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Parking Parallel: A Teen Devotional
“Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.” (James 4:8a NAS) Palms clammy, shoulders tight, I review the rules. Everything hinges on the next 15 minutes. An older lady slides into my car, clipboard in hand. Her mouth tightens as her bare legs hit the hot leather seat. “We start with parallel parking.” She points to two posts ahead. “If you hit a post you fail.” My eyes bug out. Why didn’t I drive Dad’s compact instead of Mom’s van? Is it too late to reschedule? I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts, reposition them to 10 and 2, swallow thickly and inch forward. Line up with the poles. Turn…
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Broken Inn
Through the tiny glass oval, I watched ant-size cars enlarge as my plane descended into Milwaukee. My morning coffee puddled in my stomach. Shoulders tight, I pulled my purse from under the seat and waited to deplane. I questioned my decision to fly to Wisconsin to drive my mom to our family reunion in Ohio. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go—but locking two polar opposites in a Toyota Corolla for a day couldn’t end well. Could Laissez-faire Lori and Calendar Kay make it a day, let alone ten, without killing each other?
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Fatal Attraction
This summer I took a trip up north. From Texas, I flew to Wisconsin, picked up my mom, and drove her to our family reunion in Ohio. Before our road trip began, we met my in-laws for breakfast at an old-fashioned diner in Sun Prairie. We enjoyed a great visit swapping stories and photos with my mother-in-law, Diane, and her new husband, Bob. After the meal and four cups of coffee, I excused myself to run to the little girl’s room before we got on the road. I took a quick glance in the mirror after I washed my hands. Not finding any food in my teeth or toilet paper hanging out…
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Why Bother?
Some days I wonder why I bother to do anything for myself. Whether it’s reading a good book, which I’ve relegated to the quiet hours of late night. Taking a nap, which happened once last year. Or making good on my promise to write a little bit every day, which I’m attempting to do now. I began the edit of this article at 9:30 a.m. and it’s now 11:17 a.m. 600 words. One page. Plus a barrage of questions from the three children who occupy my house. One by one, they rotate in to stand at the foot of my bed. I tiptoed into the bedroom earlier, when I thought…
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Failing Fast
A lone piece of pizza taunted me from the cardboard box. A perfect triangle of hot and greasy heaven—mozzarella browned just so. I sidestepped the mouth-watering heap of cheese and pepperoni and grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl. “Hey,” I yelled to the kids. “Someone come eat this pizza!” No one came. I peeled the banana, shoved it in my mouth, and waited a minute or two for the sound of pounding footsteps on the stairs. The only sound came from my nails as I clicked them against the white Formica countertop, inches from the pizza box. I wandered around the kitchen, gliding past that last slice of pizza…
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Father’s Day
There were years I gave ties and years I gave tools. Those were the good years. Then there were years I gave nothing. Those were the bad years. Being Daddy’s girl only works if Daddy sticks around. Mine didn’t, and Father’s Day quickly morphed into Forget Him Day. Not that that worked very well. How could I miss him and hate him at the same time? For years, I prayed, “Heal our relationship.” Still, there was no relationship. So I prayed, “Help me love him anyway.” We spoke a few times a year. The prayer changed to, “God, please bring restoration.” Then, my son got cancer.
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Chosen By Him–A Perfect Fit
http://www.crosswalk.com/faith/women/chosen-by-him.html (link to this article in Crosswalk) The valet line in front of the Ritz Carlton stretches down the street and winds around the block. After handing off my keys, I register for the charity auction at a table on the patio, and enter the conference area. Chaos. Women adorned in cocktail dresses, high heels and matching jewelry—at nine in the morning—mill from table to table, clutching numbered stickers and small goblets stained with lipstick. Heels. I should’ve worn heels. I look down and notice how my black flats highlight the bruise covering my big toe. My dress, while cute—a Dillard’s outlet steal—hides beneath an old black cable sweater. A…
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Love On Him
http://www.thechristianpulse.com/2011/05/17/love-on-him/ “I hate night class. My throat is on fire—” During the lengthy pause, I wondered why I had answered my cell. “—and I got a 65 on the test.” Kyle’s cranky attitude set my stress on fire. Twice a week, he griped about Spanish night class and twice a week I lectured about ten key ways to study for college. I gripped the phone. The semester ended in a few weeks. Not much time left to pull up his grade. “Come home and we’ll talk about it.” He cut our connection with a typical, “Whatever.” What did he expect? You have to work hard in college—even if you are…
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Wayward Dispostion–Emotions On The Loose
http://www.thechristianpulse.com/2010/07/06/wayward-disposition-emotions-on-the-loose/ Sometimes my emotions hold me hostage—buckle me into a rollercoaster I don’t wish to ride. Moods throw me up and down—along tight twists and turns. Feelings muffle my ears and distort my conversations. Attitude colors each thought, taints every action, until I am out of control.In my early twenties, before kids and slightly after marriage, my husband and I drove cross-country from Indiana to California. On the drive, he turned to me and asked, “Why don’t you love me the way I want you to?” I knew exactly what he meant. Over the years, numbness had seeped in, over and around, encasing my emotions in a sheath of blankets…
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Giving It Up
http://www.thechristianpulse.com/2010/08/20/giving-it-up/ “Lord, please. I can’t.” My anxiety is a vise, the more I struggle, the tighter it grips, wringing the air from my lungs.Kyle’s room is quiet. Empty, except for the fat black cat and me. We lie curled together under the blue and red Spiderman comforter, my face buried in the pillow, the cat’s face buried in my stomach. The sheets are cold—they haven’t been slept in or washed in three weeks. I inhale the little boy scent that is my son—watermelon shampoo, grass, strawberry pop-tarts. What if he doesn’t come home? What if this is all I will have of him? I close my eyes and concentrate and…
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