SO OVER IT!

As the sun sets on yet another school year, let us remember when...and then be grateful we never have to personally revisit the drama. If only our children were so lucky—

I remember vividly the day they measured our senior class for graduation caps and gowns. We were sitting in English class as they walked through the room, holding a measuring tape and clipboard, and loudly announcing the circumference of each student’s skull, which all seemed to be in the 16-17 inch range.

“16 1/2...17 1/4...16 3/4...”

Until they got to me.

“FOUR HUNDRED AND EIGHTY THREE.” 

Or so it seemed. 

It was, in fact, so much larger than the others, that they felt compelled to re-measure and announce my giant head yet again.

“Yup. Four hundred and eighty three inches around. That’s what it really is.”

My head was officially more beefy than the captain of the football team...on account of my vast amount of brains, I’m sure.

But fortunately, the other kids let me live it down quickly, because we were near the end of our high school career, which meant that we all kind of liked each other again.

It’s a funny thing that happens as you wind down your secondary education—a weird sort of phenomenon known as rose colored glasses. Every moment is filmed in Instagram sepia, with a soft focus filter, and you suddenly can’t remember why it was that just last month, you hated their ever-living GUTS. Because now you see them the way Jesus sees them, and weep as you write sweet nothings in their yearbook.

Of course, those sentiments don’t usually last. My younger sister, Kara, woke up the day after her graduation and headed straight to the salon, where she hacked off her waist length hair. This was a symbolic gesture of being freed from the tethers she’d acquired—in friendships and responsibilities—over the course of her high school career.

And I couldn’t blame her, because I don’t think I answered my phone even once for the first half of the summer after commencement. I was so over it. 

I remember driving back to the school the morning after the all night party, to clean out the remnants of my locker. My ’86 tassel swung from the mirror of my bright green Volkswagon Rabbit—a hand-me-down from a dear uncle whom I repaid by “forgetting” to check the oil, thus seizing up the engine in the middle of I-15 a couple of months later. But that was HARDLY my fault, you guys, because shouldn’t there have been some sort of blinking light or siren blast that suggested this was an IMPORTANT additive? I mean, come on! Give a girl a warning! 

Anyway, I remember feeling a sense of euphoria—the cliched notion that I had my whole life in front of me! And I was going to start it off by getting a really, really good base tan. Right after a nap. And a Diet Coke. 

Eventually, that first summer passed away, and with it, the desperation and lack of confidence known to every high school student. It was replaced with giant hoop earrings, highlighted hair and an awesome job at the mall. I spent the months saving money for college, dieting on swedish fish and bologna sandwiches (the 80’s wasn’t really known for being nutritionally sound) and found a boyfriend who referred to me as, “Sweetheart.” 

Could life get any better? 

The answer is yes. It can, and it does. But that right there was pretty awesome sauce, and I have the skin cancer to prove it.

That next fall, we were invited back as alumni for Homecoming. A group of us sat together on the grass and talked about our lives thus far. I’ll never forget listening as one friend expressed profound regret over decisions she’d made in high school that had taken her down a path she never intended to go. 

Decisions that had seemed perfectly suited for Spirit Hall and exaggerated teenaged emotions, but once the cap was thrown into the air, left her reeling with despair.  

And she rocked back and forth, hugging her knees, and cried.

My heart ached for her. 

Bless her heart, she just hadn’t realized that there really IS life after high school. 

And so, in my duty as your official Islander Commencement speaker, I say to all of you dear graduates who have been told that those days were golden—let me assure you that just the opposite is true. Those days were paper. Maybe cardstock, or particle board, but definitely not precious metal. 

So as you drive along, go ahead and let your tassel swing in the rearview mirror, just as long as you continue looking forward, to your incredible future. There is so much more to come, my friends. So much more. 

May you go forth and conquer...and never find yourself hugging your knees over the choices you make—this is my prayer for you.

CONGRATULATIONS, CLASS OF 2013! 

ALWAYS BE SPIDERMAN

Yes, actually, I DO deserve the Mother of the Decade award. It's just that my children keep takin' me down. 

        Years ago, my daughter who was four at the time, came smiling into the bedroom, holding her arms out in front of her, hands clasping together then pulling apart, together then apart, spreading a thousand spidery fibers from palm to palm. 

“Look Mom! I’m Spider-girl! We found some spiderman goo, and now I can climb up walls. But—” (smear across her shirt)—my webs (smear) won’t (smear) come (smear) off (smear, smear). 

“Did you wash your hands?” I asked, barely looking up twice and counting crochet stitches.

“Yeah. But it still won’t (smear).”

I reluctantly set aside my project and took her into the bathroom to wash her hands. After scrubbing with soap and a washcloth, there was absolutely no improvement. For heaven’s sake.

So I grabbed the fingernail polish remover and some cotton balls, then scrubbed and scrubbed until the cotton balls dried out, then began to spread and adhere to every square inch of her hands, front and back.

“What in the?! Now WHAT is this stuff? Spiderman goo what? Where did you get it?”

Just then Seth walked in with a mailbox stuck to his face, and both kids shared the story; Chris had found this goo (sticky insect pad) in the garage, then cast his net throughout the neighborhood, enticing all the kids with, “HEY, WANNA BE SPIDERMANS?”

They came scurrying from every corner, pressing hands and feet into the sticky platter, then taking turns placing them strategically on our garage door frame and attempting to scale the 20 foot walls. Finding little success, they then entertained themselves with the webbing on their hands and feet, until they realized that everything they touched—grass, bugs, patches of hair, the trampoline—EVERYTHING THEY TOUCHED was stuck to them, and they couldn’t get it off. 

About this time, while I tried to decontaminate the children and inadvertently covered my own hands, arms and clothes with this indestructible glue, I heard the kitchen door slam shut, and a child fled silently up the stairs. I knew it was Chris.

“CHRIIIIIIIS!” I bellowed from the bottom of the staircase. And when I say bellowed, I don’t mean yelled. I mean—and I am not proud of this—but I mean I reached into the deepest innards of my guts and pulled a sound out of me that only belongs in the depths of the bog of eternal stench and had no business whatsoever coming out of a mother’s mouth. But it did. And I only share this with you because it’s too late to press charges.

Anyway, “CHRIIIIIIS!” I bellowed. And peeking from around the corner, I saw the panicked face of a child on his knees. Not because he was begging, no, not because of that. But rather, because his feet were three inches thick with debris which had accumulated as he tried to wipe them off on the grass.

To save time, I’ll fast forward this story an hour, past the weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth, which culminated in the three sobbing, hiccuping children sitting on the kitchen counter while their hysterical mother doused them head to toe with her last ditch effort—some sort of toxic solvent that came with an explicit skull and crossbones warning.

“Are we going to die?” they whispered, hoping for reassurance. And once again, I am NOT proud of this, but I may have answered, “Yes. Yes, we just might die.” But the thing is, I kind of thought we could, because for whatever reason, it seemed logical to me that glue could be fatal.

They were silent from that point on, surrendering themselves to their mother, and trusting that, if she could, she would save them. And save them I did. 

As I finished stripping the final layer of skin from their bones, I heard a noise and turned around just in time to see our neighbor, tiptoeing out of the front door as quiet as a mouse, and only then remembered that he had been downstairs the entire time, doing some carpentry for us. 

And that is when I wished that the glue had taken my life, because it might be less painful than dying of humiliation. 

We haven’t made eye contact since. Almost had to move.

Fortunately, he kept those things in his blessed heart all these years, probably waiting for me to come clean...which I just did. So go ahead, Johnny. The tale is yours to tell...just try to make sure that I sound thin when you do. 

WAY TOO MANY CHINS

A lesson in perspective:

       When I was young, I was pretty sure that there was no problem so big that a pot of creamy blue eyeshadow could not solve it. Lucky for me, we had an Avon lady who supplied me with monthly samples of lipstick, shadow and rouge and never questioned what I did with them all, or why I kept needing more...probably because the explanation was smeared from my chin to my eyebrows, and beyond, every time we met.

Of course, this particular Avon lady was a kindred spirit, in that she wore most of her products all at the same time. So rather than search through the catalogue trying to find what you wanted to order, one could simply point to a spot on her face and request “some of that”. I guess you could say moderation was a stranger to her, and that’s likely why her memory still lives in my head, like a lipstick stain to my brain.

Now because of these abundant samples, I figured there wasn’t a 4th grade girl in the world who didn’t look better with midnight blue eyelids and dark suntan pantyhose peaking out from underneath her shorts. Thus, this was my go-to ensemble for every event—ward parties, babysitting, a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood. And it wasn’t until my older sister called me out during Family Home Evening, that I imagined there might be something age inappropriate in my choices.

Seems Nicki found it “humiliating” that her little sister was seen walking the streets, looking like she was, well, walking the streets. So against my will I toned things down, going to a lighter shade of sky blue, because everybody knows that if you want blue eyes, you wear blue eyeshadow. Duh.  

A year or so later, the Max Factor warehouse sales came to town, and we were introduced to earth tones. About that time, Nicki tried to give me a makeover, telling me she was sure my eyes would look more blue if my shadow was coppery brown. I sat there snarling, like a feral cat waiting to scratch it’s way out of captivity, while she worked her magic. When she was finished, I darted into the bathroom to see the results, then graciously responded with:

“AGH! I HATE IT SO BAD! YOU HAVE MADE ME SO UGLY, NICKI!  THIS IS SO GROSS AND I AM SO UGLY AND I AM NEVER GOING TO WEAR BROWN EYESHADOW EVER AGAIN!”

I don’t know why she let me live.

Of course I did, in fact, wear brown eyeshadow again because it turns out she was right—coppery brown made my eyes look blue. Even the color wheel was on her side. But that was a great lesson in perception.

Recently, there’s been a commercial by Dove going around on social media. Sight unseen, a sketch artist has women describe themselves, then an acquaintance describe them, and he draws both accounts. Interestingly, the way they see themselves is far from reality—much less attractive than they truly are—but the way another person sees them is very close to the truth. The women stand there looking at the different renditions, and there is a moment of illumination.  

I’m afraid that, had it been me in that commercial, they’d have been forced to edit out my first reaction, which would have been something like, “WHAT THE?! DID YOU SKETCH ME FROM UNDERNEATH? I HAVE LIKE, 20 EXTRA POUNDS OF CHIN IN THIS PICTURE!”

And that would have undone all the good they were trying to do.

A while back a friend of ours shot some fun pictures of our family at the sand dunes, then tagged the entire clan on Facebook, including the chubby, unaware matriarch. With lightening quick reflexes, I untagged my fat face from each one of those misguided pictures, before the cameraman even logged off of his computer. And it wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the thought, bless his heart. It’s just that I didn’t appreciate the proof. 

Once again, a lesson in perception. Everyone else in my family was beautiful to me, and I’d have proudly displayed them on my mantle. But my own flaws were the elephant in the sand, and I couldn’t see it any other way.

And I’m sure that the older and fatter I get, the more I will wish I had covered my house in wallpaper made out of those images of me at the dunes, because they will eventually be my glory days, as my viewpoint changes day by day, year to year and experience after experience.  

But until then, my finger hovers over the mouse, ready and waiting to untag the unflattering...and photoshopping my eyes until they’re as blue as the sea. ;)

 

THE EXCEPTION TO THE RULE

...Except for me.

Did you know that there are such things as tonsil stones? Yup. They’re white and gross and stink to high heavens, and like to live it up in the pits and crevices of your teenaged son’s infected throat. And then he has two choices: either he picks them out of his throat himself, every day of his life, or has a surgeon do it for him permanently. 

We chose the latter. Thus, a tonsillectomy was scheduled.

Of course, everybody we mentioned this to had a horror story. Not one person had a joyful experience, or knew of anyone who hadn’t answered the door to Death, and slammed it closed, just in time.

“I knew a girl that went riding her four wheeler, like a week after her surgery, and nearly bled to death out on the desert terrain.”

“I knew a guy who died a couple of days later. He just told his wife he didn’t feel well and had to lie down, and bam. Dead.”

Even I joined in, whispering ominously, “I remember a girl who had her tonsils out right before she got married. And then the night before her wedding, she started to hemorrhage with the beat of her heart.” Followed by a thumb drag across my neck and cryptic nod.

But in the end, we dismissed all of the warnings with a wave of our hand and a mocking eyeball roll, because we knew we were different. 

Day 1—FANTASTIC! Hardly even noticed he’d had surgery.

Day 2—Even better than day one! Keepin’ up on the pain killers and life is a bowl of ice cream.

Day 3—Whoa. Ouch. Little bit of blood.

Day 4—FULL BLOWN HEMORRHAGING AND CLOT THE SIZE OF A SOFTBALL RESTRICTING AIRFLOW! RUSH TO THE ER, GET DOCTOR OUT OF SURGERY AND CHEMICAL CAUTERIZATION FOR MORE THAN AN HOUR!

As we sat there in the emergency room, watching the surgeon pull chunks of coagulated blood out of our son’s throat, we had to face the reality: Seems we are not different. As much as we’d like to think we’re the exception, about 99% of the time, we’re the rule.

This made me think of some other times I’ve thought I was immune. 

“I’m pretty sure I can eat a five pound bag of Hot Tamales (every day of my life) and look good in a swimming suit.”

“I do my best work under pressure.”

“If I ignore the problem, it will solve itself.”

Turns out the actual real world application of eating Hot Tamales is your gut gets fat. And so does your back and your bum and your chins and your earlobes. Then you become a liability to that lycra, and the swimsuit would rather not be seen with you.

Also, let’s be honest—NOBODY does their best work under pressure...except for mothers giving birth and coal. And coal is not a person.

Then that last one about ignoring the problem, expecting it to go away? Yeah, no. It doesn’t. Like a blemish turns to a boil, it gets bigger and more devastating. Recently, I had an impression that my child, who had just arrived home, had been out doing something he was warned not to do. So I laid in bed and argued with myself. 

“Stupid kid. I’m not going to talk to him. He knows it’s wrong. And he’s grown. And he’s stupid. Stupid kid.” 

“Sorry, but you have to. You’re his mom. Moms have to save stupid kids from themselves until they can find a wife to pawn him off on. Just save us the trouble and get up.”

Back and forth we went, until finally, I dragged my weary head out of bed and confronted the stupid kid. And just like I thought, he WAS doing something wrong, but he was convinced he was the exception, not the rule, so no harm would come to him. Sound familiar? Fortunately, his father and I popped that zit before it got out of hand, and I just know he’ll thank us...later on.

Well, anyway, I guess we’d all rather make the rules than follow them, bless our hearts. And sure, maybe 99% of the time we are the rule, but there’s always that elusive 1% roaming around out there...and I think it has my name on it.  

CHEESIE WEEDS

I credit my svelte childhood figure to a steady diet of Cheesies (belly buttons). You could probably say the same thing—

SNIFF A DITCH

I decided to get some exercise the other day. Pulled on my pink hoodie, threw on a pair of ugly tennis shoes and opened my heart and nostrils along with the front door to embrace the sweet spirit of spring.

About three houses down, I threw out my hip. But because I’d fortified myself with a couple sleeves of Thin Mint cookies, I shook it off and kept on keeping on. Why? Because a spring day such as this called for some ditch sniffing. Which is how I discovered a terrible tragedy, you guys: The ditches are gone.

Seriously. They’re gone. The ditches are gone. The six foot wide, six foot deep, open mouthed, running water, spider infested attractive nuisances that used to line every country road (and have been mentioned before in my column) are...gone.

Now I don’t know why for sure, but I suspect they killed one child too many, as every one of us, from the beginning of time, were known to be found in them often, either walking or floating or wading through the brown sludge to pick up and carry home a diseased carcass of some sort or another.

So okay, yes. Maybe in covering them up a few lives were saved, which some people might call progress, and that’s fine, I guess—if you like that sort of thing. But as I walked along, missing the ditches, I couldn’t help but recall when sidewalks were scarce, cheesies were food, and every stretch of road was a pathway for cattails and irrigation.

Which leads me to ask: How in the WORLD does every child born have an innate knowledge that cheesie weeds are edible? I’m pretty sure I heard the siren song of the cheesie in my crib. Then when I was old enough to grab my own Cool Whip bowl, I went foraging. To find a sizable clump meant a feast would be held, and I screamed and yelled for my friends to, “COME HELP PEEL THE CHEESIES!” Somebody could always be counted on to supply the Otter Pops, and after the meal, we all returned home, coughing on Otter Pop syrup, with a belly full of weed buttons.

Back then, very few of us qualified to ride the bus, so we spent eternity walking to and from school. One thing that made it bearable was coming upon somebody’s flooded yard. We didn't know this phenomenon was connected to farming or water turns. We just knew we got to stop, splash and jump until the grass turned to mud. I would imagine there were many lawns completely destroyed by the pitter patter STOMP of little feet.

We loved collecting pods, especially those most noxious, and pulling them apart to let the innards explode in a giant puff of seedlings. We had no idea until we were grown ups that we were responsible for the fields of dandelions that colored the landscape and tormented our parents.

Well, anyway, as I said, the ditches are gone. Which means a fair amount of my childhood was buried in the dirt with the pipes. But as long as there are cheesies to peel and dandelions to curse, we can rest our blessed hearts, knowing that the things that matter are still okay.

        Now excuse me while I get my Cool Whip bowl, cuz I see a really nice patch over there...

NO, THAT IS NOT ALLOWED!

This week's article in the paper received a little "What the H?" editing, losing a couple of imperative paragraphs for the sake of space. So here it is as it was intended to be. And yes, my husband really did give me permission to speak of this episode...after a wee bit of cajoling:

“SHOT THROUGH THE HAND, AND YOU’RE TO BLAME—” I’m pretty sure that’s how it goes. In my home, anyway. You see, a few days ago, my husband was reassembling one of his guns and accidentally shot himself in the hand. And I don’t like to look for conspiracies, but it just so happened to coincide with the week he was supposed to be collecting for Friends of Scouting. Coincidence—or perfectly orchestrated? You be the judge.

Now I know what you’re all thinking—“Seriously? So like, is that allowed?” 

But before you go flying off to the bullet store, let me assure you that no, that is NOT allowed. You still have to collect. And if, in fact, you DO drive a bullet into the wall of your own house—for WHATEVER reason—you had cuss well better make sure it goes through your own hand first, because this will shock the nurturing side of your wife into action. And then her hysterical outrage will be slightly tempered, because she will feel sorry for you. But she will still be angry. Because she WARNED you!

Now I’m pretty sure that I have never made a mistake, which is why it’s so easy for me to point out yours. And even easier to spy my own children’s.

Just recently my daughter received access to Facebook, and was given strict parental and sibling guidelines: “No duck face. No bathroom mirror shots. And no cryptic status updates.”

She crossed her heart and hoped to die, then went directly into the bathroom, and proceeded to break every commandment before the lock even clicked. But she couldn’t help herself. Because she’s twelve. 

  One day, we were all lamenting her lack of social media inhibitions, and decided to look up the beginnings of our own status updates to self-righteously prove that we were never like that. 

“See? Look at this. Here’s what I wrote back in...ummm....wait, let’s try...here’s one that...no...that’s not...just a sec...holyyyyyy...you know what, never mind. HEY! WHO WANTS PIE FOR DINNER?”

But it was too late. For all of us. Because the duck face, mirror shot, cryptic status proof was right there on our timelines for all the world to see. And we were condemned, because we were NOT twelve.

Recently, I was talking with my mom and sister about times that we wish we could forget. Days of being loud and proud about things which should have been spoken of in hushed tones. 

My mother told me of when she and my dad were first married, and her mother-in-law gifted them with a piano to put in their home, because my dad was a wonderful pianist and loved to play. 

Well, Mom was very aware that the old mirrored upright didn’t “go” with her new gold velvet couch. Thus, rather than let people think she had questionable taste, she did what any dingbat newlywed would do—she put the piano out in the garage and never spoke of it again.

This reminded Kara about early in her marriage, when some family members were moving a piano into her new home. They stood at the door, sweating profusely and coughing up blood, eager to be let in so they could complete the job. But she came out with her finger to her lips, whispering that her baby was still napping, and could they maybe wait there until he woke up? 

Then I told about when Sterling and I were moving into our first apartment, and we tore in and out of the driveway going a minimum of 45 mph. Our new neighbors asked us to slow down a little bit, so as not to kill their children. And we thought they were SO DUMB, because we didn’t HAVE any children of our own, so why should we VALUE them? 

On and on went the humiliating stories, until our cheeks were in flames. Then, trying to save a small shred of my dignity, I ended one tale with, “I mean, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t COMPLETELY stupid about how I said it.” 

Unbelieving crickets chirped. 

“Never mind,” I admitted. “I’m not at all sure that I wasn’t completely stupid about how I said it.”

Well, anyway, as I said earlier on, I have never made “a” mistake. Rather, I have made MANY mistakes. 

And as I help bandage my husband’s wound or stand watch on my street, resisting the urge to grab speeding teenagers by their ears and yank them out of their stupid cars so I can drop-kick them into nearby cornfields before they kill all of the children, I truly understand the debt of gratitude which I owe to the merciful, tolerant people in my life.

Benevolent, wise people who, over the years, dismissed my stupidity by blessing my heart, (even if they secretly rolled their eyeballs,) instead of calling me out and doing irreparable harm to our relationship. And this they did, believing that one day, I would DO better, because I  would KNOW better.

Unfortunately  “better” is a very subjective term. ;)

WE NAMED HIM WHITNEY

There have been an awful lot of difficult chapters in many of our lives, lately. Makes me think of the term, "read 'em and weep" a little bit differently.

Our first son was a girl. We named him Whitney, and filled his closet with pastel frocks and patent leather shoes and sticky corn syrup for when it came time to attach bows to his head. We felt secure in our “baby girl” knowledge because we had an ultrasound, and the doctor could tell the gender, but we told him not to tell us because we were above that sort of thing. 

Then we remembered that we weren’t above that sort of thing, so we went home and popped the 10 pixel VHS into our tape player, pressed our noses to the screen and watched the black and white grainy smudges morph into...some kind of indiscernible smear. Which meant IT’S A GIRL!...because a mother just knows these things. (heart pound, eyes closed and reverently pursed lips)

Of course I believed what I wanted to believe for as long as I could, mostly because I wanted to decorate—I mean dress—a baby girl. And since the only options for boy clothing back in the early 90‘s were sweats and more sweats with hippos-driving-monster-truck-appliques, you can’t really blame me for the aspiration.

Right before delivery, my workplace threw me a shower, wherein the southern belle, Etheleen Holt, conspired with my nurse to give me false hope in the form of a darling pink polka dot outfit. Her dimpled smile led me down the primrose path of misconception...all the while, the stem grew on the apple without my knowledge.

We were startled at his birth. My mom ran home to replace the pink rosebuds with blue, we threw a dart at the Baby Names book to settle on Ashton, and I penned a strongly worded letter of reprimand to Etheleen for her intentional bum steer. 

But things have a way of working out okay. Turns out boys are WAY more fun than you might think. All it takes is a teensy pair of 501’s, a red plaid vest and a whispy blond bowl cut, and YOU CAN ROCK THE HECK OUT OF THAT LITTLE BOY SCENE! Which I did. Three times over. And every other boy-mom ate my dust, (she said with humility.)

Well, of course, our lives have a way of taking twists and turns that we never intended. Or wanted. Or deserved. As one friend put it, “I never, ever thought we’d be opening up this chapter.”

Seems that every life is a novel, but many of us—myself included—would prefer them to be a fairytale. Mine would begin, “Once Upon a Time,” and immediately end with, “Happily ever after.” And maybe I’d write a few benign, effortless chapters in between:

Ch. 1—“No goodbyes.” Because I don’t want to experience the death of a loved one or painful parting. I don’t want to breathe the sickening smell of hospitals or divide up assets or friends. It will hurt. I will feel forsaken. I will miss them and dream about them and wake up in the night, sobbing in my sleep.

Then I will start to think of life and love differently. I’ll have greater empathy for other’s sorrow, and I will hold their hand to keep them company as we walk together down a path I already know.

Ch. 2—“Only success.” Because I don’t want to be disappointed in my spouse or children or my own diminishing opportunities. I don’t want to find out they didn’t like me enough to vote for me. I don’t want to stand by while they crown the other girl. It will crush me to see my son lower his head in shame as unrealized expectations hang heavy on his shoulders.

Then I will be compelled to learn. I will forgive and start over and become wise enough not to repeat the same mistakes. And we will climb back up, dust off our spirits and grab each other’s hands as we race back up the hill.

Ch. 3—“I want a baby girl.” Forget about three boys in a row. They’re going to be rowdy, and wrestle and pee on the walls and ceiling. They’re going to be strong willed and try my patience and make me yell and karate kick when they crash into brick mailboxes. They’re going to kiss too many girls and be found in the Principal’s office and make me look like a fool when I profess their innocence. 

Then they’re going to sit in front of the student body while an electric razor slides across their skull, removing piles of “ridiculously awesome” hair for a fundraising effort. They’re going to dress up as Dracula and escort a girl with special needs to the Halloween dance. And they’re going to roll up their white missionary sleeves to pick up and hold a crippled child who is sitting helpless in the dirt, covered with flies, while her diseased father lays in a bed made of cardboard nearby.

Oh...okay, I see. So HE writes the chapters. And the only way through the book is to read every verse—every exhausting, disappointing, tragic, exhilarating, triumphant, redeeming word. Then it’s up to us to either ROCK THE HECK OUT OF THAT SCENE, or...not. Which means the “Happy Ever After” is up to us. The hope is that someday, no matter how many goodbyes, how many failures and how many boys, we will thank the good Lord that every line has been written upon our very blessed hearts.