Joy to the World!

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."

Luke 2:11

Luke 2


"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.
But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them."

Ode to a Fruitcake

ODE TO A FRUITCAKE

How lovely, how lucious

you seasonal treat

I loudly pronounce you

as fitting to eat.

I will not mock you or hide you in shame

"I ADORE FRUITCAKE!"

 I proudly proclaim

So stuffed full of coconut, spices and berries

How I love to devour all those green and red cherries

Pineapple, nuts, raisins abundant

Need I go on? Am I sounding redundant?

I can't help myself, I get so excited

Just thinking about it, I'm oh-so-delighted!
Fruitcake for breakfast

Fruitcake for lunch

Fruitcake for dinner and high tea and brunch

Nibble a slice in the dark of the night

As you walk through the kitchen and pinch off a bite

Just a small little nibble, a sweet little taste

Who cares if the sugar goes straight to your waist?

It's Christmas! The holidays merry and bright

The season of yule logs and cookies and lights

Of  Santa and sleigh rides and reindeer and holly

Of baking and eggnog and elves that are jolly

Of carols and tinsel and garlands and bows

Of stolen sweet kisses beneath mistletoe.

And fruitcake! Yes! Fruitcake! A heavenly treat!

Sent straight from the angels for mortals to eat.

Full of fruit! And it's healthy! Don't even think twice-

It's a full balanced diet in one little slice.

So if you start groaning when fruitcake appears

and the thought of one bite quickly brings you to tears

If you simply re-gift it or secretly stash

Every slice that you're given straight into the trash

Then you've been so misguided, and I guarantee

They didn't use Grandmother's real recipe

The one that requires fruit by the pound

Hours of chopping, all done by hand

Fresh shelled pecans from old Southern trees

Raisins and dates (just a splash of whiskey!) 

If you're not a believer, a true devotee

I suggest you first taste one and then you will see.
And if you are one who turns up your nose
At the mention of fruitcake, then I say to those
that condemn the sweet fruitcake, that most noble treat
Do not belittle that which I eat!
The symbol of Christmas, a holiday pleasure
A family tradition, a long-lasting treasure.
Ah! Fruitcake, sweet fruitcake, I sing out your name
In a holiday carol,  I sing of your fame!
And to all who adore you and in you delight,
I wish Merry Christmas in each tasty bite!

I Know Where Wrinkles Come From

I know where wrinkles come from


This weekend, my son came home from college on the pretense of studying for exams. I was suspicious his visit had more to do with lack of clean laundry than with hitting the books, and I also knew he was adamant about being present to supervise the annual battle known as “The Selection of the Tree.” This is always a rather sensitive event as there is a wide range of opinions in our family regarding the correct height and girth required to meet the criteria of the perfect Christmas tree. One would think this would be a happy, blessed holiday time, but we are an extremely opinionated bunch, and there is always much debate about which tree is taller, rounder, fuller, fresher, fluffier, sturdier, greener, and smellier (in a nice way). The underlying consensus is always that fatter is better, and I only hope this has nothing to say about the Daly family in general.

However, after much debate and effort, the tree was finally up and decorated. In fact, we had stuffed so many ornaments and garlands and lights on that tree that we could have poked a dead branch in a pot to begin with and saved the $80 bucks. But the scent of fresh fir affirmed that underneath all the glitter and gold, there actually stood a live tree, and we all acclaimed that it was, in fact, a very nice tree.

After three days of decorating, wrapping, and baking, the weekend was too quickly coming to an end. Before Bro headed back to UVA, we were scheduled to have dinner with the grandparents, as Grandma Sarah was well aware of the necessity of refueling college students in the midst of exams.

And it was there, at that moment, in that kitchen, that I had an epiphany.

It occurred as I was dipping pita chips into a bowl of hummus. Grandma Sarah was hustling around the kitchen while we chatted and nibbled on the array of dips she had set on the table before us. Being a blend of Julia Child meets Paula Deen, she had prepared a spread of roast tenderloin, scalloped potatoes, butterbeans, fresh cranberry-orange relish, hot biscuits, and Bro’s personal favorite, strawberry-spinach-artichoke salad. While she attended to the last minute preparations, Bro was locked deep in conversation with his grandfather, arguing the finer points of the proper attire for a fraternity holiday party. As they chatted, Clark suddenly realized he was looking up at Bro and exclaimed, “Look at you! You’re taller than I am! I must be shrinking!”

And that was when it happened. Suddenly, clear as a bell, it hit me. As I looked at the smooth, fresh, youthful face of my son who now towered over his septuagenarian grandfather, I had my epiphany. I knew where wrinkles came from.

Clark’s revelation that he was shrinking was the catalyst for my sudden discovery, quite possibly the greatest scientific revelation of the millennium. I now knew what caused wrinkles. It’s compression. It has nothing to do with sagging skin or aging or loss of elasticity or the toxic effects of the sun. It’s all about gravity and compression. Think about it. The earth is a globe suspended in the universe, with millions of pounds of atmospheric pressure pushing us from above and gravity pulling us from beneath. After years of being pressed and pulled, we start to shrink. As we shrink, we round out and loose the fine edges of our youth, as if the Master Creator suddenly took an eraser and blurred the borders of our former self. This compression causes pouches and bulges to appear where previously there were none. I know this to be true, as I now boast a marsupial pouch where a flat tummy used to dwell and strange crevices are appearing on my forehead.

I, too, am in the beginning stages of compression. As I am compressed, cracks and lines are appearing as my skeletal body collapses under all that atmospheric pressure. My frame is finally conceding to the power of gravitational pull, and I will eventually shrink and round out until I am nothing more than a short, wrinkly pile of mushed flesh. There is not enough cream or serum or botox or surgery on earth that can arrest the effects of all that pressure. It’s inevitable, and it will progress until we finally gasp our last dying breath and deflate, our souls mercifully escaping our compressed earthly bodies and fleeing quickly into heaven.

It was my Christmas epiphany, a miraculous revelation: Compression causes us to shrink! As we shrink, we wrinkle. It’s as simple as that, which is actually a quite merry holiday thought. Since there is nothing we can do to reverse the power of atmospheric compression or gravitational pull, you needn’t worry about exercise or diet as you skip through the holidays. Go ahead and have that second glass of eggnog. Enjoy another slice of fruitcake. Sleep in and forget about the treadmill. The world will continue to spin and we will continue to compress. Can’t do a thing about it, so you might as well enjoy the ride and have a very Merry Christmas!

And that, my dear, is where wrinkles come from.

It all makes sense...or is it cents?

      As noted previously, we have been struggling with all the rules and exceptions to the rules, understood-but-not-stated rules, secret rules, hidden rules, unwritten rules, and nobody-knows-why-they-do-it-this-way-but they-just-do rules that are the basis for mastering the language of French.  It's extremely complicated and confusing, and the one rule that underscores every other rule is that no matter what the rule, everything has to agree in GENDER.  No matter what you are trying to actually say, you must first know whether you are using a Masculine or Feminine word to say it. 

     This weekend, I finally got it. We do the same thing in English, only different.  The French apply masculine and feminine gender to their language, whereas Americans apply masculine and feminine gender to their math. Same rules, different subject. It took Facebook and a conversation with my brother to help me make the connection.

     It unfolded like this.  My niece, Anna, had to attend Cotillion this weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with that French word, the English translation for cotillion is  "a gathering of males and females for the express purpose of buying a new dress." It is an annual rite of passage that also involves minimal dancing combined with  awkward conversations and insufficient food.  I believe this ceremony takes place in many diverse cultures, but the underlying  reason for the event is universal. It provides an opportunity for young men to prove their manhood by surviving six hours in a necktie, and it provides young women an opportunity to display their feminine ingenuity through the use of exceptional math and language skills.
     I was able to make the connection this weekend after my brother, Joe,  surprised us with a Sunday afternoon visit. Cotillion had successfully occurred the evening before, the after-party had been held at his house, the girls had all spent the night, and he was escaping a home full of tired and irritable adolescent females.  As we asked about the dance,  Sissey discovered that  pictures had already been posted on Facebook.  There, looking lovely as ever, was his beautiful daughter, Anna, dressed to perfection in a stunning black dress with a chiffon overlay and  an assymetrical, floral strap. A gorgeous dress, a stylish dress....just NOT the black dress she had previously modeled for us only two weeks earlier. Not even the second one she  bought after she decided she didn't like the first one. This was an unknown dress, a never-before-seen dress, a third dress!
   "Joe," I asked, "She looks lovely, but this isn't the dress Anna modeled for us.  Where did this one come from?"
    "Oh, she found this one last week and loved it, AND she got such a great deal on it that she's going to return the other two." 
     And that is when it all came together, the gender agreement issue that we had been struggling with in French. It's just like in French, only different. We do have gender agreement, but  it's in math and not language, and it all goes back to FRENCH and fashion!    
      I will explain.
     The French are responsible for instilling the love of fashionable attire in women around the world. This leads to shopping, which involves the equating of numbers and the computation of sums.  All math is based on the successful application of certain standard formulas.
       In American Math, there are two formulas for every equation: the Male Formula and the Female Formula. In order to successfully compute any equation, you must first determine whether the equation is male or female. Once the gender of the equation has been determined, you must then use all computations in the gender which agrees with the originator of the equation.
     If the equation is male, simply follow universal rules of computation based on the true value of each number.
     If the equation is female, however, all rules must change. The true value of a given number no longer applies. You must substitute the equivalent female value for all male values, the true value of which is only known to the female who is equating the problem.
     There are exceptions to every rule, and the exceptions are determined only by the female who is equating the problem.
    The only way to learn these gender rules is to memorize them.
     So when discussing Anna's attire for the ball, I tried not to laugh at my brother. I realized he had applied American Male Formulas to an obviously American Female Equation and had fallen for the oldest math trick in the book, the 29-39-49 Rule, which states:

 When purchasing a dress for any special occassion, you must always have three variables. 
 Each variable must become more valuable in progression.
Always drop the "1" before any variable. 

Example:
Problem #1. Anna must purchase a dress for cotillion. What is her net gain after purchasing three dresses, wearing one,  and returning two?

          Anna buys dress #1 for  $129.00
          She buys dress #2 for    $139.00
          She buys dress #3 for    $149.00

She applies the 29-39-49 rule which states that when in a progression, all purchases must be listed as the intended price, not the actual retail value. 
Therefore, the  "1" before any dollar amount is always dropped when reporting prices to any member of the male species, so that the above equation is actually stated as:

           Anna buys dress #1 for $29.00

            She buys dress #2 for  $39.00

            She buys dress #3 for  $49.00.

 It is then understood that items #1 ($29) and #2 ($39)  will be returned for a net gain of $68, at which point the 29-39-49 rule is reversed, the "1" is returned to it's original position in front of each number,  and the actual pocketed gain becomes ($129 + $139) = $268.

 Solution: Anna pockets a net gain of $200 after she returns the $68.00 her father expects from the return of dresses #1 and #2.

 

     So as you can see, we have borrowed many things from the French.  The French define haute couture.  Haute couture results in shopping. Shopping depends on math. Therefore, our love of fashion has led us to adapt the  French  rules of gender, only we apply them to a different subject- math! Everything works out when you understand GENDER agreement.

     Once the correct rules are applied, you can easily and successfully master any language and complete any math computation.  

    Finally, finally, it all makes sense. Or is it cents?  Ohh....all those darn  rules are just so confusing!

   

Par Lay View Frawn Say?

     Oui, oui, oui, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
     Today was the last day of classes for the fall term, and, ooh-la-la, our gal survived French!!!   It has been très stressant à la maison the past few months as Sissey has undertaken the challenge of mastering a foreign-foreign language. Geology rocked, psychology analyzed, computer science computed, but French was just plain foreign. And I don't mean that in a good way.
     Why she decided to tackle French, I'm still not quite sure, other than the fact that she wanted to be different from her twin brother, who happens to be fluent in Spanish. Contrary to the advice of her academic advisor, who suggested Spanish (which only has two accents and is a language she may actually use one day), she insisted on signing up for French 109. 

     J'adore le français. The food is delicious. The fashions are impeccable. The wine is superb. You can't beat a day in Paris wandering through the Louvre or strolling along the Champs d'Elysee. No one can turn mere bread and cheese into a gourmet meal quite like the French. Perhaps Sissey was dreaming of haute couture and the cafes of Paris when she signed on, perhaps she was envisioning starry nights drifting down the Seine, I don't really know. But I do know that she sure wasn't thinking about accents and verb conjugation, gender and number agreement, past, present and future tenses.  When it comes to their language, it's not all wine and roses.
         We're talking about a language that uses a million different accents. Accents that shift and turn in numerous directions over various letters with no apparent rhyme or reason. A language that uses thirty-seven letters to spell one word-- and then only pronounces three of those letters when the word is spoken.  A language that makes a distinction between gender and number in a world that has become gender-neutral and could care less about  little details like number-agreement. It has been, to say the least, a challenge.  But everyone needs a good challenge in college, or so I've been told, and after French 109,  I think Sissey's good for life.
   Thankfully, mid-way into the semester, behold! an angel called "Too-tour" appeared. The French "Too-tour" was patient and kind,  she had great knowledge, and she took our gal under her angel wings and poured French into her soul. Day after day, Too-tour worked with Sissey, breathing the foreign sounds into her soul and heart and mind. Before long, a miracle occurred. Our gal opened her mouth and hark! foreign sounds appeared. She was PAR-LAY-VIEW FRAWN-SAYING!!  And more than that, she was still alive! Elle n'est past morte! Contrary to her insistence, she did not die. Nope, she didn't even come close! Merci, Too-tour, merci beaucoup!
       She passed her oral interview on Tuesday without throwing up, fainting or dying. She didn't even need the Depends I had on reserve.  Our gal  is now  "par lay view frawn-saying" like a true native. Well, at least like a native from some foreign planet. The requirements for matriculation only indicated she needed three semesters of a foreign language, and believe me, we have been speaking some kind of foreign language around here. I'm not always sure what planet it's from, not always sure if it can even be translated into any language, but we are just not too particular around here anymore. If it sounds like French, it must be French, and we're going with that. C'est bonne, c'est bonne, c'est bonne, n'est-ce pas?!?!
    Now, we are officially three-eighths of the way through our HomeBound College project. Sissey will finish up all of her exams by Thursday, then we'll head to Richmond for a quick Christmas Break. In January, it's back to the grindstone, with only five more semesters to complete before she can flip that tassel and fly away into the unknown future.
      From my perspective, five semesters seems like a milli-second, a gasp, but for Sissey, it seems incomprehensible that the day will finally arrive when she can clutch that sheepskin firmly in her french-manicured little hands, prance across that stage in a très à la mode cap and gown, and with a certain joie de vivre, flip that tassel and jump into life. 
      Today,we're simply  breathing a sigh of relief that the semester is over, fini. One French class down. Two more to go, and then, happily, joyfully, gleefully, we'll bid Au revoir to French classes. When the exit exam is finished, when the orals are over and all the verbs have been conjugated to perfection, when the tenses past, present and future are properly aligned and all the numbers and genders agree--when that day arrives, we're going to pack our little travel bags, hop on a big silver plane, grab a glass of the very best French champagne, and with a toast and a smile, experience the fun part of  French as we shout  Bonjour Paris! Nous sommes ici!!

     Ahhh, until that day, I bid you Au revoir!

Off to the Maul....

     Christmas lights are going up in town, wreaths are appearing on doorways, carols are playing on the "Holly" station, and all the stores are putting up holiday decorations and stocking shelves. That most glorious time of the year is approaching, and Black Friday cometh. Put on your armor and strap on your weapons....it's time to head to the Maul.
     Ah, Christmas....the season of giving, the season of forgiving. And believe me, you're going to experience both of those emotions before the holiday is over with if you plan on going to your local mall. It all begins that special day after Thanksgiving-Black Friday-a day when Americans are saturated  and idle, a day when we are lethargically laden with turkey-induced tryptophans while simultaneously pumped up on pumpkin-pie carboyhdrates. We're tired, we're wired, and we're ready to spend some money. It's time to meet the masses at your local shopping trough, time to wade into that wild and weary land lovingly and affectionately known as "The Maul".
       To really appreciate the peace, love, and joy of Christmas, you must spend Black Friday at your local shopping maul. There, as you indulge your obession with gift-giving, you will also have to immerse yourself in some holiday forgiving, because as you negotiate the masses that are frantically searching for that one hot item, that lone toy-du-jour, that MUST HAVE gift of which only one is left in the entire 48 contiguous states, you will quite possibly be mauled to death. After you have manuevered through the crowds, after you have encountered frantic and aggressive shoppers, after you have plowed through mountains of merchandise and spent hours trekking across concrete floors, believe me, you will be so anxious for peace, love, and joy that you may never venture there again!
     But Black Friday approacheth, and being only human, we will continue to trade peace, love and joy for consumerism, commercialism, and consumption.  This is opening day of  the official Christmas shopping season, and all the bargain hunters will have their credit cards loaded and will be flocking to the buying fields.  But be prepared. Plan in advance. Have a strategy. This is not a day for amateurs and only the seasoned Black Friday troops will survive.
     Put your big girl panties on before you go, because you'll need to be tough and stoic to deal with the other holly jolly holiday shoppers. Heck, you'll need to be tough and stoic just to get past the parking lot. The battle starts the minute you arrive. You'll probably have to pull out an AK-47 or some other high-powered assault weapon as soon as you enter just to get that one empty parking space-- the space you finally spotted after your twentieth lap around "the maul."  Oh, don't actually shoot it. Just sort of wave it around in the air, rev your engine up a couple of times,  slap a "crazy old lady" look on your face, and believe me, the virgin shoppers will bolt out of the lot before they complete a single lap around "the maul." It's pretty amazing how quickly you can clear'em out with a little pre-planning.  Then you can just ease that big ole SUV into the spot closest to the door, where you'll be able to run back and forth all day long as you load your deals and steals into the cargo hatch. You've just accomplished your first tactical holiday mission. Congratulations.
    Now, take a deep breath, pop a xanax, and say a prayer -you're about to head inside.  The battlefield can get pretty ugly when people are purchasing gifts to celebrate the birth of our Savior.  I've been accosted, assaulted, stepped on, run over, cursed at, pushed, shoved and insulted during Black Friday shopping excursions. I've had items ripped out of my hands and little old ladies practically steamroll over me in order to snag a two-for-one deal.  The joy of the season becomes more of "Boy if I had a reason to stay at home, this is it" after a few hours inside that environment, and it becomes quite apparent why they call this place "THE MAUL." As I've warned you before, it can get ugly at the battlefront, and sometimes, the troops just have to retreat and head back home. Don't be ashamed if this happens to you. Retreat-and-advance is an age-old manuever, it can be quite effective, and it's the reason they invented the internet, where success is just at the tips of your fingers.
     But if you do advance back into "the maul,"  you may want to pull a Nancy Reagan and brush up on your "Just Say No" skills. Don't expect to be able to casually meander through the buildings, happily searching for the items you actually wanted to purchase. There are troops stationed up and down every inch of the hallways and aisles, pacing back and forth, searching for the weak. Those soldiers aren't about to let you pass until you have stopped at their station and completed their inspection.  They will spray you with noxious gases called "perfume" which will disorient your senses. They will grab your hands and cover them with lotions and oils so you are unable to hold onto your weapons. They will offer you foods to eat which may be contaminated with biological germ warfare, so be very, very wary.
     I've been commanded by these warriors to have my teeth bleached, my eyebrows waxed, my jewelry cleaned, my back massaged, my kitchen renovated, my bathtub re-glazed, my phone service re-configured, my retirement plan upgraded and  my gutters cleaned. Seriously, do they think that's why I came to "the maul" in the first place? Do they really think those are services I am going to purchase here? I wouldn't be surprised to learn next that I can have my annual gynecological exam completed in front of Victoria's Secret while simultaneously filing my tax returns.  You are going to have to be able to firmly march past, arm extended and hand up, and just shout "NO!" as you pass each station. You will not survive if you cannot complete this tactical manuever.
      Black Friday at "the maul" is an experience everyone should undergo once in a lifetime, because, as Nietzsche reminds us, that which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger. It will, however,  wear you out. Coming home bruised, tired, frustrated and irritable may not quite be worth that 20% one-day discount, and it sure doesn't put me in the holiday spirit, but it helps me keep things in perspective. Unlike Nietzstsche, who doubted God and declared Him dead,  I am sure He lives and so I celebrate.  Commercialism may try to overshadow it, but as I hustle and bustle with the rest of the world, as I bargain and banter for that perfect present, as I move with the masses through the mobs at the mall, even then--- I will not forget the reason for the season.  I see it in a face in the crowd, the smile of a child, the kindness of a stranger, or the compassion of a sales clerk-- even in the midst of all this stress and mess,  even at "the maul,"  I see God and I celebrate.
     So yes, I will probably venture out on Black Friday, for just a bit. I don't know why I continue to do this, but I do. I dread it, but I'm out there with the rest of the world.   I would  rather stay at home with my family, browsing Amazon.com and eBay, shopping in my jammies while curled up on the sofa with a hot cup of coffee, but off I will go, armed and ready, headed to "the maul," celebrating the season. It's my Christian duty.
         And if you decide to venture out, be sure to have a list and check it twice. Be well-hydrated and well-rested. Carry a stash of energy bars and a large bottle of Purel. Update your will and say your prayers.  Plaster a "Merry Christmas" grin across your face, stick a sprig of mistletoe in your hat, and  hum a few bars of "O, Holy Night!," Then, strap on your armour, choose your weapons, and advance, or cash-advance, whichever suits you best. You're ready for battle.
     And if you bump into me,  "Merry Christmas" friend, peace and goodwill,  but I spied that bargain first.

         
   

This is Life

     This is life.
     It is amazing. It is unpredictable. It is wonderful. It is confusing. It changes so rapidly in some instances that we barely have time to breathe and so slowly at others that time seems to stop. But that's life, and we deal with it and we learn from our experiences and we grow stronger and we move on.
    This is November.
    Week one-best friend learns she has breast cancer.
    Week Two- sister learns she is having extensive back surgery, father begins series of epidural steroidal injections for spinal stenosis, best friend has mastectomy.
    Week Three- father has back surgery on Friday, sister's back surgery scheduled for Tuesday.
    Week Four- Thanksgiving.
    And yes, in the midst of all these medical crises and surgeries, watching family and friends endure illness and pain, I am thankful. Thankful for a God that never changes in character, never leaves our side, never stops loving us. Thankful for a God that sustains us and gives us hope. Thankful that God has provided us with talents and gifts to manage life's stressful situations. Thankful for patience when I am hurried, strength when I am tired, understanding when I am confused, serenity when I am anxious.

      Thankful for a country that currently still provides the best medical care in the world. Thankful for surgeons and nurses and doctors and therapists that have been well-trained in excellent medical schools. Thankful for hospitals that are fully staffed and have the most modern medical equipment and medicines available. Thankful for brilliant minds and trained hands and serving souls and compassionate hearts.
     Thankful for church families and ministers that pray for us and lift us up.  Thankful for family and friends that surround us and support us when we need them most.    
   Thankful that as a nation we have recognized the importance of giving thanks to God. Thankful that we have set aside a specific day for the soul purpose of  thanking Him for the blessings and abundance He has poured out upon our country. This is not merely a day for football and turkey, for overeating and long naps on the couch, for festive parades and holiday shopping.  It is a day of Thanksgiving to a God that has been merciful, loving, forgiving, generous, protective, abundant, patient, kind, understanding, slow to anger, omnipotent. It is a day to gather with family and friends, to hold hands and bow heads and pray, to share a meal around a common table, and to thank our God.
    So yes, even in times of great stress, of impatience, of concern, of anxiety--even in these times, I am thankful.
    This is life--our God-given life, our wonderful, uncertain, confusing, unpredictable life. Our world is spinning rapidly and changing quickly, events are happening that are out of our control, but one thing remains certain, one thing is constant, one thing we can cling to and put our hopes in, one thing we can trust in and believe in and be assured of... and that is God. Our loving, merciful, ever-present, unchanging God. Our creator and sustainer. Our Father, God.
     This Thanksgiving, I will give thanks. I will most certainly give thanks.
     This Is Life, and I am thankful.

Too dumb

     Apparently the current administration deeply believes that the American people are just too dumb and that only the politicians know what is best for us. We are too dumb to remember that politicians are elected public servants who are supposed to serve the will of the people.  We are too dumb to realize that those same elected officials should serve for a limited time and then return to the real world and get a real job. We are too dumb to catch on to the things that are happening in the world around us...just too dumb to get it, and therefore, we MUST submit to their omnipotent wisdom, their grab for total domination of our lives and our world. We are too dumb to realize that socialized medicine is in our best interests.....although it is NOT in the best interests of the politicians themselves, who maintain a seperate, tax-payer funded private insurance plan for themselves and their families. Too dumb to realize that increasing the federal deficit by trillions of dollars, while at the same time devaluing the hard-earned American dollar, is actually in our best interests. Too dumb to realize that while individual families must tighten their belts and live within their means, the federal government  can wildly and irresponsibly spend money that was earned on the backs of their constituents. Too dumb to realize that  spending $200 million dollars a day on a ten-day trip to Asia is actually in our best interests. Too dumb to realize that while we must monitor our green-house emmissions, they can jet all over the world, at the tax-payer's expense, because it is all in our best interests. Too dumb to realize that our elected officials have the right to maintain a seperate retirement plan for themselves, even though Social Security--which is mandated for the rest of America-- is rapidly going broke. Too dumb to realize that printing more money will not solve the current economic problems.  Too dumb to realize that cutting taxes for all Americans is actually fair, because we are too dumb to actually realize who the job-creators in this country are.  Too dumb to realize that AARP- the group that stubbornly supported Obamacare even though it's members loudly shouted "NO"" --we are just too dumb to realize that they initiated a 13% premium rate increase  three days after the mid-term elections AND we are all just too dumb to see the political ploy behind that timely move. In fact, in general, in making decisions for our country and our lives,  we are all just too dumb.
      Oh, poor, poor America. The land of the free and the brave. The home of democracy and freedom for all. The strongest military nation in the world. The leader in technology and innovation. The home to the most philanthropic and generous citizens in the world.  The nation of refuge for the oppressed and assistance for the suffering. The land of equal opportuity, religious freedom, civil rights, and freedom of speech. The country built on the ingenuity and hard-work of it's people....
         I never knew we were all just too dumb to get it.

Life is A Maze(ing)

     If you're ever feeling a little out of sorts with the world, a little unsettled, a little discouraged, nothing will put things into perspective quite like a field trip with a bunch of four year olds. It's hard not to smile when thirty little pairs of eyes are sparkling with glee and bursting with anticipation over a bus ride to a pumpkin patch.  I, aka "Aunt Be-yeth", had the honor of accompanying my niece, Madison, not once, but TWICE, on a fall field trip with her pre-K, half-day, four-year-old, wildly enthusiastic class.  My joy was doubled when our first attempt to the pumpkin patch ended with a downpour, and glory hallelujah!, we GOT TO GO BACK AGAIN THE NEXT WEEK!!! (deep breath, deep breath.....)

    Our first adventure began the day before with a spend the night party, because, as you can imagine, a field trip to the pumpkin patch is a VERY BIG DEAL, and VERY BIG DEALS call for a little something extra. It had to include a spend-the-night-party. Madi arrived Tuesday evening, bags packed and head a-spinning with all the wonderful things she had planned for her two-day celebration. We played Candyland, read a gazillion stories, brushed our teeth, said our prayers, and hopped into bed, hoping to fall fast asleep. But it's oh-so-hard to fall asleep when you have a field trip the next day, don't you remember? So we sang a few songs, read a few more stories, gave a few backrubs, but still, things weren't going so well. Someone tossed and turned and needed a drink and needed a story and needed another song.  By midnight, Aunt Be-yeth was getting a little grumpy, realizing 7:00 was only minutes away and she needed her full 8-hours before delving into a pumpkin patch with four year olds. At that point, Aunt Be-yeth switched into her mommy voice and said, "Either go to sleep or we don't go to the pumpkin patch tomorrow." I had forgotten how easily that worked.

      Bright and early the next morning, after just one cup of coffee, Madi and I hopped on the big yellow bus for our big field trip together. We arrived at Cotton Hills Farm on an overcast morning, with occasional droplets of rain threatening our fun as we entered the maze.  We darted and dashed up one row and down another, getting stopped at some turns and meeting success at others, as we worked our way through the puzzle that had been carved into the surrounding field. We dodged fire-ant hills,  got lost in intersecting circles, bumped into each other as we backtracked, and ran and shouted our way through the stalks and leaves.It was a perfect life lesson not only for the four year olds, but especially for the adults, as we met one failure after another with smiles and determination, as we rounded curves only to be met with an-in-your-face-dead-end, as we diligently turned around and kept going, seeking solutions to each challenging bend in the path.  As we worked our way through the maze, the occasional droplets became more frequent and the clouds darkened and billowed in sky.   What began as a drizzle in the maize-maze had turned into a gully-washer by the time we found our way out of the field, and we quickly hit the path that led into the barn. What we had hoped was just a passing cloudburst eventually settled in as a steady downpour. It was obvious to the adults that the field trip was over, and even though the pre-K's were wildly optimistic, we herded them all safely back into the dry confines of the bus.  You can only imagine how different the ride home was compared to the ride over. No hay ride + no pumpkin patch= some very disappointed, very quiet, very sullen little kids.

    Luckily ( did I really just say that?), luckily the trip was rescheduled and glory, hallelujah! we were going again!! Repeat of above schedule the very next Tuesday, only this time, Aunt Be-yeth nixed the extra stories and the extra songs and immediately said, "Go to sleep!" My, my, my....it worked again!
     Round two of the pumpkin patch was a much more successful outing. By this time, I was a pre-K, half-day, four-year-old kindergarten pro. I had memorized the "Class Agreement," and realized that those five simple rules were all one needed for life:

1. I will be a good friend.

2. I will be a good listener.

3. I will take care of our school.

4. I will keep my hands and feet to myself.

5. I will use nice words.

( I am thinking of asking the pre-K, half-day, four-year-olds to mail a copy to every member of Congress and every politician in the nation.) We efficiently and politely boarded the bus, keeping our hands to ourselves and using only nice words as we plodded down the highway and headed back to the farm.   

      The second time around, we were greeted with a classic fall day. High blue skies and a slight gentle breeze were all we had to contend with as we climbed into the hay-filled tractor, bumped along an old dirt road through the woods, and then bounced through the cotton fields and  into the pumpkin patch. 
 Every leaf, every lingering flower, every migrating bird and every fluttery butterfly....all were points of wonder for this excited bunch. They brought a freshness and joy to such simple sights....a horse! a pond! a pumpkin! a tree!....that it brought a calmness and a serenity that this aging soul needed. 
     To see life through the eyes of a four-year old, to be disappointed one minute but full of glee the next, to happily run through life's crazy, tangled maze and laugh all the way to the end, to be filled with awe at a butterfly or a leaf or a tree, to live obediently by five simple rules...it makes you wonder why adults have to make things so messy and complicated.  As we rounded the bend and passed the field, with a tractor full of little laughing voices and a deep blue sky above, I could only affirm, with a smile on my face, that Life truly is A Maze-ing!!

Confessions of a Peeper

     Hello everyone. My name is Beth Daly, and I am a peeper.  It's an addiction that I have long succumbed to, and thankfully, one that happens to occur only seasonally, so it is an obsession with which I can live.  It starts to creep up on you after that initial crisp fall morning, when the first frost of the season has iced the ground and the sky deepens to an azure blue so intense that you have to stop just to stare into its depth. A red leaf appears on the maple and a tingling starts in your veins, a craving in your gut, and you know it's time. You have to go look. You have to go stare. You have to succumb to your addiction and satisfy your longing. Yes, I admit, I am a leaf peeper.

     It would be I that was one of the two million peeepers crawling along the hills and curves of the North Carolina mountains during this past weekend. And yes, I was blaspheming and cursing all the other peepers for invading my territory, for stealing my views, and for staring at my leaves. This was my addiction, but suddenly, it seemed to be the obsession du jour, as my normally quiet drive along the twisty mountainous backroads became reminiscent of a holiday interstate. Streams of unseasoned mountain drivers tried to navigate unpaved, tortuous curves and inclines, backing up traffic for miles as fellow peepers slowed, stopped, stared, and then crept along the parkway.

    But oh, it was so worth the effort, as the full glory of God was splashed across the hills. Each red and gold and amber leaf  lit the mountain tops with such a fiery glow that it made you gasp and point and throw up your arms and laugh at the beauty of it all. It had to be shared. It was too awe-inspiring for just one man's eyes, and so I denounced my fury at the traffic and  rolled down my windows and laughed and called to my fellow peepers, "Look! Isn't this wonderful!

    It was a weekend of crisp and sweet Mutsu apples, the first roaring fire of fall, steaming mugs of hot cocoa and cider. It was a weekend of  wooly worm races to predict the severity of the coming winter weather.  It was a much needed and long anticipated five day break from classes.  It was a time to stroll along lakes and crunch through leaves. It was a time to sniff the seasoned wood- smoke rising from fall's first fires.  It was a time to watch migrating geese and homeward-bound ducks as they cut across the sky, only pausing  for a short rest on the cold mountain lake.     

And so, I, a confessed and unrehabilitated leaf peeper, a raging addict to fall's brilliant show, yes, I, I fed my addiction with abundance, with guilt-free indulgence. I crept along the parkway with the speed of a snail. I filled my eyes with visions long to be remembered, and I breathed in the scent of fall and tasted it's bounty. I clogged the parkway and filled up the overlooks. I snapped hundreds of pictures hoping to catch the brilliance of the sun reflecting off the reds and golds of the trees. I saturated my soul with the glory of fall and bowed my head and thanked my Creator for this moment in time. 

 And so, I stand before you today and say, my name is Beth Daly, and yes, I confess, without shame and without guilt, with no intention of ever seeking rehabilitation or help, with abundance I shout and with glee I confess,

 I AM A LEAF PEEPER!!!!

Nancy and the Big C

     So what do you do when you learn your best friend has breast cancer?  After the gasping breath, the panic, the anger and the crying, the numbness and the shock---what do you do? It is more than ironic that her diagnosis came during the first week of October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness Month and the entire world is bathed in pink.  It is devastating that her diagnosis came so soon after her brother was tragically killed in a wreck while driving to meet their dad for a hunting trip. It makes you wonder about life, about God's plan for His children, about His compassion for us.  It leaves you angry, anxious, and agitated.  I don't doubt God, but I have to cry out to Him in pain and confusion, "I don't understand! Help me with this! I am too simple to understand."  I read again the story of Job and find comfort, but my limited human brain is still left wondering, perplexed, uncalmed.
     Nancy is the better half of the "Fun Girls From Mount Pleasant,"  and we have been connected at the heart since our college days.  She is the stable one, the rational one, the understanding one, the forgiving one.  She loves me when I am unlovable, she forgives me  when I am unforgivable, she understands me when I am unintelligible, and she steadies me when I am unsteady.   She has been my "sister by choice," as I have been to her, and she has loved me in spite of myself.  We enjoyed each other in college, grew to love each other as roommates in Charleston, bonded as sisters over the years, stood by each other in marriage, matured together as young wives, wept over the death of one child and the birth of others, vacationed as families, held hands through every crises, rejoiced in every success,  survived the developing years of our children, passed milestones and accomplishments and disappointments together, and lived and loved as only a family can.   I can't imagine life without her there to guide me and ground me and keep me sane.
    So what do I do when my best friend needs me? I stutter and stumble and say stupid things.  I panic over my own fear, which seems to supercede hers.  I hate myself for the shallowness of my own reaction, but I am afraid for me, for the possibility of my life without Nancy--  the strong one, the stable one, the one I depend on. I realize how much I have expected Nancy to carry all the emotional baggage of our relationship, and suddenly, I am eager to do the same for her, to be for Nancy the anchor she has always been for me.
     So what do you do when you learn your best friend has cancer? You get in your car and you go to her. You hold her hand, you hug, you cry, you pray.
      And you do what only best friends can do.  You pour a couple of glasses of wine, curl up on the couch, and  pour over a three inch stack of material on breast cancer.  You look at her biopsy incision. You feel her lump. You laugh as you cry.  You discuss what kind of wonderful new breasts she'll get and how fabulous it will be to to have the cleavage of an eighteen year old at the age of 50.
    And then, as we laugh and grieve and plan for the weeks and months ahead, I see the hand of God at work. Nancy's unwavering faith and her conviction of God's plan for her life --these are the mighty weapons she is using to wage war against cancer. She is determined and brave and knows she will not be walking this path alone, and through her, I see God and feel His compassion.
     So  anxiety is replaced with prayer, and the journey begins.
    "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus."
PHILLIPIANS 4:6

Study Jail

     College should be the best four years of your life, a time of exploration and growth, a season of discovery, and a pathway towards an independent life. It's one of the few periods in your life journey when you can live somewhere between complete dependency on your family and complete self-reliance.  You have the comfort of having a safety zone that enables you to take a few risks without totally ruining your future, and it is why college students get to do some crazy things all in the name of education. It's that mix of fun, freedom, and the quest for knowledge that makes college that enigmatic mix of halcyon and hectic years.
      It becomes a little complicated, however, when you take your mother with you.  I think Sissey would be the first to agree that it changes the entire panoramic view of college when you have Mom lurking in the shadows, and that her college experience is far from what most people would call "normal"-- but it is what we have to live with for the present and it has worked thus far. She is filling her mind with all the knowledge she can absorb, she is exploring her life options and career possibilities, she is becoming a confident and mature adult--- but she has had to sacrifice some personal freedom and independence along the way.  Living with a disability since birth has taught her that her life journey will be different from the norm, and that she will have to forge her own unique path in a world designed for "normal". I must say that she handles that perspective in a much more gracious manner than her mother, whose claws are often out and teeth bared when that "normal" world is less than kind. Sissey's understanding of life and tolerance level for others far surpasses mine--but that is not to say that she is always in mutual agreement with my perspective. As I said earlier, college is a little complicated when you have your mother sitting in the desk beside you. For some reason, Sissey has dubbed me "the Dictator," which I am sure has nothing to do with my obsessive demand for her to constantly study, re-read her textbooks, practice quizzes on the internet, write papers two weeks in advance,  retype her notes, make flashcards, highlight chapters, go to tutoring sessions, set up study groups, and create spreadsheets out of her notes. This is the point where she wishes her college journey was a little more "normal, " and I can't say I blame her. My intentions are good, but I do admit I have some habits which she would prefer to disappear, and one in particular is about to drive her crazy.   I'm talking about study jail.
     "Study jail" is the term Sissey launched early in her college experience to describe the place to which the Dictator sends her when it's time to hit the books. It is exactly what is sounds like...a quiet and lonely room to which she is confined until the Dictator grants her parole, a weekend pass, or perhaps a family visitation. Every day, Sissey has to spend some time in study jail. Every weekend, Sissey has to spend some time in study jail. Every spare moment I can find, Sissey has to spend some time in study jail.  Don't get me wrong... I let her out for some recreational time, a little exercise, meals, church, and such, but she is required to spend a certain portion of her time in study jail. It's the penalty one pays for taking Mother to college. It is as close to hell as college life gets. Stuck upstairs in her room, studying away, while all the other college kids who left their mothers behind are out whooping it up and having fun. I agree. It sucks.

      But it is what it is, and this too shall pass. I wish she could fly away to college completely on her own, with me far, far away and out of sight. I wish a lot of things, though, that I can't make happen. I wish she could walk. I wish she never had to use that walker another day in her life. I wish she had full use of all her muscles and limbs and bones and tendons and ligaments. I wish she could run and dance and skip and be free to do the things that all the other college kids are doing. I wish for a miracle, for the day when someone discovers a way to heal all who are struggling with cerebral palsy and life's other disabilitating disorders. I wish...
     But I can't make wishes come true, so I do what I can. I push her to excel. I expect her to succeed. I demand that she use all her God-given talents and gifts. And yes, I put her in study jail. 

   So when the day arrives that she struts across that stage, sheepskin firmly clutched in hand, tassel eagerly flipped, future looming brightly, I just hope she will glance over at the Dictator with a smile on her face and love in her heart.  And on that day, I will burn the keys to study jail, bury the ashes, stomp on the ground, dance in the dirt, and thank God above for graduation!

That one little degree of separation....

     Oh, I love college.  Just absorbing all this new information has got to do a brain good. I'm also hoping it will help to slow down the mental drain that occurs in mid-life, that sloughing off of gray matter that leaves us addled, forgetful, confused.  I am trying to plump up all those dying brain cells with as much new knowledge as I can absorb in order to ward off, or at least slow down,  dementia.  This week alone I have learned so many exciting facts about our bodies, our brains, and how and why we behave the way we do that I think my neurons may be firing again.  I also think I'm becoming somewhat of an expert on the human condition (which leads me to believe dementia is still hovering in the dark areas of my mind). Regardless, I offer you the highlights of last week's lessons, a quick synopsis, college in a nutshell, and some observations on the human condition called life.
Geology lesson for the week:
     We are delving into evolution, which can be a rather delicate and uncomfortable subject. The whole evolution thing is fascinating to me, because first of all, I am a firm believer that we were created by God and that overrides any scientific theories that exist. I don't have a problem with evolution because I  believe God could have handled the creation process anyway He wanted to. So as long as I am certain of the WHO in the process of our creation,  I just don't get too caught up in the HOW. God has the capacity to let this whole creation process evolve in whichever manner He so designed, so it just doesn't throw me when scientists say we are an evolving species. Fine, evolve away, because God is controlling the whole process, and we are all a part of His plan, like it or not.
     Back to our lesson.  The fascinating thing about the myriad of evolving species is that the major difference between homo sapiens and primates originated in the jawbone.  The jawbone of an ape is controlled by a muscle that is the same size as the human thigh muscle. Picture someone like, oh say, Peyton Manning, and then imagine his thigh muscle attached to your jaw.Wait a minute, get your mind out of the gutter...I am talking in a purely scientific manner here. The point is that it's a huge muscle that controls their jaw, therefore giving primates the power to bite, rip, maul, crush, and tear with tremendous force. The drawback  is that the muscle exerts such a pull and force on the skeleton that it circumvents the capacity for the skull plates to remain open. It literally pulls the skull with such energy that the plates fuse by the time the primates are three years old, halting brain development and leaving them with the mental capacity of a toddler. That explains a lot.  I have come to believe that the one percent figure that separates us from monkeys is a variable... I am quite certain I know some people that are separated from apes by less than one degree.   You know who I'm talking about-- those members of the species homo sapiens that just can't ever seem to keep their mouths shut, the ones who always have an opinion to spew or something to spout off, the ones who seem to have experienced arrested brain development but overdeveloped jaw muscles. This leads us to our next class,
 Psychology of Marriage.
     This has got to be one of my favorites, simply because of the diversity of the student population and the level of knowledge and experience within the whole marriage cycle that is exhibited in the classroom.  There are about thirty students in the class that range in age from 18 to 50. The professor has been married for thirty-one years to her high school sweetheart who still happens to be her best friend. In my opinion, that alone makes her an expert on marriage.. The class consists of unmarried students, married students, divorced students, single-parent students, co-habitating students, celibate students, relationship-committed students....suffice it to say there is a wide range of experience within our numbers.  The topic, of course, is marriage, and the opinions present are as widely varied as the facts. This week we dealt with the different types of love, focusing primarily on Sternberg's Triangle of Love theory. Once again, get your mind out of the gutter. We are not discussing a menage a trois here, but a scientific theory regarding the different types of love.  The common denominator, or the triangular component, is that every relationship consists of three essential ingredients: commitment, passion, and intimacy. The varying degree to which each component is present in a relationship is the variable that determines the quality of the relationship. Commitment  we can understand. Passion we can understand. But intimacy is a little more complex. It involves communication and respect. Couples must talk openly and honestly with each other, share feelings and beliefs, but still maintain respect for the other person's privacy.  You have to know when to talk and when to just leave the other person alone and content within their little private corner of life.
     This is the part I love. Suddenly, the whole jawbone of an ape thing makes perfect sense.   It's that one degree variable that can make or break a relationship. It is the degree of seperation between a happy couple and a miserable one, and it all goes back to the jawbone. Keeping your mouth shut as much as possible can be extremely beneficial. It will not only aid your brain development, it can also save your marriage.
     And that is why I love college.  Suddenly, everything makes sense again. God certainly knew what He was doing when He ripped the jawbone of the ape away from man, sealing our mouths in order for our brains to grow, therefore giving us the capacity to develop discernment, judgement, compassion, respect, intelligence, wonder, and awe. It's that one little degree of separation...and it is what I will think about the next time I decide to open my big mouth.
     So even at my advanced age, I'm still learning some of the facts of life, and  to heck with Darwin, I'm presenting Daly's Theory of Evolution: The origin of man began when God created us in His image but limited our capacity to open our mouths, therefore leading to the following equation of life:   Mouth shut = Brain Open.

Red flags, warning bells, and the county dump

     I'm worried about my husband, Chris. I think he's beginning to crack from all the pressure of being left home alone with no adult supervision while his wife's away at college.  There have been little signs appearing, red flags cropping up, warning bells and whistles sounding, to which I paid little attention at first. Now, however, some really strange things are starting to happen, and  I'm starting to get worried.

     First, Chris called to say he couldn't get the heater to come on in the pool. Now let me explain why this is alarming.  Whenever I was home, he hated to turn the pool heater on, saying it cost too much money to run, it made the water too hot, it wasn't refreshing with the tepid temperature, it caused algae to grow on the sides of the pool, it made the water murky, etc., etc.,etc. I would turn the heater on, only to go outside later and discover that it had been switched off. This was a pattern that was repeated every summer, all summer long, for as long as we had lived in the house.  Secondly, it's September, and the average high temperature for the past three months has been 125 degrees.  That water should be practically boiling by now, and the need for a heater was minimal, if at all.  Thirdly, he doesn't swim in the pool, he only dips, as in jump-in, jump-out. I'm the pool lounger, the eternal floater, the basking bather, only happy when the water is as warm as a freshly drawn, scented, luxurious bubble bath. My husband, however, could get by with just running through a sprinkler for the amount of time he got wet in the cement pond.  His idea of a swim was to dive off the board, glide underwater to the shallow end, climb up the steps, shake off, and that's that-- so what difference did the temperature make if you're only in it for three seconds? His idea of a fun day at the pool was to hand-vacuum the whole thing, slowly and methodically, slurping out every leaf and blade of grass as I tried to manuever my float away from the hose--but basking in the warm waters just wasn't his thing.  And finally, he was just getting ready to head out of town for a four day golfing trip to the Hamptons, so why heat the pool? No one was going to be there, no one would be swimming, even the dogs weren't going to be taking a little dip. It just didn't make sense to heat the whole dang thing. The scary thing is, it turned out the only problem was that he had to turn on the switch.Yes--the "ON" switch-- just one little flick, and voila! Heat! Fortunately, I was able to correct that little problem by phone, but a red flag was beginning to show up on my radar.
     The next little episode occurred about 4:40 the next morning.  During the night, the security alarm started a continuos and annoying beeping and a "Trouble" message appeared on the key pad.  Concerned, Chris called the security company, and they informed him that the back-up battery system was not holding a charge. To fix the problem, they would send a technician out with a new battery pack, and all he had to do was give them our security password so they could  process the work order.  Well, that presented a little problem. He rolled through every possible answer we have ever used for any security question ever asked, but all to no avail.  He tried maiden names, pet names, birth dates, middle names, favorite songs, first school attended, mother's maiden name, father's mother's name, first grade teacher's name, but failed on each attempt.  After numerous tries, the very patient customer service rep finally said, "Mr. Daly, you really just don't know what it is. Call your wife and then call us back."
     Fortunately for me, I had turned my cell phone off the night before, so I did not receive his 4:30 a.m. call. Unfortunately for him, he remained frustrated and unable to go back to sleep as the alarm slowly chirped on through the night. Wide awake and alone in the house, perhaps a little delirious from sleep deprivation, he decided the most logical thing to do was to engage in a little night vacuuming.  Much to his surprise, the vacuum is equipped with a light, and he discovered that if one vacuums in the middle of the night with all the lights turned off, that tiny light illuminates every single atom of dust that has permeated the entire house. It was almost like a miracle, the dust he could see with one little 15watt bulb! He dusted every corner, every baseboard, every floor; he moved every couch and chair, shifted cupboards and sideboards, and rolled up rugs. He plowed through every inch of that house, sucking up bags of fur balls and dust bunnies that had been secretly lurking in the dark recesses of our home, purging the entire residence of any trace of dirt. And this was at 4:30 in the morning.   He was proud of his accomplishments and eager to tell me about his EUREKA! moment of discovering that night vacuuming was by far superior to that done in the light of day. He had just spent the entire night vacuuming and he was excited about it!  I was concerned.
     As he recanted his frustrations with the alarm system,  I reminded him of the password AND the secret spot where we had always kept it recorded. Another problem solved by phone, but warning bells were ringing like mad in my head.
     Now, let me interject here that this was obviously a man who loved to clean.  Don't get me wrong, he's not an effiminate man by any means. He's an ex-football and baseball player, an avid golfer, loves his card night at the club and wouldn't be caught dead with a "man-bag". He's a guys-guy sort of guy, but we all have our little quirks, and he loved to clean. I had always viewed his obsessive-compulsive cleaning as a secret little gift from God and quite possibly the best thing any wife could ever ask for, and I never tried to discourage his compulsions.  His idea of a fun day at home was to tackle a room from top to bottom, scrubbing and polishing it to a shine, then moving to a section of the yard to repeat the same process. If he wasn't vacuuming, he was sweeping. If he wasn't sweeping, he was raking. If he wasn't raking, he was clipping. If he wasn't clipping, he was chopping. Then, after all that,  he would gather up all his clippings and piles and mounds of trash and dirt and debris, throw the whole pile onto the back of a 16 foot trailer, and head for one of his favorite spots in town--the county trash dump-- where he could freely deposit all the accumulated detritus and debris that had cluttered and dirtied his home.
         Obviously, the man loved to vacuum--pools, houses, cars,whatever-- but midnight vacuuming was a bit disturbing. Another red flag was waving directly before my eyes as I questioned the sanity of a man who vacuums alone, in the dark, in the middle of the night, and I could only hope he was not naked at the time. That would be truly disturbing. A lonely old man vacuuming naked in the middle of the night surely had to be a sign of someone slipping over the edge of sanity.
     So I had to ask myself, was he losing some of his marbles? Was he starting to crack from living alone with nothing but a couple of spoiled and pampered poodles to keep him company? Was that little bald spot slowly appearing on his crown actually an escape route for some of his gray matter? Should I be concerned? Should I call for a consultation, enroll him in a little therapy, arrange for a psychological evaluation, call in the professionals?
    After much thought and reflection, I decided that the best investment to make-- and what he really needed-- was a brand new vacuum cleaner,a really high powered Electrolux or Kirby, something with a kick, some real power and vroom! to it that would spice up his night cleaning. I thought I'd also invest in a nice new pair of manly pajamas, a bottle of Sleep-eeze,  and a little notebook where he could record all the instructions and directions necessary for the efficient and orderly  management of a household.
      And then, I congratulated myself for having the cleanest house in town and decided it was about time to make a trip home.

Cowboy Church

      Part of the fun and excitement of college is having the opportunity to meet new people,  try new things, explore new venues, and enlarge your world view.  In order to do this, you have to be open to stepping out of your comfort zone and entering arenas that have not previously been on your life path. On Thursday, Sissey took a little trip down the road less travelled, saddled up for a trailride down an untrodden path,  and ending up having a hum-dinger of an evening. This is where it all happened and how it all began....

        For several weeks, a friend at school had been inviting us to attend Cowboy Church with her family.  As dyed-in-the-wool Presbyterians, we were used to a traditional church service of  old familiar hymns, polished wooden pews, stained glass windows, pipe organ music, responsive readings and communion. However, we were not opposed to worshipping with friends within the realms of their comfort zones and in the tradition of their own church experiences. We had been to a biker church in Richmond, where leather-clad and tattooed Harley boys ushered us into a gym for a rock-n-roll service. Our tour guide in Costa Rica had taken us to the rain forest river where all of his family had been baptized in the tropical, muddy, crocodile-infested waters.  We had worshipped while roasting marshmellows on campfires by a lake, had sung hymns on a beach at sunrise, had donned veils to enter duomos in Italy, climbed old stone stairways to cathedrals in France,  and once even had a wandering preacher give an impromtu sermon while we were trout-fishing on the Linville River.

     God is everywhere and speaks to us in a language we can each understand, so the immense range of worship opportunities available was a natural part of His plan to reach out to all of His children. When the opportunity came up for us to worship in a barn with a cowboy preacher, we had no doubt that God would be there, plus I told Sissey that cowboys were always so nice and polite and friendly with their "Howdy, ma'am's" and "Let me hep ya with that's",  so we didn't think twice about going as we hopped into our car and took off.

      The directions we were given to the service  instructed us to exit Highway Nine, turn left, drive past a trailer park until we got to the junkyard, look for a fence that we could see through, turn left at the cattle gate, and drive through the pasture until we reached the barn. Naturally, we got lost and ended up in downtown Lancaster.  Not seeing a barn or a cow in sight, I knew we had headed in the wrong direction and, unlike any male I've ever met, I called for some help. After several phone conversations, four turn-arounds, and a little back-tracking, we were  back on-course but a little off-schedule.
      When we finally arrived at the site of Snipes Farm and Rodeo, the worship service was already underway. Brother Jack was delivering a powerful sermon on the gift of faith as we quietly scooted to our seats and settled in for the service. He told of his journey to salvation-- which came after a tour of duty overseas, many years as an alcoholic, a stint as a biker dude, some questionable life decisions, all kinds of brawls and ruckuses--  and then, the "Aha!" moment, when he discovered the missing link in his existence on Planet Earth and accepted Christ as his Lord and Savior.  As a changed man, he shifted courses and entered seminary after his army discharge, then served as a pastor at various churches ever since. The focal point of Thursday night's sermon was the free gift of salvation, the free will of man to accept or reject the gift, and the life-changing experiences  that can result from making the right decision.  It was a genuine and heart-felt message delivered by an humbled and repetent man, and even in midst of the hay-filled barn, with the gentle snorting of horses in the background and the soft buzz of insects flying in the rafters, I could feel God smile upon His good people.

      At the end of the service, everyone was offered the chance to place an offering in the feed bucket and to fill in their "Howdy" cards--info cards which colllected names, addresses, and phone numbers of all visitors and members so that the staff could round'em up later.  The children then took off for horse and pony rides in the rodeo ring,  and we lingered to meet some of the congregants and chat with the preacher.
       Brother Snipe, the owner of the farm, immediately asked Sissey if she had ever ridden a horse.  She admitted that she had taken a few riding lessons in Richmond, but hadn't been in the saddle for quite a while.  He lit up with a grin and said, "Well then, I'm gonna get you on one of my mules!"
      Mules have gotten such a bum rap in our modern society, but  if you remember your Biblical history, only Kings road mules. Regular soldiers, everyday people, the plebians of society...they all had to ride plain old horses, perhaps an occassional donkey, but MULES were reserved for Kings. I was rather excited to think that Sissey was going to get the opportunity to sit upon the mount of royalty.

     But then, Brother Snipe proceeded to tell us the story of how he and Brother Jack had gone mule-riding just last week, and as he had mounted the first mule, it bucked him right off.  Brushing off the dirt and hay, he sent the first mule packing and saddled up a second mule, but alas, it too threw him right into the dust. He finally saddled up for the third try a reticent mule that allowed him to sit undisturbed in the saddle, and off he and Brother Jack went for a jaunt through the pastures.  At this point, with images of Sissey flying through the air as an angry mule bucked and thrashed, I interrupted and said, "There's no way you're putting my daughter on a MULE!"

    With a slow smile and a shake of his head, he just said, "Aw, don't worry, I'm gonna put her on Sweetie. She won't throw her."

    Yeah, right, I thought. We may be standing in the shadow of the barn where Brother Jack just delivered God's Holy word, your mule may have a name sweet as honey,  but I didn't believe one letter of that line, and there was no way in hell I was putting my daughter on a mule, Sweetie or not, thank you very much.

     Following the worship service, the next part of the evening's activities was to head across town to a Mexican restaurant where it was karaoke night.  All the cowboys and Christians loaded into trucks and cars and made a convoy over to the restaurant. The singing and dancing was in full swing as we settled into a long, oilcloth covered table.  It was difficult trying to find room between ten-gallon cowboy hats and men the size of bulls, but Sissey finally wedged in between Trippy and her daughter, Kudzu, while I plopped down beside PNut and a cowboy named Matt.  We listened to some of the worst singing I have ever heard, and all I could think was that this is where American Idol must have been born.  There were two women-- obviously thinking they were the next Patsy Cline or Carrie Underwood-  who were painfully singing the most off-key, off-tempo, out-of-tune melodies I have ever witnessed--- and they kept coming back to the microphone again and again and again as their tone-deaf family and friends applauded and cheered them on. Please, I thought, this caterwauling has got to stop...can somebody say Amen, brother, and turn that mike off?

     Other than that, the rest of the evening was progressing swimmingly. We sat back and watched couples shagging and cruising to the beach music interludes that thankfully broke up the cacophony of the karoake. We munched on nachos and salsa until dinner arrived, then tried to find room for the delicious pollo adobo and chimichangas that arrived on piping hot platters. Fat and happy, it had been a good evening so far.
   As the evening drew late, I decided it was about time for Sissey and me to hit the trail for home, especially since we had a thirty mile drive back on dark country roads.  I grabbed our ticket and went into the room next door to pay our tab, but as I was settling up with the cashier, our waitress came running through the restaurant screaming, "FIGHT, FIGHT! Call 911!" The diners, cooks, waitstaff, kitchen staff, hostess, DJ and everyone else it the restaurant flew out to the parking lot to see what was happening.  Realizing I had left Sissey alone in the room where the fight originated, I ran back in a panic, visualizing semi-automatic weapons and knives and gangsters invading the building and mowing us all down.  When I found her, she was standing by the window, her face as white as her smocked, pressed, and starched Calvin Klein blouse. She stood there, frozen, watching as two cowboys pummelled each other in the parking lot, bones cracking, blood flying, shirts ripping, hats sailing as they rolled and punched and grunted and threw each other against trucks and concrete. I grabbed her, my purse, her sweater, and whispered, "We're getting out of here. NOW!"
     I wanted to get out of there quickly, before guns appeared or more angry cowboys showed up or the police arrived or things really got out of control. I knew we were out of our element, out of our league, and definitely out of our comfort zone. I had been to church followed by dinner on the grounds, church followed by a congregational meeting,  church followed by a hymn sing, church followed by a prayer meeting, but this was the first time I had ever been to church followed by a fight, and I must say, I did not care for it at all. I had never seen grown men fight, had never witnessed a bloody brawl, had never been that close to such raw physical violence, and it unnerved me. It didn't exactly fit with Brother Jack's message of redemption and salvation, of making the right decisions in life, of changing courses and choosing the straight and narrow path. It felt off-kilter to worship together and then go out and pummell your fellow man. Not quite the fellowship I was expecting, and it was time to make a quick exit.
        As I tried to rush her safely out the door, Sissey, in her oh-so-cordial manner, stopped, turned to the group, and politely said, 'It's been such a pleasure to be here this evening. We had a wonderful time. Hope to see you all again soon!"  I'm not sure they even heard her over the roar of the fist-fight, or if they even noticed as we left, and I had to laugh at her gracious attempt to exit a bar fight.  I scooted her down the ramp and across the parking lot, praying like a fiend that the fighting cowboys wouldn't come rolling across the ground to where our car was parked and that we wouldn't get caught up in the brawl. My hands were shaking as I buckled her in and threw her walker into the back of the car. I ran around to the driver's side,  cranked up the engine, and peeled out of that parking lot like a big ole redneck gunning down a dirt-road track. I couldn't get us out of there fast enough. Praying like mad that God would deliver us from evil, restore our souls, and lead us beside quieter pastures, I headed back to the safety of our home and our secure little world.
     And as we drove down the dark road, adrenaline racing, hearts pounding, hands still shaking, I laughed and said to Sissey, "Well, honey, you have just seen more action in one night than in your entire college career!" 
     She was still caught between shaking and smiling, but she managed to grin and say, "So what was that you were saying about cowboys being so nice and friendly and polite and all that?"
    "Live and learn, honey, live and learn," was all I could think to respond.
     And oh, isn't that what college is all about? Living and learning. Learning and living.
    And through it all, you stick to your values, count on your family, discover your identity, find your independence, claim your spot in the world, keep a smile on your face, and always, always, always, cling to your faith.

    That doesn't mean, however, that you can't have one heck of a time on a Thursday night and laugh about it all the way home!