Ubuntu

I sent out Christmas cards this year for the first time ever.

I can tell that I am going to hate sending out Christmas cards.

Not because of the work it requires or the insanely over-priced stamps. Not because I swore I would never send out a Christmas card that only read "Merry Christmas" and had our names on it (Who wants that kind of uneventful card? Give me some juicy life details please!) And not because I am forced to evaluate my incredibly inconsistent, scrawny penmanship while trying to remember where the comma goes in the address. These are just minor causes for concern in the grand scheme of card sending.

The problem is, nobody wrote me back.

I mean, did they get my card? Did they think the picture of Annie in her Santa outfit with her stuffed animals was cute? Did the card arrive before Christmas or after? Would they like to reciprocate my card with an email or letter? Shouldn't they say, "We got your Christmas card," and then proceed to strike up a conversation?

Granted, I've never responded to a Christmas card in my life. But now that I'm on the other side of sending, I realize I want a return card acknowledging that the card arrived and letting me know whether they liked it or not. I've decided...

Next year I am going to send a self-addressed envelope with my Christmas cards so I can get a response.

Thank you...

I started thinking about this last night as I was reading an e-mail from a girl in Thailand who reads this blog and had her own mouse-horror story to share with me. I was laughing so hard by the end that I was in tears. And it hit me, this girl who I don't know, just invited me into her life and into her story. I felt truly honored.

Lately I find myself reading your comments in response to my ramblings and I feel overwhelmed that you have decided to be a part of my journey. Thank you for your encouragement, your love, and your consistency. Thank you for letting me share my life with you. And more importantly, thank you for sharing your own stories with me, because in so doing, you invite me to become a small part of your life too.

Our Only Commodity

At lunch today, my friend Mark recounted a conversation he had with his friend about economics. They were talking about their commodities and the value of gold when it dawned on Mark that gold only has value because we have given it value. Along that line, nothing intrinsically has worth unless we as humans deem it so. And at the end of it all, those things which we give worth to on this earth will cease to exist. So, he reasoned, the only true commodity that we have is ourselves. Everything else is just stuff. But ourselves?

Our journeys, our stories, our compassion, our time, our hearts, our minds, our talents, our humanity... that is ours and ours alone to give. Our only true commodity.

Lord knows I don't have money and we can barely pay the bills each month. I have no assets. I don't own a house. And I drive my 1999 Ford Escort. There are no savings, no 401 K plans, no stocks or bonds, no commodities to speak of. But I have a voice. I am spirited. I am a lover of people. And I have a soul. These intangible, intrinsic gifts are the greatest commodities in the world.

I can't buy you a car... but I can love you. I can't invest in Wall Street... but I can create and invent. I can't own my own house, but I can make a home and invite you in. You might be able to offer me money, cars, houses, stocks, companies, clothes, or food but these things can disappear in a moment. And then what commodities will you have to offer? Your commodity is yourself, the only true thing you can give me, or anyone else in this world.

(Though don't get me wrong, I will not protest if you send me a new car or a cute outfit :)

Ubuntu

So this all leads me back to sitting in bed last night reading an email from a girl in Thailand who is telling me about her and the roommates and the pet mouse. And I realized I was so happy to hear her story. And I started thinking about those Christmas cards again and how disappointed I was that the whole Christmas card institution doesn't include a return card that lets the sender know the card was received with great love and affection. And I thought...

Ubuntu.

Archbishop Desmond Tutu begins his Me We book series with this profound line:

"If I diminish you, I diminish myself.

Ubuntu addresses a central tenet of African philosophy:

the essence of what it means to be human...

To recast the Cartesian proposition "I think therefore I am," ubuntu would phrase it, "I am human because I belong." Put another way, "a person is a person through other people," a concept perfectly captured by the phrase "me we." No one comes into this world fully formed. We would not know how to think or walk or speak or behave unless we learned it from our fellow human beings. We need other human beings in order to be human. The solitary, isolated human being is a contradiction in terms."

Ubuntu. You make me human. I make you human. If I diminish you, I also diminish myself for I have robbed myself of my own humanity. But if I love you, if I befriend you, if I forgive you; I love and befriend and forgive myself... I humanize us both.

I love this concept. And what a powerful tool it is in the hands of a man who has dedicated his life to ending apartheid; to ending war and hatred. To say to people, "Look, when you rape you not only harm the victim, you harm yourself and you become a little less human. But when you forgive, when you choose peace, freedom, and compassion as a way to interact with your enemies, you not only change their lives for the better, but you confer the goodness of your own humanity onto yourself as well."

This series of books put out by Reverend Tutu are only $1.99 in the Bargain Books section at almost any Borders Bookstore (they are perfect gifts, I suggest stocking up); but every time I open up these books to read the quotes of Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King, or Desmond Tutu I know I am reading wisdom that is worth millions of dollars.

This particular book in the series, Believe, has a quote on one page from TuTu that simply says: I love being loved.

And I think that sums it up for me. I love being loved. I love loving others, but I desperately love being loved as well.

So when I share my life with you, I am choosing to love you. To invite you into my world and my journey. When you respond, you are loving me back and inviting me into your journey. And together that means we are sharing ubuntu: the essence of what it means to be human. To add to one another or to diminish one another. This is the only true commodity we have to offer.

Ourselves.

My prayer is that you, whoever you are, will realize the power and worth of your commodity. It is rare. It is precious. It is unique. And it is the heart of what we were created for: to love God, to love others.

The essence of our humanity is simply being human with one another. And as strange as it may sound, I am glad to be human with you.

Again, I don't make this stuff up...

At 6:30 this morning Annie let out three short, blood curling screams.

I have speed like a tiger and the reflexes of a cheetah.

I have graduated.

I am officially a mama bear who will eat your head off and scratch your eyeballs out if you endanger my child.

I bolted out of bed and had her in my arms within seconds. She was screaming in short bursts and we had no idea what was going on. She sounded horrified and was clearly in pain, but that doesn't help me diagnose anything, so I just held her. My prognosis? I think she caught a cold and the symptoms didn't show up until after she fell asleep. That's when the nasty mucus shows its ugly head. I think it ran down her throat and collected there, in a little puddle, until it gagged her. At which point she threw up. But since she was laying down, she choked.

At least that's how it played out in my head. And that's why she smelled like sweet potato- formula-puke.

We tried everything. A bottle. Apple juice. A teething biscuit. A cold towel. Tylenol. Natural pain relief teething drops. Light. Dark. Rocking. Bouncing. Mom. Dad. Pillows. New diaper. Naked. Not naked. Nothing could soothe. What a heart wrenching feeling.

So this is what it's like to love something so much that you can only agonize for them as they endure pain? Pain they didn't ask for. Or pain they brought upon themselves. It doesn't matter. When you love someone who is so intricately a part of your existence and there is nothing you can do but hold them and whisper 'I love you' while they fight the demons, I think you get a small taste of what it must feel like to be God.

Annie fell asleep on me in the most uncomfortable chair in the house. In her make-shift bedroom in our manager's house. The walk-in closet. My head was wedged in between the two wooden shelves behind me and she was sprawled over me like a spider monkey. I was trapped. After an hour and a half of screams and cries and little tear drops that danced down her face and landed on her trembling hands, her eyes grew heavy, and she was gone.

I was grateful. The uncomfortable chair was a welcome reprieve if it meant a peaceful baby. My eyes were so heavy. I nodded off.

And that's when I felt it.

The bottom of my pajama pants moved.

They tugged a little.

A little breeze of air.

Something touched my skin.

My eyes popped open.

"Don't wake her up Jenny. You are imagining this. There is nothing down there. Stop freaking out."

And that's when I felt it. I felt it. I for sure felt something. There's something down there.

Little tiny feet scurrying over mine. Little. Tiny. FEET.

And there, in the closet where my baby has been sleeping (not in a crib, but two inches off the floor on a mattress) runs a fat, nasty, pudgy mouse.

With Annie finally asleep in my arms, I jump on top of that chair faster than I've done anything in my life. I scream in the loudest and most angry (I think I get angry when I am scared) voice I have for Ryan. He comes in confused and hostile for being woken up with such a frantic voice. And I tell him there is a mouse crawling around in this closet with our daughter and I run to the bedroom with her.

He comes back to tell me he has trapped it in a different closet. Cordoned it off with a towel and chair. Annie sleeps through the whole ordeal. And I lay in bed holding her wondering, "what kind of mom am I?" And that's when I hear it...

It's back. I jump up in the bed and hit my head on the fan. Annie wakes up and starts crying. Ryan wakes up all crazy and sleepy again. He tells me to calm down.

Calm down?

"There is a beep*beep*beep (fill in your favorite expletive here. Sorry, I did) one foot away from our baby, running around our bedroom, eating our child in her sleep, about to crawl into our bed and you want me to calm down? Kill the MOUSE. Get him out of here now. NOW."

Now I got a few tears collecting in my eyes. I start to wonder what I am doing with my life. I start to feel sorry for myself. I start feeling resentful. But then I catch myself.

How can a mouse make you question your entire livelihood?

I come back to my senses. It's just a mouse. Like Fievel in American Tale. Mighty Mouse. Mickey Mouse. Or the entire cast of Ratatouille. Well, those are rats, but they're all in the same family. Some kids live in slums and have wild monkeys running around their villages. Some kids ride donkeys and eat insects. But this is just a little mouse who is cold. That's all.

Ryan chases the mouse out of the room. Down the hallway. And into Travis' room. Later, Jeff kills it with a piece of ice and plywood and I am very sad that the mouse has to die.

Then it's 8:00 a.m. Time to get Annie ready to go to the studio. 9:00 a.m. recording time. The day is just starting...

this is going to be a long day :)

Quips

***Ah the mounting moments to expose***

The other night Ryan says he gets thirsty in the shower. I said that was a perfect place to get thirsty. He looked at me like I was crazy. As if drinking shower water were equal to drinking toilet water? Poor kid. He may not catch snowflakes with his tongue, either.

***

I was standing in line at Kohl's the other night with 20 disgruntled customers. There were only two registers open on the women's side of the store and they were extremely slow. When you are one of twenty people, that kind of line feels like the DMV. While others cursed under their breath, folded their arms across their chest and sighed, and made eye contact with other line-waiters and said, "well this is just ridiculous isn't it," I thought to myself, "why get mad when I can get smart?"

Thank God for the therapist who taught me this line.

The employees paged for back-up numerous times, but no one was coming. So the non-twitter, non-facebook, non- technology queen decided to pull a very techno-savvy move. I simply took out my iPhone, looked up the store's number, called, and asked to speak to a customer service representative. I kindly told her that there were 20 of us waiting in line in the women's department and I was wondering if there was anyone in the back that might be able to answer the pages for back-up because people were getting a little hostile. The people around me said this was a brilliant idea. It wasn't brilliant; it was just a conscious choice not to waste my anger on a long line.

Within a minute there were two managers up front apologizing and checking us out themselves. I smiled at my cashier lady and left happy that I implemented all that shrink-therapy for the common good of my local Kohl's shoppers... don't get mad, get smart.

***

The worst thing I did last year was leave a mean letter on somebodies car who had parked in not one, not two, not three, but FOUR parking spots. We were in Nashville trying to park at a busy restaurant and some guy (is it sexist that I assume it was some guy? Not a man. Not a woman. Not a teenager. But a punk twenty-something year old guy) took four spots to park his Yukon. He centered his car in between two rows, pulled in from behind, and parked squarely in the middle of his little box. We ended up parking in the back and walking around a cold building with a five month old. I didn't think much about it until the guys started saying what a jerky thing that was. Our conversation quickly changed and dinner progressed, but there we were an hour later leaving the building and his car was still there, and all of a sudden I was struck with anger.

They're right. What a jerk. I have a freaking baby. What's wrong with this dude taking up so many spots. So I wrote a note. I know. I wasn't thinking smart, I was just thinking angry. I said, "It was incredibly rude of you to take up 4 spots. I have a five month old baby and would have loved one of these spots next to the building. Get over yourself and your car."

I stuck it on his windshield and walked away. The guys were dying from severe fear of conflict and they were convinced I was going to get caught (looking back, I think they were probably just embarrassed by my actions). But then they decided we should drive to the back of the parking lot to see if the owner would come out and find his note. Sick entertainment, I know. At first this was pretty funny. We would try to guess whose car it might be as people came out. But the longer I sat there, the longer I felt bad about leaving such a nasty letter for one of those people. They all looked pretty nice.

I told the guys I wanted to go take it off his car. Maybe he had a good reason for taking up that many spots. Or maybe the letter would really hurt him. Or maybe it was a she. But taunting me, they drove off, and the letter stayed on the car and I still feel guilty. Very guilty. And this was a wake up call (I need a solid ten a year): I stand by my underlying belief that justice isn't nearly as sweet as you intend for it to be.

***

My thrifty nature is becoming overwhelming. My friend bought me some fancy-shmancy mineral powder make-up for my birthday. It cost $40. She said it would be perfect for my skin on stage and during photo shoots. She said some other things too, but I didn't hear her, all I heard was, "forty-dollars." I could start a little chicken farm with $40. I could buy two entire outfits. Or pay half of the electricity bill. $40 is a small fortune and here it is all naked and exposed in a tiny dish? This made me nervous and I immediately enacted (in my head) a little-dish-security-detail. I treat this Petri dish of miracle powder like it's fairy dust from Tinkerbell herself.

I hate this powder.

Every time I open it up I see little plumes of powder disappear in the air and I freeze in horror. That's .75 cents flying away. It must be caught. CATCH IT!!! CATCH IT!!!

I get my little powder brush, bob my head from side to side, up and down, and then flail about the bathroom trying to catch my .75 cents worth. I run my finger along the sink where it settles and put the powder straight on my face. I find little flecks on my shirt and insist on transferring them to my finger so that I can place them on my nose. I refuse to let these minerals go anywhere else but my face. I will use Every. Single. Mineral.

If you were watching me, I am sure I would look insane. Waving my hands around to try and fan something invisible onto my face, focusing on nothing, and then aiming my powder brush in mid-air and smiling a smirky, money crazed smile, as I capture the renegade minerals... You can't give me anything nice or expensive. I spend way too much time trying to make sure I take full advantage of its value. Like the way I treat my toenails after a pedicure. Walking around on my heels with a horrible look on my face as I try and keep my toes separated so I don't mess up the paint... and that goes on for days. Let's face it. Expensive things make me a crazy-o.

***

In a recent TV show recording we were discussing our Alma Mater, Baylor University, and I was explaining that the school was a bit of a culture shock for me because I grew up in the semi-ghetto and I had never been around so many rich, white people. I then said, "It was so weird to be in that environment. Coming from such a multi-ethnic community and high school and I just wanted to scream 'Where's your black people?"

Well, apparently it is not politically correct to say that because everyone got quiet, the guys diverted their eyes to the floor, the interviewers laughed a nervous laugh, and I got flustered because I felt like I embarrassed everybody and it was a small train wreck.

But can I just say, I hate that I have to be so "politically correct?"

I count it the best blessing in the world that I grew up in such a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic community. I love that Ryan and I live in a neighborhood that has more Indian markets than grocery stores. I love that I can go to the park down the street and let Annie play side by side with an African-American, Hispanic, Indian, or fill in the blank, child. I love that she will know people of different faiths, cultures, languages. I am not a racist. I have both dated and had dear friends from numerous ethnicity's; the color of someones skin is equivalent to the color of their eyes for me.

I rarely know what color eyes someone has.

I'm pretty sure my friends from back home, both black and white and everyone in between, would have stepped foot on the Baylor University campus ten years ago and said, "Where's your black people???" too. That's just real. It's not polarizing, categorizing, or anything else. People freak out when you say anything that might be politically incorrect. But those are usually the people who haven't been around those who are different from themselves. They are being careful to avoid being offensive, but what I think is truly offensive is a Christian institution that lacks diversity. That people don't seek change when isolation plagues our communities. That's not what the world looks like. So I stand by it. I love all people. And if a place is full of white people, I'm gonna ask, "where's your black people?" Or if I must be PC:

Excuse me? Could you please point me towards the diverse section of your student population? Where, pray, are your African-American students? Hispanic students? Or Native Americans?

***

Finally, I cut my own hair again. I was trying to save money. See, I told you, my thrifty nature is becoming my nemesis. The haircut that I gave myself was awful. I mean, huge, horrible, blunt chunks all in the front. About four inches off the back that ended up all uneven (and way too short). And layers. Lots and lots of horrible layers. I wore it up in a hair tie for two weeks straight. I knew I needed to get it fixed, and if I know it has to be fixed with real money, that means it is really, really bad.

So I got it fixed. Three days ago. And my hairdresser, Rob, had to cut it all the way up to my chin to redeem it. I lost about 7 inches. My hair hasn't been this short since the 4th grade. I look mousey. I look like a librarian. I did what I always swore I would not do... I got a short haircut after having a baby.

Look. No matter why you get your haircut after having a baby, men decide to call it the "mom hair." And I hate this. As if short hair and an interest in photography after giving birth automatically puts you into a new category of existence that is dorky. Mom. They say it like I am about to bust out the Lee jeans with the prolonged zipper and mom pouch built into the front for the extra baby pooch. That is not what a short haircut means. I am still Jenny. I just happen to enjoy taking pictures now (of the cutest little squirrel in the whole world) and I had a haircut gone bad. I have to have short hair now. So sue me. But please don't tell me I got the mom cut... I did not get the mom cut...

3 Christmas Stories

I swear I don’t make this stuff up.

Asheville

December 18th: Asheville, North Carolina. The promoter says to get on the plane because the show will go on come rain or snow; in their case it’s snow. About 10 inches. Now, granted I’m from Texas and don’t know too much about you cold weather creatures, as I have never shoveled snow and find it unthinkable that you’d even leave the house if flurries are in the forecast; however I know enough to listen to the weather man when he says, “Historic amounts of snowfall,” and “winter storm warning.”

To me, that means: Don’t travel, idiot.

But assured that the show was still on, we left our southern haven and flew straight into the eye of the storm. As we drove from Charlotte to Asheville I counted the wrecks. I counted the people stuck in patches of ice. I counted the skid marks that went over little hills and disappeared. And I watched unfortunate cars spin around and around and around.

And I thought, “What person in their right mind would get out in this kind of weather? What band would drive me to such idiotic measures?”

The only acceptable answer, of course, was The Beatles.

Short of that, I wouldn’t even look out the window in this kind of weather. And in my gut, I knew no one in his or her right mind would face a blizzard for us.

We turned off the highway and onto what looked like a deserted road covered in deep layers of snow. There were hand written signs on storefronts that said, “Closed because of Weather.” And the only signs of life were college kids with face muzzles and little eyeballs poking out that were pounding each other with snowballs. It was eerily deserted. Beautiful. But eerily deserted.

Sure enough, we get to the venue and over the course of the next hour, as sound techs and other venue employees call to say they can’t make the drive; the show is cancelled.

We get in the van. We go to the hotel. My gosh it was beautiful. Roaring fire. Antique pieces of art and paintings. The kind of upholstered chairs that sit about 3 feet higher than your back and are covered in a velvet that costs more than my car, and a front desk staff who wore crisp ties and would not give a room quote out loud, rather, it was scribbled down on a piece of paper. You know it’s an expensive room if they can’t even speak it.

The promoter said the hotel was behind the McDonald’s next to the Biltmore. So that is where I lead us when we came to the split in the road by Mickey D’s.

Apparently, I picked the wrong split. And as we watched the rich old white people sip their martinis by the fireplace it dawned on us… we are in the wrong hotel.

The next thing I know we are slinking out, like gypsies, and asking the valet if we can have our dirty minivan with the Florida licenses plates back. Oh- and could you help us find the other hotel. Good-bye tranquil music in the wine bar. Good-bye little butler man. Good-bye roaring fire and really expensive bed linens. Good-bye electricity.

This story ends by us trying to eat at McDonald’s only to find that it is closed because of weather. And look people, if McDonald’s is closed, you’re in trouble.

We made it to the other hotel only to find it sitting in pitch-black. No electricity. We called other hotels in town. They had no electricity. We sat in the minivan (no- Annie was not with us, thank God) and watched the gas go down and wondered, “now what?” The guys decided it would be best to drive down the mountain during the blizzard in the dark… yeah… that is what every intelligent group sporting a minivan with limited mountain driving, snow driving skills would decide to do in a blizzard. I wanted to call their mothers. Moms can call you ‘idiot’ and ‘stupid’ and get away with it. But I just had to reinforce my seat belt and wait to die with the majority vote.

By the end of the night we had been stuck and stranded; dodged at least ten jack knifed eighteen wheelers; drove through two cities with no power and two more cities with no room in the inn; and eventually I had to take my pants off on the side of the road, squat down into a puddle of snow, and go to the bathroom with no paper to use at the end.

Turns out, when it is like 11 degrees, you don’t need paper. It dries pretty fast. Freeze dry.

Albuquerque

We spent Christmas week at my parent’s house in Albuquerque. Short version? We ate at a place called The Range Café. They are known for their famous cinnamon rolls. But they came out on a plate of butter that added volume to my hips simply by sitting too close. Before I could eat it, the bread sopped up the butter and I had a spongy yellow thing on my plate.

No thank you.

I’m not the calorie-counting type girl. I want my fat and have a fierce addiction to all things baked or smothered with guacamole and queso. But a plate of butter just looks bad. So I loaded up on their tortillas, which were to die for, and ate my lard in a more respectable manner.

Rewind. As the five of us (mom, dad, Annie, Ryan, yours truly) found our table and began to look at the menus an older couple who had been eyeballing us came by and said, “Oh how sweet. You’re using menus! You must be new in town.”

As if Albuquerque were a small town where everyone still knows everyone and they can all sniff out the outsiders. They proceeded to ask where we were from, what we were doing in town, and asked if we would like menu suggestions.

I wanted to hire this lady to bring me around town. Introduce me to Joe the postman and Gill the guy at the coffee shop and help me find the place with the hottest green chili enchiladas.

It got me thinking… I should be a hometown tour guide. You can hire me for the day and I will help you find the best bar-b-que, Tex-Mex, and show you where to stand if you want to peek in on Cowboys practice. This could be lucrative.

The week, well the short version, funneled through a haze of grandchild starved grandparents and lots of food. Oh- and one of my favorite things- a knock and run cookie dropping at the front door. I thought it was so sweet that someone from my parent’s new home would secretly drop cookies off for them, but when I opened the card; I found they were for me! From ‘secret’ fans! Secret fans? That’s the coolest thing ever! Secret fans who bring out cookies and chocolates and candies and then run so you don’t even have to make small talk and be polite but you can just go back into your blankets and Christmas tree and eat your worries and joys away???

I decided right then and there… I like these people. I can do Albuquerque.

Christmas Eve Day

We say good-bye to mom and dad, who prefer to only function in the role as grandma and grandpa these days, and hop onto the flight back to Dallas. The flight leaves an hour and a half behind schedule. So in the meant time, I volunteer to hold an American flag with the group of patriots who have formed a flag tunnel for the returning service men to walk through. Ryan says I am a dork. I hold my flag straight up and down like they tell me to with a serious face and say “welcome home” and cry with all the families who are getting someone back for Christmas.

It’s almost time to board. I buy a caramel apple from my favorite little Santa Fe candy store, Senor Murphy’s. We get on the plane ready to come home. The flight lasts two hours longer than it was supposed to. We circled over Dallas until I felt dizzy.

And now for the very abridged version: we land. It is snowing. The wind is blowing 30 mph and it is freezing. We hear the “winter storm warning” on the radio station, but we know that Ryan’s parents are waiting for us an hour away all by themselves on Christmas eve. We go home, take turns running in the house to switch out clothes and grab presents, we let Annie sleep, we start the drive from Dallas to Ft. Worth.

Remember Asheville? Ok, multiply it. But only because Texans really suck at driving in snow and ice. We get to the final major interchange before the highways merge and well…

Let’s stop right there.

Considering our bad luck this year: stolen van, trailer, and all of our band gear, head on collision with a tree that totaled the van, cancelled shows, shingles, blown out backs, sprained ankle on stage that leaves me on crutches for weeks, gout, three snow storms in a week… well… you know the ending.

Highway is closed. Access roads are war zones. And the one side road that all of us idiots decide to try and conquer is a country farm road that literally looks like it’s been hit with a hail storm of cars. Cars stranded everywhere. Annie is crying. We have been traveling for over ten hours now. And we are slipping all over the place. There is no way to get to the in-laws but there is no way to go home either. We’re stuck.

We’re going to spend Annie’s first Christmas in a motel.

And I asked myself the question I have asked all year… what kind of mother am I? My kid’s first Christmas morning is gonna be in a motel?

But then we saw a young guy waving his hands and running towards us. He’s out of breath and visibly nervous.

“Thanks for stopping I’ve been waiving down people and nobody will stop. Can you please take my girlfriend and our two-week-old daughter with you? They are in the car, we’re stuck, almost out of gas so we have the heater off and they’re freezing.”

So baby April and baby Anniston snuggled in the backseat together and I tried to feed both of them. Both crying, tired little babies.

We tried to get the mom and her baby home, less than a mile up the street, and simply couldn’t do it. We turned around and met back with the young guy and told him to hop in and we could all go to the motel together. He said, “Thanks but we only have five dollars. Thanks for trying to help. We’ll just stick it out.”

Stick it out till what? Till when? No way. Out of the question. He jumped in and sat in the front seat on his girlfriends lap. They reeked of cigarette smoke. The car was dark and packed and tense (we were still trying to get unstuck from the u-turn) and I thought…

Well this is nice and messy.

The mom said, “We’ve never met people like you. You don’t even know us.”

My response, “Anybody would do this for you. We don’t really have the money either, but we know a lot of people who do. And we trust that God will provide it for both of us. Plus that little baby girl of yours needs a lovely bed for her first Christmas Eve!”

The dad helped us unload the babies and luggage and I loaded them down with cookies that were meant for the family (but it was the only gift I had, and you have to give a gift J). Before we checked out of the hotel, someone who had been following my mother-in-law’s facebook telling about our travel journey had called and paid for both rooms. Thank you. You know who you are.

And that’s where we spent Christmas morning in all its messy glory.

It is messy. It was messy. It’s going to be messy. But it’s exactly where we are ALL called to be. We are not saints because we do what God has asked us, required of us, and impassioned us to do… we are just people who are trying to live the way Jesus did. In the mess.

And sometimes that means you are stuck in a snowstorm or two.

Blurkers

This is a picture of blurkers.

I cannot reveal their identity as I would ruin their blurker-entity.

However, I will say that we enjoyed a lovely lunch together laughing and talking. We felt like old friends and talked about all kinds of things. They knew an uncanny amount of my life stories :) and I wondered, how on earth have you never left a comment?

I was truly amazed how long these girls have been reading the blog without leaving one single comment. Not fair! I didn't even know they existed and now I just want to get back to their city to see _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _' s new baby and spend more time with quirky _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (that would be cool beans).

Side note: cool beans is an inside joke we shared that day. I don't believe anyone should actually use the terminology "cool beans" though. It is completely uncool.

All of this to say... I so enjoy meeting my new friends all over the country. You guys make me smile and give me a home away from home. Your lives are beautiful and your stories unique, thank you for sharing them with me.

Don't be a blurker!

If I am in your area, and you are an avid blog reader, please let me know. I want you to have free tickets to the show and I want to meet you!