the return of a lost sock

Woo hoo and Hallelujah! One of my lone socks has returned home!  

Yesterday I was rummaging through my sock drawer looking for a pair of white, low cut athletic socks to wear with my tennis shoes, and to my surprise, peeking out from under the pile of mated socks, I saw its sweet little head. It lay there motionless, as if weighted down by all the complete pairs piled on top of it. It was staring at me in all its helplessness, begging me to come to its rescue. In a state of hopeful disbelief, I slowly pulled it out from its lowly position and went to my closet where the lone socks lay. And lo and behold, I found its match!  A ribbed tan pair of socks has been reunited again, and I am looking forward to wearing them this fall!

Ah, such sweet confirmation.  I knew I was right in not throwing them away!  One down, sixteen to go...

thank a freedom maker

To Bryan A, Laura B, Delson T, Eric C, Bill W, Joe B, Adam B, Harvey W, Ernie M, Betty M, Gary B, Bill A, Dennis B, Scott S, Doc B, Davey P, Ron G, Carl D, Brett D, Bill H, Tim L, John R, Howard T, John M, Charles A, Jim A, Nick M, and every other American freedom maker and their families, past and present:  

I know I haven't met the majority of you.  In fact, I don't even know most of your names.  But there is one thing I know for sure about all of you:  You are my heros. I believe that your decision to serve your country is one of the most selfless decisions an American citizen can make. The work you do every day directly impacts millions of Americans, and I am blessed to be one of them.

I started to write you all a letter, trying to express my gratitude for your service to our country and thanking you for protecting my freedom.  But these feelings I have about my freedom run too deep.  It's been very difficult to put into words.

I remember like it was yesterday that raw feeling I had when I first left the safety of American borders. The reality of my freedom was really defined for me the first time I left the country. I was simply headed to a Mexican border town on a mission trip, and even though I was just going across the border, I was extremely nervous about the implications of leaving the land of the free. I suddenly felt uncomfortably vulnerable. What if the police stopped us? What if they found something in our car they didn't approve of? As we approached the border, I realized that as soon as I crossed, I was leaving my freedoms and rights as an American citizen behind. Literally. 

But it's not like I didn't ever think about my freedom until that point in my life. I've always been patriotic at the core. I'm known in my family for my overflowing emotions on Memorial Day, the 4th of July, and the start of sporting events when they sing the National Anthem. It's just expected of me. When a patriotic song is sung, I'll inevitably tear up, and they'll inevitably look at me to see if I'm crying. In fact, it happened just yesterday at church when they honored the vets and sang their military branch songs. When I saw all those people that had fought for my freedom, I was just overcome with gratitude for the sacrifices they made on my behalf.  

Today I got an email from a friend...a very dear childhood friend whose husband serves in the airforce...the same friend whose daughter coined the term "freedom maker" for her daddy's job. The email she sent was written by some of their military friends. Their words about Memorial Day really rang true to me, so I thought I would share. 

"Today is the day our nation has set aside to remember those that have served our great nation.  While you're popping the top off that cold drink or flipping that steak one last time to cook it just right--Take a minute to think about the thousands throughout history, that took up arms to defend and preserve our FREEDOM.

All have given--some their lives--many their health--each and everyone, their time.  For hundreds of years our rights have been defended by those willing to step up.  They don't want parades, news stories, or pictures in the paper--they aren't expecting fireworks on their behalf--They serve for you*-- Our military gets it. 

Next time you see a soldier in the airport--sailor on the street--airman walking by--or marine preparing to move out--go up to them and simply say THANK-YOU. They'll know why! They'll know you care!"  

Well said.  

Today, why not make it your goal to thank or hug or kiss or love and definitely pray for a freedom maker, because our freedom is not free!  

cleaning your sock drawer

A friend of mine says she's "cleaning her sock drawer" when she's procrastinating doing a dreaded task. I know I'm a procrastinator and all, but a few days ago, I really was cleaning my sock drawer, honest!  You'd be amazed at what I found. 

 

White socks, black socks, blue socks, tan socks.  (Have I been reading too much Dr. Seuss or what? :-)  I found 17 socks total, all without a partner!  Seventeen???  It bugged me so bad that I marched into both my children's rooms and looked in their sock drawers too.  Sure enough, it was the same scenario, different rooms. Pink socks, blue socks, white socks, Barbie socks.  I found 8 socks total, all without a partner! 

Where in the world did these missing socks go? 

I mean, seriously, it's not like they just disappeared...they had to be somewhere.  At one point, both socks of the pair were present, or we wouldn't have had them to begin with. Is the dryer hungry or something? Are you supposed to feed it? How come it never eats the pairs that have holes in them and need to be thrown out anyways?  Oh, I bet I know. They probably never made it to the dryer to begin with. The washer is the culprit! They probably get sucked down the washer's drain pipe, or else disintegrate into nothingness during the spin cycle. Wait a second. Maybe it has nothing to do with being washed and dryed. Perhaps they've had enough of their co-dependent lifestyle and decided to ditch the familiar, hoping to gain some much needed independence. But how do they do that? Do they attend some support group in the secret underground world of lone socks? Yes? Then how do they get there? Maybe if they are lucky enough to fall out of the laundry basket as I bring them up the stairs, and then get accidentally kicked under the couch, that's when they do the secret sock hop that opens a trap door in the floor that leads them to a sockdom like no other... 

Okay, so I'm going off the deep end a little.  But their missing status really disturbs me.  And the poor socks that are left behind are rendered useless. They just sit on the floor of my closet...never considered for wear...never aging...just waiting.  Waiting patiently for their mate to be found. Longing for the day their partner returns and they are reunited, have renewed purpose and are worn again. 

And just so you know, as their owner, it's not like I haven't tried looking for these poor lost socks. I've looked everywhere I can imagine (behind and beside the washer and dryer, under the beds, in other drawers, behind things in the closets), and I must say, I did find a few matches! WOW was I excited! 

Is it cruel for me to keep the others? I just don't have the heart to throw them away, because I still hope they'll show up someday. What if one day, in the midst of a cleaning frenzy, I find one of the missing mates? One that had been lost, but now was found? Or one decides to return to its mate because the underground sockdom wasn't all it was cracked up to be?

 

Funny enough, my lost sock experience kind of reminds me of some of Jesus' parables. The parable of the lost sheep: the shepherd leaves his 99 sheep to go find one that's missing. When he finds it, he carries it home on his shoulders and calls his friends so they can share in his joy. The parable of the lost coin: the woman misplaces one of her ten coins and cleans frantically until she finds it. Again, she is so thrilled that she calls her friends to rejoice with her. And finally, my favorite.  The parable of the lost son: the son asks for his inheritance early, leaves home and squanders it. He finally comes to his senses and returns home asking for forgiveness and a job as a hired hand. While his father didn't actually go out to look for the son, he never lost hope that he would return. And when he did, it was worthy of a feast.

What a relief it is to know that Jesus doesn't lose hope in me.  It's a good thing he comes looking for me when I'm lost, and waits patiently for me to return when I stray.  

So go. Don't procrastinate. Go clean your sock drawer of life and see what you find. I bet you'll find Jesus there.   

in the beginning, God created.

Have you ever studied the intricacies of a flower? Noticed how the colors of a landscape work in harmony, regardless of the season or time of day? Realized how the color and coat of an animal are essential for surviving in its habitat?  God is a perfectionist, and His creation showcases it in a mighty way.

Recently, I have fallen in love with His creation.  I've become keenly aware of its presence around me, and I'm simply in awe of it. The beauty of it all has led me to foreign places in my heart.  Places I rarely go. Some of these places I didn't even know existed. But apparently, these unfamiliar neighborhoods of my heart are where my holy emotions call home.

Not long ago I found one of these neighborhoods.  Amidst what some would call a typical mid-west countryside is how I got there. But that particular day, the setting was anything but typical. I sat in the stillness of nature and listened to the silence. I watched God-sized cotton balls drift through a clear blue sky, all hovering above an endless green expanse. I could see the horizon, but it seemed unreachable. The way the colors worked together was masterful. I was absolutely overcome by my surroundings, and I knew the perfection at hand was no accident. It was unmistakably the work of the Creator.

Then all of a sudden, out of nowhere they came. My holy emotions came out of their homes and rode on rivers of praise down my cheeks. In wonder of His creation, I worshipped Him with my tears.

In the beginning, God created. What did He create that takes you to new places in your heart?

(I've used my camera to try and capture some of the latest causes of my holy emotion...enjoy the adjacent slideshow!)

the bargain gene

Well, my first poll has officially ended!

The question was:  Where do you find your best bargains?  The choices were: Marshall's, overstock.com, Tuesday Morning, or other.  Here's what you said:  28% of you said Marshall's. 42% of you said Tuesday Morning.  42% of you said other.  (I know that doesn't add up to 100%...some of you must have selected more than one option!)

The reason I asked this question, is because I was born with the bargain gene.  I'm not sure how I got it, or why I even have it. I call it a gene because it's simply my nature to seek out a deal.  I don't even think twice about it when I'm buying something.  It's just what I do.

Here's how it works:  when I'm shopping, I'm on a mission.  I mean, I can't just buy anything. I have to find the perfect item at the perfect price.

And the funny thing about my bargain gene is that it talks.  As if finding the bargain isn't reward enough, I just can't keep the bargain to myself.  So much so, that my friends used to tease me about it.  They would say, "cute shoes, where'd you get 'em?" And inevitably, I'd tell them not only where I got them, but also the bargain price I bought them for.   It became this joke amongst us.  They knew that if they asked where I got something, it would also be followed by the price. It got so bad that they named an imaginary store after me (see sidebar, Barker's Bargain Basement) and then borrowed a line from some show we saw to conclude our conversations, "What a bargain! What a bargain for me!"  

So then our conversations went like this:

Friends:  "Cute shoes!  Where'd you get 'em, Barker's Bargain Basement?" 

Me:  (laughing) "No, I got them at Marshall's.  They were only $7.99!"

Friends:  (jaws dropped) "Are you serious?  What a bargain! What a bargain for me!"

It's kind of sad actually...this bargain gene rarely gives the non-sale items a chance. When I go into a clothing store, I make a bee-line for the back of the store where the sales are, practically knocking over the mannequins sporting the latest styles of the season.  I don't even glimpse at the stuff at the front of the store unless I've scoured the sales racks and can't find a deal.  What draws me into stores aren't the trendy window displays.  It's the big red signs in the windows that say, "SALE! or better yet, "CLEARANCE!"  This bargain gene even shows up when I shop online.  I immediately click on the sale or clearance links and then try and look for items with free shipping and in store returns!

So, of course I have to tell you about my latest "bargain of the century" (another phrase my friends and I use to discuss bargains :-)  I know, I know, you didn't ask, but I can't help it!

item:   brushed nickel, three-armed chandelier

vendor: Barker's Bargain Basement (where else?!) via overstock.com

original price: $174.99

sale price:  $24.99 + no tax and free shipping!

savings: $150.00

What a bargain!  What a bargain for me!

p.s. don't forget to vote in my new poll!

there's something about that shave

Ever since I was a little girl, I loved to watch my dad shave.  There was something about the systematic nature of the task that kept my attention.  It was routine.  Predictable.  The same every time.  I even watched him on the same day: Saturday.  Sometimes we talked while he shaved, and sometimes I just watched. 

Apparently I studied his technique, because I can remember the order of things like it was yesterday.  Saturday mornings, my dad would suddenly disappear from the kitchen where my step-mom was preparing breakfast. I would faintly hear the water running from the other end of the house.  And as if it was calling my name, I moseyed in to the bathroom to watch my dad shave. 

By the time I made it to the bathroom, my dad had already taken his place by the sink and gathered all the participants of this daily venture.  The shaving cream.  The wash cloth.  the towel.  The razor.  They were all there by his side, patiently waiting their turn in the process. He stood there gazing mindlessly into the mirror, waiting for the water to get hot. Hot enough that the steam danced slowly towards his face. Only then did he pull the stopper.

Once the sink was full enough, he turned off the water and placed the can of shaving cream into the basin. I watched it bob up and down, trying to endure the shock of the heat. I was never quite sure why he did that. Maybe the hot water created a smoother consistency for the cream. Or maybe it was to warm it enough so that the cream's coldness didn't cause his whiskers to retreat.  Whatever the reason, it was a step that he never skipped.  

Next my dad took the wash cloth and slowly dipped it into the sink.  When he pulled it out, the wash cloth dropped endless streams of tears into the basin.  Almost as if comforting it, my dad gave it a squeeze, and the tears stopped.  He took a deep breath, and applied the hot cloth to his face...opening his pores...drawing out his whiskers.

Finally, he rescued the poor shaving cream from it's hot spot in the sink.  I'll never forget what that can looked like.  It was red and white stripped, and looked as if it came directly from the barber shop. He shook that can in a mighty way, stopping only when the cream was ready to apply.

When he pushed the button on top of the can, the shaving cream came out forcefully, as if it had been waiting for years to escape its aluminum jail.  It seemed anxious and relieved, all in one squirt. 

My dad filled his palm with the cream, joined it with the other palm, and then in the most gentle and intentional way, applied it.  The way his hands painted the cream on his face was so artistic, like he was painting a monochromatic masterpiece.  And eventually, when the human canvas looked just the way he wanted it, his hands stopped.  Then he rid them of the extra cream in the water, and dried them off with the towel.  

At last, it was the razor's turn.  My dad picked it up, cocked his head, and looked into the mirror, ready to begin.   He used his hands and made different faces, almost professional-like, to tighten his skin in just the right way to prevent nicks and produce perfectly smooth skin. Between each swipe, my dad gave the razor a bath in the sink, unclogging its blades and freeing it of the dirty cream and whisker trimmings. Stroke by stroke, the cream came off, and my dad's clean shaven face slowly appeared.  Aaaahhh!

I don't know why there was something about that shave, but I'm glad I was drawn to watch. Maybe it's because God created me with a linear and logical nature, and it thrills me to watch a step-by-step project from start to finish.  Or maybe it it was simply because it was just the two of us, and nothing needed to be said for our hearts to connect.  

why do we say that?

For whatever reason, I am fascinated by the origin of phrases and cliches we use in our language.  Maybe it's because half the time I don't understand what people are saying.  I used to think "It's a dog-eat-dog world" was "It's a doggie dog world."  What? I never could understand why people said that!

My latest inquiry, however, was the origin of the term "continental breakfast."

We went on an overnight trip over the weekend, and our stay at the hotel included one of these free continental breakfasts.  Have you ever stopped to think about why they call it that?  Well, I did.

So on the hunt I went.  

It seems to me that continental breakfasts used to be just some sort of sweet breakfast bread or pastry and coffee or juice.  I really like what ochef.com said.  Continental breakfast means that "you're hungry by 10:30."  I can relate to that!

Quite on the contrary, this weekend, our continental breakfast included your choice of milk, juice or coffee, three types of cereal, biscuits and gravy, donuts, bagels, waffles, fruit, and surely I'm forgetting something.  Needless to say, we weren't hungry by 10:00 am!

If you're interested, check out what these "experts" have to say about the origin and meaning of continental breakfast:

Yahoo.com

wisegeek.com

OChef.com

foodtimeline.org

And even better, check out wordorigins.org or this aol member's site for the meaning of all kinds of phrases and cliches.  Apparently, I'm not the only one confused in this doggie dog world! 

the gift of a weakness

I thought I might explain my screen name, La Perfectionista.

Now, for those of you who speak Spanish, I KNOW I DIDN'T SPELL IT RIGHT!  (Proper Spanish spelling is La Perfeccionista.) But I misspelled it on purpose.  Because you see, by nature, I am a perfectionist, and it's very hard for me to abandon that tendency.

I would have to say that being a perfectionist is both my biggest strength and my biggest weakness.  In my design work, it's beneficial, most of the time.  At home, it's mostly hindering.

It's a funny thing, perfection.  It can manifest itself in a lot of ways.  The way it looks in me is either spic-n-span or a complete disaster.  There's just no in between.  Most of the time I approach tasks with an idea of how I could get it perfectly done.  It usually includes a certain amount of time needed to complete the task to meet my perfectionist standards. Ha! With a hubby and 2 little ones, that is just flat out unrealistic.  So, when I can't have the "perfect" amount of time to do my tasks just right, I just don't even attempt it until it's absolutely necessary.  So my perfectionism leads to procrastination... 

You can see how this perfectionist thing can be a bit unsettling.

Fortunately, God is WAY bigger than my weaknesses!  In fact, it's where He thrives, if I'll let Him. I came across a scripture recently that released some of this unneeded pressure I put on myself. I repeat it to myself often.  It's 2 Corinthians 12:9.  "For he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses so that Christ's power may rest on me."

Whew! What a relief to know that I can be honest about my weaknesses and that something good can come out of them!  Now, when things appear to be in "perfect" working order, God gets the glory.

in the fast lane going slow

That's what I am.  And as far back as I can remember, that's what I've always been.  Growing up, I was granted the nickname "Pokey" by my step-dad. My husband even has a name for my lolly-gagging. He calls it "bardering" (a funny morphed version of my maiden name :-) 

God just didn't give me the gift of speed.  So here I am:  in the fast lane going slow.

I used to say, "when life slows down, then I'll..."  And then one day I finally realized that life isn't going to slow down on its own.  We have too many devices that are constantly speeding it up. Microwaves. The Internet. Cell phones. Email. Text messaging. PDAs. Society is getting spoiled...don't you just hate it when you have to wait?  At a stoplight...in line at the grocery store...when you can't get ahold of someone...for someone to return your email...for a file to download...for a prayer to be answered.  Whatever it is we want, we want it now.  Life seems to be one big hurry.

So, I decided that if I wanted life to slow down, then I was going to have to make it slow down. I've had to cut back on some commitments to make time for the things that are most important to me.  And mostly, that boils down to people.  People are most important to me.  I don't want to come to the end of my life and wish I would have done things differently, like spending more time with family and friends.  I mean, don't get me wrong.  I know I'll have regrets when I get there...I already have tons. 

The good news is, I still have plenty of time to invest in relationships, Lord willing of course. And one of the reasons this investment is so important to me is because that's what Jesus did. He spent his entire life investing in people...not only addressing their needs in this life, but with real focus on their eternal life.  What a perfect example, literally.

So, I guess I'll go forth in the fast lane we call life with intentional efforts of trying to slow it down so that the really important things in my life aren't actually things, but people.

I hope you feel invested in and have the time to find several lives to invest in yourself.  I bet the people you invest in will tell you it's worth it.