Friends’ Blog

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The Egg Hunt


I wake with my mom hovering over me.  Before I can protest, she picks me up and carries me to the prison chair.  Once my legs are locked into it, I can’t escape.  Trust me, I’ve tried.  Why is she trying to shove food in my face before I’m fully awake?  The small bosses wander into the room and sit.  I presume they are my siblings, but I’m still learning the language and so haven’t figured out all the details.  Nevertheless, they do periodically amuse me.

The larger boss with short hair rubs his eyes and stares into his multi-colored num-nums before dumping the white juice on them.  Why does he drown them?  They are perfect the way they are.  Each one fits my hand and mouth.  Because he drowns them, he has to dig them out with a shiny shovel.  Silly.

After I finish eating my portion, I cast the rest away from me to obtain a clear surface.  I’ve not been diagnosed with OCD, but I’ve noticed the tendency in me.  Perhaps I’ll have that checked later.  For now, it’s time for my sponge bath.  I take these in stride.  They aren’t fun like a real bath, but at least they’re better than when my mom spits on a rag and wipes my face.  That always leaves me feeling kissy faced.  Nevertheless, as long as I’m in the prison chair, I comply.  Resistance is futile…for now.

I’m hoisted from the chair and carried into my room.  Mom puts me into my cage while she gathers my garments.  There appear to be more than usual today.  This will require some patience on my part.  I am not a fan of getting dressed.  It seems unnatural to cover my body.  After all, naked is the original wrapping in which I came.

My mother tucks my arms into a white shirt.  To further annoy me, she puts a vest over that, then a coat.  Really?  Is this necessary?  I attempt to run away in protest, but her strong hand pulls me back and forces me down on my back.  Only her raspberry on my belly keeps me from releasing my wrath.  She shoves on pants and shoes.  I look like David Niven, whoever that is.

After grunting in her foreign tongue to the other bosses, my mother carries me to the car where I am once again imprisoned.  In protest, I kick off my shoes.  That’ll show her.  The little boss beside me has something yellow in his hand.  It looks like a birdy.  He bites off the head and chews.  I want some, so I open my mouth and look at the boss.  He pulls his hand away and glares at me.  This is wrong.  Food is for me.  You can’t eat food and leave me out.  I cry out my righteous indignation until my mother reaches back with a bird of my own.  Immediately, I cease my protest to feast on the spongy delight.  It’s big and hard to shove all the way in my mouth.  Several layers remain on my cheeks, but it’s worth it.  The sheer delight of soft, gooey sugar sends me into ecstasy.  Never before have I known such joy.

I’m not sure if it was the bird indulgence or the vibration of the car, but the last thing I remember, I was nodding my head.  My mother yanks me from the car, holds me until she shuts the door, then sets me on the ground.  Her hand seizes mine.  She appears displeased by something.  Oh no, out comes the tissue.  She spits on it and rubs my face.  This woman has cleaning issues.

I look to my (this hand) and see the church.  This is the yard out back it seems.  We stroll into a crowd of giants, small bosses and actual people.  The actual people wear too many clothes like me and seem to have mothers that imprison them too.  There’s a huge scary white thing over on the side.  It looks like a very tall bunny.  As long as it stays over there, we won’t have issues, but if it comes over here, my mom needs to kill it.

This is all very exciting.  I have no idea why, but this crowd of real people makes me happy.  Each of us is handed a basket.  The two small bosses head over to a group of small bosses and march away.  They’re probably in training for something.  Now it’s just moms and people.  The large woman shows us a plastic egg.  It is shiny but doesn’t smells like anything.  Evidently, there are several of these in the field.  We are told that the bunny put them there.  That giant creepy thing bounces towards us.  I hide behind my mother’s leg and cover my eyes.  If I can’t see it, it’s not there.  If I can’t see it, it’s not there.  But it is there, I can feel it.  When I remove my hands, the giant monster is in my face!

I scream and fall backwards.  All these clothes make it impossible to run.  “Mother, destroy the monster!” I bellow.  She doesn’t do it.  Instead she picks me up and holds me.  She forces me to be still while the monster pets me.  Inside the monster, I hear my father’s voice.

“It’s just daddy,” it says.  “Don’t be afraid.”

I snap from my fear and study the beast.  It must be OK if it has father’s voice, but I’m not going to trust it.  As long as mother has me, I’ll remain calm.

When the monster walks to the side, my mother places me on the ground and the woman yells “Go!”  All the other kids run into the field to find the plastic eggs.  I follow and begin to search.  I spot one, but another kid takes it.  There’s another, but it’s snatched too.  I stand and stare.  All the other people have four or five eggs and I don’t have any.  This hardly seems fair.  I begin to search for one that no one else can see.  I wander to a tree and look in a hole.  There’s a plastic egg sitting between two roots.  I pick it up and hold it in the air.  I found one!  No sooner do I hold it up then another person snatches it from me.

“Hey, that’s my egg!” I cry.   Surely someone saw the infraction.  First I’m sent out to find eggs I don’t want.  Then I have to compete for them with trained professionals.  Now I have the one I find ripped from me?  This is injustice at its worst!

My mother comes out and picks me up.  Other moms pat me to let me know it will be fine.  There better be some egg justice and not just a bunch of touchy feely stuff.  The woman has all the children dump their eggs in a big basket.  Then she distributes them evenly among all the people.  This share the wealth approach seems reasonable to me, but the kid that took my egg is howling that they are all his.  Obviously, he comes from a different socio-economical viewpoint.

Anyway, inside the eggs are chocolates kisses, M and Ms, Skittles and other brand names I’m not going to place here.  All in all, this is a worthwhile adventure, but I’m curious as to its meaning.  A giant bunny with a voice like my dad laid candy filled eggs in a pasture by our church.  Personally, I think Santa’s got this beat, but that’s just me.

Terminology of Endearment



“Hi there, Sweetie Pie.”  Sounds like something a grandma would say, right?  “Give me a kiss, Sugar Lips.”  Perhaps we’ve heard that phrase in an old movie.  “Sweet Cheeks,” “Honey,” “Baby Cakes” and “Sugar Dumplin’” spring to my mind when I think of terms people use to express endearment.  But what makes one term more appropriate than another?  What kind of food product is off limits and why?  Is there some science to all this or is it strictly hit and miss?  Someone had to invent the first phrase.  Why is theirs better than another?

Why not say “Infant Pastry” instead of “Baby Cakes?”  Is it any less endearing?  Why?  The song “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” could very easily have been “Chocolate Soufflé Bee Hive” and be grammatically accurate, or?  The complexity of sugary foods is baffling at times.  So tell me, my appetizing readers, what is the secret ingredient to making a proper term of endearment?  Is “Affectionate Scone” not a proper response to “Love Muffin?”  Why not?

Fist Shaking at Death


Saturday, I buried a friend.  She was 41 years old, married with a five year old son.  I’ve know her since she was five.  Her cornered smile and cheeky dimple brightened any room.  I’d never known her to be spiteful or hateful.  On the contrary, my friend was kind hearted and graceful.  She traveled to 29 countries as a nurse for various relief efforts.  After a flood or earthquake, she always tried to go and help.

So why is this young woman gone?  Liver cancer killed her.  Doctors diagnosed her with it this past summer.  How did she get it?  My friend didn’t smoke or drink.  She exercised and ate whole foods.  It didn’t make sense. 

She went in for an operation, but it didn’t work.  So many people were sure she’d be healed.  We all prayed and fasted.  Late into the night, groups groaned calls to Heaven for the eradication of her cancer.  But healing never came.

When I heard she’d passed away, my heart sunk. With a fist I yelled at the ceiling.  “How could you let this happen?” I cried.  “What about her little boy?  Don’t you even care?”  I was mad…mad at cancer and mad at God.  I still believed in spite of the tragedy.  Otherwise, who was I shaking my fist at?  The little boy cries for his mother to come home.  Her husband mourns her loss and feels like he’s lost direction.  Where is the comfort?

As much as we miss her here, our only comfort is that she’s been called home.  She’s not in pain, no longer suffers and has regained her glow.  God healed her with the ultimate healing.  I’m happy for her, but it feels like a hole has been torn in the fabric of our lives.  My tears are not for her.  My anger is not because of her.  It’s for us.  For we are left to carry on now that she’s in paradise.  I understand why we need comfort.  There is no other answer other than this is not the end nor is it our home.  Still, it stretches the boundaries of my faith to see one like her taken from us.  Two words come to mind: Oh help.


Facebook or Falsebook?

I spend a lot of time on when I go to Facebook.  We see something. It touches a heart-string or enrages us.  So, we share it.  Unfortunately, many of the claims I see are false.  Remember Pepsi cans with “under God” taken out?  What about the guy with the winning lottery ticket who was going to share a free million?  Political stuff comes out that didn’t even happen.  Quotes that were never made become talking points.  Mass emails go out with special information about government conspiracy by “_insert_politicians_name_here_”  Most of the videos are staged, a lot of the cute and adorable photos are Photo-Shop creations.  Reality gets skewed when we buy into unsubstantiated claims.

Just today, I saw a story about a Marine who stood guard outside an Elementary school and is now facing a fine of 10,000 dollars and 5 years in prison.  The only problem is, he is not who he claims to be.  Craig Pusley never served overseas and was in the Marines for less than a year (July 2007 until April 2008).  But his story will be shared for the next year on Facebook.  Guys like him are the ones from whom we need protection.  He’s delusional.  I don’t want him guarding my kids.

What I hope for is that people will check things out before they post.  Just Google the information, check the facts, see if there’s anything on sites like Snopes.  Is it so hard to verify the truth before opening one’s mouth or hitting share?

A Reminder that Publishing Isn’t Dead

Perhaps we give up without knowing the full story?

Christmas Comatose


The baby’s in the manger

Lights upon the tree

Cookies placed for Santa

We wrapped the shopping spree


Our kids are safely nestled

Dreaming of their toys

Saint Nick has gone high tech it seems

For nerdy girls and boys


We endured the throngs of shoppers

And strove for jubilation

Now that all the bustle’s past

We need a strong sedation