The Pork Chop Adventure

It was a hectic evening made even more hectic when Lon was called back to work. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I can grill the pork chops.”

Looking at me warily, Lon agreed. “Don’t forget to keep an eye on them so they don’t burn,” he told me. Lon is a master with the BBQ grill and he had planned on grilling the pork chops for our dinner that night. As he headed out the door, he turned to glance at me. “Are you sure you can handle the grilling? Because if not, I can do it when I get back.”

“No problem,” I said with a cheerful grin. “I can handle it. What can be so hard about grilling?”  With that, I set out to pretending to be a suave and sophisticated master griller mama. I began to dream of winning awards for being a BBQ master chef:

"And the winner of the International Pork Chop Grilling Competition is Penny Zeller!"

Note to all readers of this blog: this pork chop adventure was my first time grilling…EVER.

As is always the case with being a mom, I have to multi-task. No problem. After pre-heating the grill and placing the pork chops on it, I went back inside the house and set the timer for 12 minutes, the time it said on the pork chop directions. I then went about my work and helped the girls with their homework, folded a load of laundry, and loaded some dishes into the dishwasher. I watched the grill from the kitchen window and all looked well. I smiled to myself. My first time grilling would be a cinch. Perhaps I could even become a pro at it. After all, I love to bake. Cooking I don’t much care for, but baking I enjoy.

As luck would have it, the timer went off while I was in the basement folding the clothes. “Mom! The buzzer went off!” one of the kids yelled.

“All right. I’ll be up in a minute!” I set about continuing to fold the towels, put them away, then walked out to the deck to retrieve the chops. However, I was horrifed by what I saw.  Oh well, I quickly reasoned, meat should be well-done to kill any bacteria.

Lon wasn’t so eager to embrace my grilling (in)abilities. I plunked (with a loud plunk that almost broke our fine China) each pork chop on seprate plates as I served my family. When I served Lon the pork chop on the plate, he had a disturbed look on his face. “Did you forget to check on the pork chops?” he asked.

"Did you forget to check on the chops?" Lon asked.

“Uh, sorry about that,” I muttered. “We have salad too and some watermelon.” I am usually quite good at changing the subject, but this time it didn’t work. For some reason, the sight of the overly-done pork chop took precedence over anything I might say:

No e coli here.

“Mom, is something wrong with the pork chops?” my oldest daughter asked.

Suddenly, my dreams of becoming the master griller mama fizzled. “They might be good,” I said weakly.

Lon didn’t seem to optimistic. As though he was a special investigative agent for the FBI, he began to probe me with questions. ”How long approximately, were the chops on the grill?” “Was there smoke coming from the grill?” ”Was there something wrong with grill?” Finally, he then proceeded to fully investigate the BBQ for signs of tampering.

Lon investigates to see if perhaps the BBQ grill has been tampered with...

“More like something is wrong with the griller,” I woefully admitted.

Once again back inside the house at the kitchen table,  he reached for his fork. Before and after pictures are all the rage these days, so I thought it only fitting to provide a before picture of the very fork Lon used to cut his pork chop:

The before picture: the long, lean, and svelte utensil

Lon attempted for the first time to cut into the pork chop. The fork, sadly, wasn’t able to hold up under all the pressure:

Uh, Houston, we have a problem...

Never one to give up on his first try, Lon again attempted to cut into the pork chop:

Strike Two!

Still to no avail, Lon tried once more to cut into the delicattesan that I had prepared for dinner:

The after picture and strike three!

We mourned the loss of the fork that would never be the same after its valiant attempts to cut into a pork chop that I had grilled during my first time grilling. Wiping a tear from my eye, I knew that my career as a master griller mama was quickly coming to an end. From now on, I would stick to my Maytag double oven when making dinner.

No sooner had I wiped the last tear when Lon ran out to the garage. “It’s time to call in the big guy,” he said, quickly bounding down the stairs.

Thank the Lord for Dewalt!

Finally Lon was able to cut into the pork chop and enjoy his meal!

I’m happy to say (and my family will happily agree) that I am no longer grilling pork chops. From now on, that’s Lon’s department!

The Mistaken Moon

Lon and I were talking about some of the most hilarious moments in our 17 1/2 years of marriage the other day when the story of “The Mistaken Moon” came to mind. We relived that silly moment when mistaking someone for your spouse can have severe and longlasting consequences…

Important Disclaimer and the small print: First of all, please know that I have Lon’s full permission to write this story from about 11 years ago in my blog. We hope it brings a smile to your face and a laugh to your day. If so, then we will have done our job

Now for the background information: my sister and I were returning home from a fun evening together. We had seen a wholesome love story movie that our husbands would never see unless they were under some heavy-duty sedation – the kind for a major surgical procedure. Yep, this movie was way too lovey dovey for the man-mans of our lives!

At the time, Lon and I weren’t the only ones who owned a Jeep Cherokee on our street. Our neighbors two houses down – a sweet Christian couple in their 50s – also owned a Cherokee. As my sister and I pulled into our neighborhood, I saw in front of us the neighbors, who also owned a Cherokee driving down the street. We followed them at some distance, laughing and giggling as only sisters can do.

My sister and I were a silly duo, even in the "olden days" (seen here with our goofy little brother)

Little did we know those giggles would become intensely more profound within the next few minutes.

It was a very dark night, so I can understand how Lon could mistake our neighbors’ Cherokee for ours, even though their Jeep was several years newer, hence the headlights worked much better and were much brighter (believe me, the bright headlights are an important part of this story!)

As our innocent neighbors rounded the corner onto our street, Lon was waiting – but not for them. He was actually waiting for us. Mistakenly thinking our neighbors were my sister and I, Lon stood in front of the driveway facing any and all oncoming traffic (not much, thankfully, on our street) and did his best to present a “moon” to light up the dark night. He crouched low and dropped his drawers ever so slightly while his gaze remained in the opposite direction. I can imagine him laughing hilariously to himself thinking how he had shocked us. He knows I don’t see well at night, so he was probably figuring his white behind would illuminate the driveway and therefore help me to see to drive safely into the driveway without an accident. How wrong he was!

Our neighbors were shocked at the sight they beheld – seen ever so much clearer with the aid of fully-functioning new vehicle headlights. Later, they told us that after they recovered, they began to laugh uncontrollably at Lon’s antic. They never ceased to forget the night there was a mistaken moon on our street.

A few seconds later, my sister and I rounded the corner, but by then, Lon had figured out the mistaken identity. He stood laughing with our neighbors as he recanted his story of the mistaken moon. My sister and I joined in the laughter and Lon took a vow (with Scout’s honor) that night to never moon anyone (unless he was absolutely positively 100% sure it was me) again!

Our dear neighbors have since moved and we have since traded in our Jeep Cherokee. But one thing remains- the memory of the night sky on our quiet street being forever changed and illuminated at the hand of a silly husband who thought he’d shock his wife.

Take some time to do something silly (maybe not as embarrassing as the above story) but something silly nonetheless to make a memory in your marriage. I feel blessed to be able to share such hilarious times with the man God gave to me to be my life partner. We’ve been through good times, difficult times, stressful times, hungry and lean times, and funny practical joke times in our marriage – times that neither of us has ever regretted.

My man and I

By the way, did I ever tell you that funny joke we played on an innocent bystander at our local grocery store? I’ll save that for another time…

Why I’m Not a Hairstylist

I know that the Lord blessed each of us with gifts and talents. I also know that when those gifts and talents were being handed out, there was one that I didn’t get…the gift of being a hairstylist.

Case in point…

When Lon and I were first married over 17 years ago, we decided to dye his dark brown hair blonde. I persuaded him to allow me to give it a try and he agreed. I had visions of how the hairstyle would turn out and I could already hear the rave reviews of how we had changed Lon’s haircolor from Idaho-potato brown to California- sun blonde. 

However, that wasn’t the case. As the first example of why I’m not a hairstylist shown below proves, there is a talent behind doing a good job at changing the color of one’s hair.

Not at all the dye job we expected...

Needless to say, there were no rave reviews and not even one compliment. Worst of all, the look on Lon’s face when he first caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror was one of sheer agony. He wore it to work that way the next day just to garner a few laughs, then quickly allowed me to shave it.

Case in point number two:

A few years ago, Lon decided he wanted a mohawk. Out came the hairclippers. As my subject sat patiently, I  began the process of cutting his hair. Slightly confused, I quickly realized why, as the photo shows below, I am not gifted as a barber:

Oops! Slight confusion here...

When our oldest daughter saw the results, she began to cry and sadly announced that I had “ruined Daddy.”

Saddened by the thought that I had severely altered my husband’s appearance with the aid of a $9.99 grooming tool, I tried again to fix the problem:

Not much better...

 

Since things usually go better when you get a third try, I again attempted to make my husband presentable, knowing that a mohawk was now out of the question…

Never mind!

 

Fortunately, once again, I was able to shave his head completely to save us both from any embarrassment.

Third case in point: One day, Lon decided he’d like a perm. Yes, I know that perms for men aren’t really in style in this day and age (were they ever?) but as a doting wife, I try to accomodate my husband’s requests. A mere glimpse at the photo below will show you why I’ll never be hired at Fantastic Sam’s…

If perms were in, Lon would be stylin'

Finally, we decided that perhaps a mullet would be in order for my brave husband:

Too cute for words...

All right, so he’s really wearing a wig. But that might be a safer bet when it comes to my hairstyling abilities!

I now know from the evidence presented above that one of the talents God didn’t give me is that of a hairsylist. I’m thankful for the gifts and talents He did give me, though, and endeavor to use them for His Kingdom.

Now…about securing that job down at the salon…

Five Silly Ways to Make Your Kids Smile

     “If you see a friend without a smile; give him one of yours” ~ author unknown

I love smile quotes and more than that I love smiles!

My kids know they have a zany mom and they are never sure what to expect. One thing they do know, though, is that my goal is to bring about a smile, giggle, chuckle, or all of the above! Here are some of the ways we accomplish that goal in our home:

* Have a jammie day. This works well for Saturdays and snow days home from school. Not only does everyone in the family wear jammies (moms and dads included), but they have to wear them wherever they go, even on shopping trips! My youngest still wears the traditional zip-up fuzzy footie jammies (like the ones below from JcPenney) so it’s especially funny as she attempts to fit a tennis shoe over the thick feet of the pajamas.

My striped fleece ensemble has brought about many a stare (and a smile) from the onlookers in the grocery store.

* Play the game of Old Maid and yell excitedly “UNO!” when you have one card left.

 

 ”But Mom, that’s a different game,” my oldest reminded me with a grin last time I did this. We all laughed about it and remembered how my girls used to call the game “Go Fish” by a different name: “Goldfish.” Playing the classic game of Twister is also a surefire way to garner some laughs. 

 

Play a game of Twister with your kids

 

* Sing with them at the top of your lungs. Belting out “Blessed Be the Name” by Tree 63 is one of our favorite worship song pastimes. As we say in our house, “Praise Him like you mean it!” Singing and dancing around is sure to bring a smile. Hint: just make sure the windows are closed if you aren’t gifted with a beautiful voice. (I found this out the hard way).

* Begin a story and take turns adding to it. (Yep, as a writer, I am a strong advocate of instilling the use of imaginations in my kiddos). My girls love this game and it’s sure to bring about a smile each time we play it, especially when it’s a silly plot. One of my favorite things is leaving them at a “cliffhanger” when it’s their turn to add to the story. It’s then up to them to use their vivid imaginations to add to that “cliffhanger.”

* Build a fort. Gather every blanket in the house and build a fantastic fort, complete with chairs and the use of the desk as a roof. Lon did this one Saturday with the girls. I found them all asleep in the fort in the playroom. What fun!

   

Utilizing all the blankets in the house, build a fort

So gather your kids and take a quick smile break. And while you’re at it, I’d love to hear your suggestions for making your own kids or grandkids smile!

 

My Somewhat Fictional Adventure (ok 97.5% fiction)

I’m a small town girl and a recent trip to a city only confirmed that fact… I pulled on my cowboy boots and tossed on my denim jacket. I drove to the airport, boarded the plane for my vacation on a visit to the relatives, and was on my way. As the plane took off, I gazed down at the world below me. Aah, for a couple of days, I would be basking in the hot sun working on my non-existent tan, and not missing a moment of the harsh weather I had been experiencing in my hometown. For a couple of days, I would be shopping in great shopping centers and malls and enjoying fine theaters and art museums. For a couple of days, I would actually be seeing more people than wildlife while driving down the freeway; the only animals where I was going were in zoos. I leaned back in the seat and sighed. The beach, the sun, the palm trees, the warm ocean breeze – my adventure awaited me. I stepped off the plane and could already see the palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze; these were nothing like the old cottonwood trees at home that shed a million leaves for me to rake. I fumbled around in my suitcase for my disposable camera and snapped a few shots of the foreign landscape. This would be a trip to remember! I needed a taxi, but this wouldn’t be too hard because this little gal from small-town USA had seen how to hail a taxi on TV. I stepped off the curb and whistled. As I did, I noticed a large barrage of vehicles coming toward me. They flew by me with such phenomenal speed that I thought I would blow over. It was more cars, trucks, and buses than I had seen in one year in my hometown. I took a step back onto the curb and tried again to whistle for a cab. Finally, one stopped for me when someone else rudely pushed me and my cowhide suitcase aside and jumped in MY cab! “Um, excuse me, you may not have realized?” I started to say, but it was too late. I missed the cab. I decided instead on a rental car. “We don’t have any pickup trucks available,” the rental agent told me. “Would you settle for a compact car?” What? No pickup trucks? For a moment, I longed for my beige 1979 Chevy dually that I fondly refer to as “Jed.” There was never a load of hay that old truck couldn’t haul and never a pile of snow it couldn’t plow through with its one-of-a-kind snowplow that my husband had specifically designed and welded for it. If only everyone could know the joy of owning such a vehicle. Minutes later, feeling cramped and very close to the ground, I drove to my hotel in the miniature compact car. I will say this for my new set of wheels, I was extremely impressed to see that I would be getting gas mileage in the double digits! Cars whizzed past me, narrowly missing my front bumper, as they erratically changed lanes. I took a wrong turn a couple of times and quickly realized that in the big city, you don’t make u-turns. Later, after finally reaching my hotel, I thought I would get some sleep time in before I headed to visit my relatives. No such luck. The line for check in was 18 people long (yes, I counted) and the place was extremely noisy. I had a throbbing headache by the time I was finished getting a room. I even tried to start a conversation with the clerk. She just glared at me and said in a booming voice, “NEXT!” The traffic outside my window was too noisy to allow any sleep, so I decided instead to head to the mall. The place was packed. Even at the high school Friday night football games in my hometown, there are not this many people. People were going in very direction and walking too fast. I could barely hear the click-clack of my cowboy boots on the crowded tile floor. People bounced off me as they ran into me. They did not even notice this little country girl struggling through the mass of people. More than once, I lay flattened on the floor and slowly drug myself to an upright position once again. Forget asking for directions. No one paid any attention to me. They were all in a hurry to get somewhere. I wondered if there might be a George Strait concert somewhere, so I hurried to follow the crowd. It was hours later with aching feet that I found out there was no concert, people just walked this fast and in all these different directions to get nowhere. I was very tired by the time I visited my relatives. They, of course, did not understand my harried look and racing heartbeat. They were used to this type of chaos. They talked about the weather and how they were wearing light sweaters in the 75-degree weather, and I was about to have a heatstroke in my “I Love Small Towns” T-shirt. Two days later, I was more than ready to leave. I kissed my relatives goodbye and boarded my plane, running faster than my short legs had ever run. I slunk back in my seat, exhausted. What had been planned as a relaxing vacation had taxed my nerves and had driven my normally low blood pressure to scarily high proportions. I knew now why I didn’t become the Wall Street executive that my parents had hoped I’d become. I closed my eyes tight. In a couple hours, I would be basking in the 20-degree sun of a northern winter. In a couple of hours, I would be enjoying the slow-paced friendly lifestyle I had grown up in and of which I had grown accustomed. In a couple of hours, I would be slowing down for a herd of deer to pass through my path or pausing to stop and watch an eagle spread its wings and soar peacefully through the vast sky. In a couple hours, I would be sitting by my crackling fireplace staring out the window at the beautiful mountains, or a blizzard, or the brilliant un-polluted star-filled air. In a couple hours?I could not wait! Once a small-town girl, always a small-town girl!

Adventures of the Tooth Fairy

I never realized what an interesting adventure it would be when I took on my new identity as the Tooth Fairy. You would think that since I’ve been exercising my role as the Tooth Fairy for almost 5 years now, I would be a professional at it. Not so. Sadly, I have made a few mistakes. Take for instance last week when Doodle lost a tooth and the Tooth Fairy actually slept through the night and forgot to pay a visit. Doodle was disappointed when her tooth was still in the tooth jar and there was no money.

I’m sad to admit, this wasn’t the first time this happened. It first happened to Sunshine and she was sure to tell everyone at school the next day the sad tale of how the Tooth Fairy had forgotten her. She seemed not to be convinced when I told her my lame excuse that the Tooth Fairy was so busy that she ran out of time since so many other children had lost teeth on the same night. Lon suggested I tell her that the Tooth Fairy had the night off. I don’t think Sunshine would have fallen for that excuse either. He also suggested I tell her that the Tooth Fairy had lost her own tooth and was preoccupied. None of these excuses worked. The following evening, she wrote the Tooth Fairy a polite letter regarding the incident.

Or another adventure…one night, I stumbled through the dark at 2:00 a.m. in a frenzy thinking there was only four hours left until dawn’s daylight and I (once again) nearly forgot again to trade money for a tooth. I reached groggily into my wallet in hopes that there was actually some money in there. I grabbed out a handful of coins, deposited them into a plastic baggie and made the trade. (Hint to first time Tooth Fairies, if you place the coins in a baggie, it makes less noise and therefore doesn’t awaken your child with the clink clank of coins).

In the morning, I found out that if my children keep losing teeth, I’m going to have to take up a fund. Sunshine burst out of her room and exuberantly said, “Mom! Guess what?! The Tooth Fairy brought me $4!”

I gasped. The going rate at our house is $1, yet Sunshine had ended up with $4 and it wasn’t even a “special” tooth. In the dark, I hadn’t been paying attention that the coins I’d withdrawn from my wallet were not pennies, but quarters and dimes.

Last week, between my kids, they lost three teeth in one week. I was running out of change and was desperate, so I did the only logical thing a Tooth Fairy can do. I zipped out to the garage at midnight and found a pile of pennies on Lon’s workbench. I scooped them up into a plastic baggie and made the trade. The next morning, Doodle had a strange look on her face. “Mom?” She asked, “Does the Tooth Fairy work with wood?”

“What?” I asked. This for sure topped the Tooth Fairy questions.

“Does the Tooth Fairy work with wood? See, I found this wood chip in the baggie with the money.”

Apparently, a wood chip had slipped in from Lon’s workbench. Go figure.

So what about all those questions about this amazing little fairy? “Mom, what does the Tooth Fairy do with all those teeth?” “How does she lift the tooth when she’s so small?” “Why does she want teeth? Isn’t that kind of weird?” “Where does she get the money?” “How does she decide how much to give?” “Why are some teeth worth more than others?” “What does she look like?” “Is she married?” “Is there only one or is there a family of Tooth Fairies?” and finally, “When I’m a ‘big woman’ [it's what my girls call female adults] can I meet the Tooth Fairy?” Depending on the day and whether or not I’m feeling creative, I can usually answer those questions with some degree of success.

Speaking of teeth, Sunshine wins the award for the most interesting ways of losing teeth. She’s pulled out a few herself, let me pull out one, and let Lon pull out one. Those are all typical ways. Now for the atypical – she lost one tooth when she was wrestling Lon and bounced into his rock hard abs. Her tooth fell out immediately. She yanked three teeth at school of her own, plus a couple of other children in her class. (Do I see dentistry in her future?) She’s lost a few biting into food, and finally, she pulled one at the dentist’s office while awaiting a teeth-cleaning appointment. Doodle’s only lost four teeth, so I’m sure there’ll be some adventures in losing teeth in her future too.

Phew! Who knew that being a Tooth Fairy could be so interesting? But isn’t it great to know that whether we are having a Tooth Fairy Adventure, settling sibling squabbles, or changing our 178th poopy diaper, God is there to help us every step of the way? He has promised He will never leave us nor forsake us, no matter what (Joshua 1:5). He gave us the blessing of our children and will equip us to raise them – He even assists us in being tooth fairies! What an awesome God we serve!

Sometimes Things Just Don’t Go As Planned…

Hello. My name is Penny and I’m a planner…wow, that certainly sounded like an opening for Planners Anonymous.

We planned our entire nine-day trip, which was to include a mission trip of sorts, as it involved attending two family reunions where we would be the only Christians in attendance. It would be a 20 hour trip from our home one way and would involve traveling through four states. The hotel reservations were made, the suitcases packed, and the truck cleaned out. But sometimes, things just don’t go as planned…

The day we left on our trip, plan number one fell through. I was sick with a bad chest cold. It was one of those kind where you feel as though you’ve been run over by a Mac truck. We spent the night in a hotel five hours from home begging the hotel night manager for more boxes of Kleenex and eating fast food from Taco Time at the cramped hotel table while watching Fox News. We debated about whether to return home instead of continuing on. Insanely, we decided to forge ahead.

Fast forward to a day after arriving in my hometown and relaxing at my aunt and uncle’s house. My husband, Lon, developed severe knee pain, complete with swelling and fever. The diagnosis of the kind doctor who fit us in (because he’s my grandpa’s doctor)–a severe infection known as staph. No traveling on to our next destination to family reunion funtime. Nope. Those extra eight hours of travel would have to be delayed, if not forgotten. That pretty much sums up the outcome of plan number two. As a matter of fact, we missed Lon’s family reunions entirely and had to just head back home.

Several things were certain at this point…no attending a family reunion with witnessing opportunities 8 hours away and no stopping along the way to visit my friend whose eight-year-old son is in the process of having a bone marrow transplant. Plans three and four thwarted.

I must say, though, that if we had been able to attend the reunions, we would have -

1. Missed out on spending a lot of time with my grandparents. We originally only had two days, now we had four. In addition, the kiddos stayed with my grandparents while we went to various doctor’s appointment for Lon’s leg. What a fun time they had with their great-grandparents! (This was especially great since my grandpa has been in poor health for quite some time).

2. Missed out on the opportunity of discovering that my grandma is quite the bug athlete. Let me explain. My youngest daughter told me, “Wow, Nanie [my grandma, her great grandma] is a pofessional [professional] at catching flies!” Yes, with the agility of a gymnast and the speed of a bullet, 80 year-old Nanie opened her right hand and in an instant caught that nasty fly that dared fly into her house.

3. Missed out on extra time with my aunt and uncle, who graciously allowed us to spend our entire time at their house. In the process, our daughters were able to spend time with the horses, Sandy Abby and Polka-dot Charlie.

4. Missed out on visits with my father-in-law whom we see only rarely was another good part. Our daughters call him Grandpa Pollywog. This is two-fold – his name is Paul and he’s quite a small guy. If he and my mother-in-law were still married (or if he was remarried) it would have been fun to call her Tadpole.

5. Our daughters would have missed out on baby puppies, goats, chickens, and ducks whom my youngest was carrying on a conversation with with her exceptional duck calling voice. They were so excited to discover that Nanie had a farm!

So I learned an important thing…sometimes things don’t go as planned and that’s ok and it’s sometimes for a reason. Sometimes God has different plans for us, than our own plans, whether they be something big or something smaller, such as a vacation gone awry.

By the way, did I mention that we had to stop halfway back home at the Urgent Care because Lon’s staph infection had gotten worse?…

Life at the Airport Part Two

My heart pounded as I raced across what seemed like miles and miles. My breath came in gasps and my eyes darted nervously from place to place in search of the one I was to follow. My heavy backpack thunked against my back and I raced to keep up with him. What if…

Ok, let me back up a bit. On my last blog, I spoke of life in an airport and how we were traveling across the country to promote “77 Ways Your Family Can Make a Difference: Ideas and Activities for Serving Others.” We had a flight delay, finally boarded the plane, landed safely for our connecting flight…but then as I glanced down at my wrinkled flight plan paper, I realized we had only 10 minutes to catch our connecting flight due to our hour and 15 minute delay.

 

Our connecting flight awaited us - but could we reach it in time?

This would not have been so bad if things had gone smoothly, but they didn’t. We landed near Concourse F. I was ecstatic because we had been inadvertantly told by airport personnel that our gate would be from Concourse F. When we landed and checked the boards, we realized this wasn’t the case, well not unless we were flying to Tallahassee or Mexico, in which case we weren’t. No, in reality, we would be boarding our connecting flight out of Concourse C a mere three alphabets away. Now, with 8 minutes to spare, Lon and I looked at each other and knew what we must do. We’ve been married a LONG time and can read each other’s minds at times (scary!)

We've been married a LONG time & can read each other's minds (I'm reading Lon's in this photo and he's thinking he doesn't want his picture taken!)

We must, in record time, reach our gate lest we be stuck in the airport for the next flight and suffer as Tom Hanks had in that airport movie he was in.

 

Lon grabbed our two suitcases and I fixed the large black backpack securely on my back. Did I mention that Lon has a bad back and I have a bad leg? Lon began to run, recalling his days as a track star in high school. Although athletic, I was never a track star, but I recalled how I am always “running late” to appointments, school, and my children’s activities. With such memories, we RAN through the airport.

Now, if it was empty, running through Chicago O’Hare would be no big deal. But this wasn’t the case. The airport was EXTREMELY crowded. I’m talking shoulder to shoulder people. This is still such a culture shock for Lon and I as we are such small town people. We don’t see this many people at once in our town EVER. Herds of antelope, yes. Herds of people, no.

“Excuse me!” we said nearly every minute. The worst is when you get locked behind a group of very slow-moving folks with a 9 hour layover and you can’t get around them. Fortunately, Lon is not a small man and he paved the way for both of us, yes, with more recollections of playing defensive end in high school football. (Why is it that in airports so many school memories come to mind?)

My heart began to pound and I tried desperately to keep my focus on Lon, who at times was far ahead of me. I know now that next time I will convince him to wear a flourescent green shirt so he stands out. The heavy backpack (about 30 pounds) thunked against my back. I prayed constantly that if it was the Lord’s will, we would reach Concourse C and catch our flight. I didn’t even want to think about missing my TV appearance early tomorrow morning.

Speaking of TV, it was as if we were in a movie – as if the bad guys were after us as we ran through the airport to take the highly-confidential, world-saving, government information to the FBI, who was waiting for us in Concourse C. Our informant had told us Concourse F, but now come to find out, our informant was really on the side of the bad guys… All we needed was that highly dramatized music.

Have you ever run on those little moving sidewalks? It’s not easy. Have you ever catapulted over suitcases with rolly wheels? So many times I nearly tripped over the suitcases of others. Lon jumped over them as if he were jumping hurdles in track and field. I desperately looked for a way around them, and then stumbled over them wishing there was thick plush carpet in the airport. Every time we would think we were close to our destination, there would be another sign with an arrow. We considered the subway, but after seeing the line, knew that to continue to run was our best method.

After a mile of running, we reached Concourse C. Thank the Lord we had two, yes two, minutes left of boarding our flight.

Have you ever been out of breath from sheer anxiety and then were gasping for air in the closed-up (extremely stinky) confines of a plane?

Phew! Thankfully we reached our plane and made it to our destination. It’s always amazing to me that even in the small things of the threat of missing a plane, God is there, guiding us through it all.

Praise the Lord! We made it to our connecting flight at last!

Airport Life

Have you ever had an exciting experience in an airport? If so, then you will be able to identify with what happened to me recently.

My husband Lon and I were on our way across the country promoting my most recent book “77 Ways Your Family Can Make a Difference.” At our first airport, we were sure to arrive early (who knew 10 years ago that we’d someday have to arrive 70 minutes before boarding?!) It takes quite awhile just to get through security. I laughed (to myself) when the security officer opened my husband’s carry-on suitcase and found, much to his surprise, a roll brush, a hair straightener, and a makeup bag. I quickly assured the security officer that it was my stuff, I just hadn’t been able to fit it into my suitcase. (I’m looking forward to the day when carry-ons can include a suitcase large enough to actually fit something besides a pair of socks!) The security guard nodded and glanced at my husband with his buzz haircut. It was better than the last time in the airport two weeks prior when Lon accidentally dropped my suitcase and my underwear fell out. That was quite embarrassing.

Almost an hour after being in the airport, I glanced up at the board that indicates flight schedules when much to my horror (but not surprise), I realized our plane had been delayed an hour and 15 minutes. Sighing, I returned to my seat and informed Lon of the news. (He didn’t believe me – why is it that husbands are so suspicious? He had to get up and verify for himself that I was right We would have to do something to busy ourselves for a little bit longer. Lon and I were already bleary-eyed from busy schedules and an early-morning awakening to drive the two hours to the airport. However, trying to sleep at the airport is futile.

I decided to get up and get something to eat. After all, by the time we reached our connecting flight, it would be two hours later. I know my body well enough to know that if I fly on an empty stomach, life for me and the fellow passengers will not be pleasant. (Yep, I’m the girl who was always sick on the merry-go-round in elementary school, but I’ll save that story for another time). By the way, why are the barf bags paper instead of plastic?

In line at the pizza counter, I began to laugh to myself when two gentlemen were discussing the delay in the plane’s arrival with much confusion. “But the board said the flight would only be 20 minutes late a few minutes ago,” insisted the man with the large cowboy hat.

“Well now it’s’ up to an hour and and 15 minutes,” said his comrade, shaking his graying head.

The cowboy hat man shook his head in disbelief. “We won’t look at the board again,” he said. I think he was afraid that the next time he looked it would say the flight was 6 hours late. I wanted to tell the men that they were actually looking at the wrong flight. The flight they were to board (and I knew this because I had heard them speak of their destination – writers are excellent eavesdroppers) was truly an hour and 15 minutes late and had been for quite awhile. Another flight and the wrong one – but the one they were looking at – was really 20 minutes late. But I didn’t get the chance to tell them.

So back at my seat with a large piece of pepperoni pizza, I settled back and watched as Lon changed settings on his cell phone and checked for messages. I love to watch people in the airport because I get excellent ideas for characters for my novels this way. I take a few different characteristics from several different people and wam, I have the perfect main or secondary character. Looking around at the folks in the airport also gives me a chance to pray for them. Nope, I didn’t know anyone there, but I could pray for them that whatever they were going through in their lives that God would help them with it. Or better yet, I prayed for their salvation.

Another way to pass time at an airport is to see how many people look like people you know. Together, Lon and I saw about six people who closely resembled people we knew. We tried to guess where they were going and what they were doing. Lon gives himself much less credit than he deserves. He’s actually quite creative. I contained myself from drawing carricatures like I had when we were on a Greyhound Bus one time on a VERY long journey due to an emergency airplane landing. I’ll tell you that story another time because it’s quite comical. But since this is a story about airport life, I’ll hold off on life on a bus.

Finally, the time had come when the plane begins boarding. At 1:45 instead of 12:30, Lon and I boarded the plane to our connecting flight. I settled into the seat of the plane, prayed for safe arrival, and marveled at the cottony blanket of clouds below us. All was well until we landed in Chicago for our connecting flight. That’s when I glanced down at our flight schedule and realized we had exactly 10 minutes before our next flight left…

to be continued…

How to Know You’re Not a Cowgirl…

The day couldn’t get any better. Not a cloud in the vivid blue sky and the forested landscape was like none I’d ever seen before. I was in the company of those I love most in this world. So what could possibly go wrong on such a perfect day?

I suppose I should give a bit of background here…my family and I were on an extended RV road trip across four states. It was going to be a relaxing trip with fun activities planned in between days of traveling down the interstate.

Ready for a relaxing adventure...

On the second day of our trip, we decided to go horseback riding in the mountains. Yes, I’ve been on a horse many times before. As a matter of fact, I’m not new to the horse world. I rode horses a couple of times – you know those ones that go around in circles at fairs? Yes, I rode those quite often as a kid. I also rode a horse once in Yellowstone at the age of 16 and (un)fortunately fell into the arms of a helpful (and handsome) cowboy in an attempt to climb into the saddle. I also had gone horseback riding once as an adult in the mountains near Stanley, Idaho. I’ve also grown up in and continue to live in the rural West. In addition, I grew up riding motorcycles and go-carts. That counts for something, doesn’t it? So by all standards, I am a cowgirl, right?

Wrong.

When I first saw the horse I was to ride, I thought I’d never seen a finer animal. He was big, strong, and had a light golden coat with a dark mane and tail. My oldest daughter, who professes to be a true horsewoman, told me he was a Palmio. My family members each had their own horses to ride, yet none of them were as beautiful and peaceful looking as the one I’d been loaned. His name was Ace.

"Yes, yes," I smile convincingly, "I am an experienced cowgirl. Riding Ace should be a breeze!"

I quickly convinced myself and everyone else that I was an experienced cowgirl and that riding Ace would be no problem at all. After all, he seemed so peaceful, so…

I am now persuaded more than ever that to judge something by its exterior is a huge mistake and is likely to incur consequences. Hey, that would be a great topic for a devotional. Anyway…

I climbed on the back of Ace and, with my husband Lon and two daughters, set out for our ride in the mountains. Lon’s horse was named Moose – a very large horse with even larger buns. As a matter of fact, I’d never seen such large buns on an animal. Of course, Lon couldn’t be given a Shetland Pony – it just wouldn’t be right. No, Lon was thankful they’d given him a large animal to hold his own large muscular frame – and Moose was a lot of horse.

Lon and his horse named Moose

My oldest daughter had a beautiful quarterhorse named Buddy and my youngest daughter had a speckled Dalmation-type horse named Hombre. Of course, my youngest changed his name to “Betsy” because she didn’t like the name “Hombre.”

I was riding Ace calmly on the mountain trail through a gorgeous meadow. Of course, horseback riding is no problem for an award-winning horsewoman (ok, I’m exaggerating a bit), right?

Wrong.

How could anything go wrong in these gorgeous surroundings? Especially for a top-champion horsewoman?

We continue riding through some of God’s most gorgeous Creation. Ace and I are getting along fine. However, I become slightly suspicious when Ace stops for a long drink and refuses to start walking again.

"Don't worry," I tell my nervous self. "Ace is only stopping for a quick drink of water."

The minutes grow longer…

After what seems like Ace drinking in the creek for hours, I become suspicious that the stubborn Ace is really a donkey in disguise.

Finally, just when I was giving up all hope, Ace begins to walk again. A few minutes later, I realized that something could go wrong. That’s when Ace decided that he would show me who was the boss. Why is it that it’s always when you’re relaxed and have let your guard down that something unexpected happens? Ace stopped, backed up, then with lightening-type speed, jumped over some high logs. It was like in those horse movies with the “jumper horses.” Unprepared, I screamed with a scream that echoed through the entire forest. Ace came back down to the ground with a thud. Lon looked behind him to see me with my sunglasses off my face, my hair disheveled, and my demeanor anything but calm. He told me he wished he’d had the camera as it was truly a Kodak moment.

But, that was all right. I am a cowgirl, right?

Wrong.

We came to a stream and Ace decided to take a drink. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw my youngest daughter’s horse, Betsy Hombre, stop to take a drink too and that’s when he lost his temper. Rearing his head back, he bit my daughter’s horse in the ear, causing me to fear my daughter would be bucked off her horse. Thank the Lord she hung on tight.

Later, as we viewed some curly-horned rams on the hillside, Ace decided to have another fit. His ears went back and the next thing I knew, he was bucking and kicking his legs behind him. I hung on for dear life. “Please Lord,” I prayed, “Don’t let me fall off!!!”

For a moment I was transformed from my quiet life into the life of a bullrider in front of millions of guests in the packed stands at one of the biggest rodeo performances in my life. The crowd was cheering as the animal tried every attempt to unsuccessfully dislodge me from his back…Fearless (not really) I hung on with only one hand and with the other waved it in the air. My cowboy hat securely on my head I made proud my parents who had worked 16 jobs at once to put me through cowgirl school…

Ok, after that brief break, we return to the real story. For the record, I was scared, I’ve never been to a cowgirl school, and I’ve never even been to a rodeo, oh and my parents never worked 16 jobs at once.

Other times, Ace would just spontaneously take off into a bumpy gallop. Clutching the reigns, I hung on the best I could. I tried to relax and let the wind blow through my hair, but the ride was too bumpy and too fast for this novice.

When we returned to camp later that afternoon, I was more than thankful to be done with my horsebackriding experience. The girls could talk of nothing else the rest of the day other than their wonderful and exciting horseback rides. I wanted to talk about anything else except my day as a cowgirl.

The next morning, I awoke with welts on my behind and aches and pains in my back from clenching my muscles during the ride. If you find yourself in a similar circumstance, rest assured you’ll know right away, as I did, that you’re not a cowgirl!

From here on out, this girl is sticking to a safer mode of transportation!