I’m on the final count-down finishing a manuscript.The other day I jokingly e-mail my brother, who is working on his manuscript, that I should lock myself in my office and have my husband pass food through the crack until my novel is done.You know what they say, be careful what you wish for…Wednesday night I am happily typing away, words flow like– molasses off a spoon. I stand up to stretch. I hear the sounds of the Atlanta Braves game my husband has on in the living room. “Crack, roar” Oops, wrong fans cheering,(They are losing…again). I glance through the little glass window in my office door (it’s probably thirty years old, but very quaint). A cold root beer will be good right about now.I turn the door handle and nothing happens. I push the little button, off, on, turn again. Nothing. O.K. I laugh to myself. Ooh, I might be locked in. How funny would that be? I jiggle the door handle. I rattle the door handle. I kick the door. By this time I am not giggling. “Trip, trap” Charlie our dog comes in the adjoining sun room through her doggie door. “Charlie, go get your Daddy!” I have visions of Lassie, bounding through the field to save Timmy.
Charlie however, is no Lassie. She looks at me with her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth, and walks back outside through the doggie door. I guess she has better things to do than to save the one who FEEDS her.
I bang the door loudly with the palm of my hand.”Boom”, My husband yells though the roar of the Braves game, “Do you need help?”
“Um,” I yell back, pressing my lips to the glass window.”YEAH,I’M LOCKED IN!”
A screwdriver and hacksaw later, I’m free. My hero. He has to sacrifice the thirty year-old door handle though.
Next time I’m tempted to exaggerate what lengths I will go to in order to finish a manuscript, I’ll think twice. Who knows, I could end up worse than being locked in a room. Now that I know I don’t have Lassie to rescue me!
Auto Clean System!
Turns off automatically–on its heel rest, on its side, or on its soleplate–and beeps to let you know it’s activated!
Sounds vaguely like a space-age sports car?
Wrong, it’s my newest purchase, a state of the art—iron.
It seems people fall into three camps concerning ironing:
Camp 1: Manic Laundry Mavens: If it sits still long enough, iron it! These are the folks who iron pillow cases, sheets, blue jeans and yes (my mother-in-law confessed to this once) underwear. These folks steam deliriously away, attacking wrinkles like they are the next great plague of mankind. Everything about them is crisp, crisp, crisp. You know who you are. Your shirt collars point impeccably where they should, instead of curling up at the ends like yesterday’s wilted lettuce. These folks are wonderful to visit, their sheets feel like sleeping on satin clouds…Manic Laundry Mavens keep spray starch companies stock going up.
Camp 2: “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t”: These laundry managers iron on a whim. They are the “refuse to be pigeon-holed people”. These free spirits iron favorite articles of clothing; or, not. On any given day you may find them digging furiously in the laundry pile for a clean shirt, or proudly hanging a freshly ironed dress in the closet. Good to have around when you are going to an important event, they don’t mind dragging out the old ironing board at a moments notice, since they seem to iron article by article anyway.
Camp 3: “Laundry sucks the life out of me” ironing procrastinators: You see them in the early mornings when others are pulling out of the driveway heading for work: they are pushing the “on” button on the dryer to tumble their shirt one last time in a vain attempt to relax some of the wrinkles.These ironing procrastinators have the nicest, newest looking irons in the neighborhood…because they never get used.
I refuse to tell you which camp I fall into. Information like that could ruin my reputation, not to mention my relationship with my mother-in-law. Now, excuse me while I hit the “on” button one more time on my dryer. It’s almost time to leave for work…
“This is the best sticker…” The speaker paused and took a breath for emphasis, “EVER!”
I was working at my desk in the pediatrician’s office and I had to stand up to look over the counter to see the source of the tiny voice.
She looked at me triumphantly with piercing blue eyes, peering through blonde ringlets of hair. Clutched in her tiny fist was a wrinkled “Elmo” sticker.
I was touched by her total abandonment to joy, her simplicity and at the same time, deep sincerity.
I remembered when I came to Christ. Everything was brand new, every leaf shouted the glory of His name, every sunset a symphony.
It was the best day of my life…EVER.
Luke 18:15-17 People were also bringing babies to Jesus to have him touch them. When the disciples saw this, they rebuked them. 16But Jesus called the children to him and said, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. 17I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”
Well, they did it.
They went and got married.
Don’t get me wrong, they didn’t run off to the courthouse.
No, it was witnessed by somewhere around the neighborhood of two hundred people, and yet, it was just the two of them.
It was just the two of them, as she rounded the corner of the lodge and saw him standing there in the archway filled with trailing wisteria.
It was just the two of them, as he cupped his hands around her waist and drew her to him; told her how beautiful she looked.
It was just the two of them, preparing to spend the rest of their lives together, and in a whisper of a breeze and the grace of God, we were permitted to watch.
There weren’t always just two standing there though.
Sometime during the ceremony, about the time the communion cup pressed their lips, three people stood at the altar; two in fleshly bodies,
one in a heavenly one.
My tomato plants are hanging upside down, as is most of my household. We are in those frantic last few days before my oldest daughter’s wedding. Two households are in some sort of wedding induced chaos; the bride’s household and the groom’s.
As I packed some magazines that were going to my daughter’s new home, I spotted “Brides” magazine on the top of the pile.
On the cover was a smiling, perfectly coiffed bride (of course) holding a perfectly fresh bouquet of perfectly arranged flowers. (She wasn’t even sweating,not one perfect glisten.)
I wondered if the paper doll bride had just:
Moved all her belongings into her new place one week before the wedding because her parents air conditioner just broke.
Spent the majority of that week living with her future in-laws due to said lack of air conditioning.
Watched as her future in-laws battled ripping up their kitchen flooring due to a water leak, and trying to replace the flooring before a wave of out-of-town relatives descended upon them.
I would have to go with answer: A. I bet not.
But then again I would also wager the paper doll bride had never experienced growing up within a few streets of the guy she dated and would later marry. I doubt if she knew what it was like to have that boy of years ago, nervous and sweet, hand her a cardboard package that he ordered “Just because he is my friend Mom.” Which, when opened contained a proclamation that “The International Star Registry doth hereby re designate star number Andromeda RA 23h 15m 31s D 36′ 9′ to the name Stacy’s Starlight.”
Paper doll brides never get to find out that there is a sweetness to overcoming adversity; that the most appreciated things in life sometimes are the most difficult to achieve. That when it is all said and done, married is married. Whether the ceremony goes flawlessly or not; at the end of the evening it will only be the two of them; gazing at the stars together as husband and wife.
That lasagna from last night’s dinner is sitting like a rock in my stomach right now, but that’s not the only thing keeping me awake. Within thirteen months my husband and I will have had weddings for two of our three daughters, and the third will be graduating high school.
Talk about lifestyle change.
I’m not ready for them to leave.
“Well, yeah, what did you think would happen when they grew up?” You ask.
But that’s just it, I never saw it coming. It was like that nice, comforting plate of steaming lasagna. I enjoyed every bit of it, until it came to an end. Now I’m left with dirty dishes and a need for Pepto Bismol.
How I wish we could hold on to them. “That’s not the real world.” You say.
Well fine, let me have a bit of fantasy, OK?
Let me hold on to their little sticky hands a bit longer.
Let me braid their hair one more time, and separate them when they are fighting over who gets the pretty Barbie and who has to play with the one their baby sister decided to give a haircut.
Let me read them Richard Scarry’s books at bedtime, and make all the funny noises and see them giggle with delight.