the spirit of that age beautifully.
Elizabeth --
Sarah --
May nine be only the beginning!