Saturday, June 24, 2006


Chihuly Glass in the Garden. Good.

The day was hot, and a little steamy, inside the climatorium at the Botanical Gardens, we walked inside the lower compartment where they sell books, postards, DVD's and drinks. I strolled over to the Coke machine with cash in hand to purchase a frosty beverage. I notice a supermodel esque couple strolling toward me. A tall eastern block-man and his tan gorgeous girlfriend in an emerald green figure-hugging dress. As I fumbled for my dollars, I notice the price is 1.50 (a rant which I'll delay until another post) and I feed the cash into the machine, trying not to stare at this couple, trying to ignore the fact they were intimidatingly pretty, and very artsy looking, trying to blend into this surrounding and just for crying out loud get in and out of the coke line with grace and style.

Fine time for the machine to give me change in dimes.

Instead of 2 concise quarters, my swollen from walking all day fingers had to fumble for five tiny dimes, out of an impossibly small hole that was impossibly low to the ground (in case you forgot, I'm 6'2") Me and my frizzball head are hunkered over this machine thinking the change should, my god, already be there. But it wasn't. As I waited for this eternity my back was cramping up from a dishwashing injury the night before, and my best side pointed toward Mr. and Mrs. Multi-Cultual-America. After 37 years, the dimes were corraled, and I was standing up right again. I crack open my diet coke anticipating relief, only to have it geyser up out of the bottle in a frozen chihuly-like snake. Awesome.

Then Ange and I witnessed a marriage proposal. I've been to a lot of weddings. But this was the closest I've been to an actual proposal. We almost interrupted it. It was sweet. A guy all in black, a gal in a white sundress, both just sweet as could be. He had a journal, and was reading from it. It was near the fountain in front of the rose garden. She said yes. We clapped. We whooped and cheered.

Thursday, June 22, 2006

The boys on my brain.

I've had a lot on my mind. Got another sick grandparent. My grandpa could use your prayers, he took a tumble backwards out of his wheelchair after some "inhouse" modifications by the nursing home staff. He hit his head on the bed and had to go to the emergency room. After that, he didn't wake up the next day and had to go back to the ER. He eventually came to, but they aren't sure why he wouldn't wake up.

They took him in for x-rays, and they found a fracture in his head from when he was 12. He fell on some ice in the driveway and broke his melon. But no one fixed it back then, no one wore "Bumpy the safety dog" helmets. No one took kids who bumped their heads to the doctor. He's been in a nursing home for over 4 years. He's won valentine's day "king" while there, and got his motorized wheelchair privledges revoked for reckless driving in the halls. That's my boy.

He used to be a sharpshooter. He would win countless trap and skeet tournaments, and was a basketball star with massive massive feet. (Hmm talk about getting it honestly). He was a smoker, and then was a quitter. Cold turkey, and never went back. He loves his dogs. Now he says weird things and pats strange girls on the rear thinking that they are me, or one of the eight sweet girls in his life. He used to call me Lindsey-bug. I remember HATING it. Like would run away from his open arms and just hated being the center of his attention. I hated being called Lindsey-bug with the fire of a thousand suns. Once, he picked out my Christmas present, it was this an awkward sweater with a giant number "1" on it. "Cause I was his number one girl." I guess he liked that I was athletic, and he could most relate to that. But it was still awkward, considering he had four granddaughters and three daughters and a wife that watched me open this gift. I never wore it. He was one of my biggest fans and my biggest critic. Funny how those two roles tend to be driven by the same emotion.

Yeah. I have all four of my grandparents. It's a huge blessing in my life.

Another blessing was meeting little James Wacker for the first time this week. Caroline and Dan's firstborn. He's precious and perfect, as little boys should be. Beautiful kid.

In case you were actually reading this thing, the aforementioned boy was a false alarm. It's good though, I'd never actually been rejected before, and it was kinda nice. Like, life went on. Whew glad I got that outta the way. On with the Chorophyll.

I'm up late again... and I'm watching Conan O'Brien. He's hilarious, I'm sorry. He was just doing spoofs on musicals. One was the "Phantom of the Juicer". So that's going to be stuck in my head for-evah. Thanks. I had just gotten "In the year two-thousand...In the year two-thousand" out of my head. It took, like, six years.

Monday, June 19, 2006

Good Ole Anne Lamott.

"What did you hear in my voice when I called?"
"I just heard that you were in trouble."
He was about the first Christian I ever met whom I could stand to be in the same room with. Most Christians seemed almost hostile in their belief that they were saved and you weren't. Bill said it bothered him too, but you had to listen to what was underneath their words. What did it mean to be saved, I asked, although I knew the word smacked of Elmer Gantry for both of us.
"You don't need to think about this," he said.
"Just tell me."
"I guess it's like discovering you're on the shelf of a pawnshop, dusty and forgotten and maybe not worth very much. But Jesus comes in and tells the pawnbroker, 'I'll take her place on the shelf. Let her go outside again.'"

I wish it were only a Karaoke Microphone...

I see that land, On the far side of the river J.
It's wild and terrible.
But it's with You.

Here in my chains I'm happy and fed.
Here in captivity I know what beating is next.
Here in my head, I'm right about me.

Over there is where I should be.
But here I stand.
Even if you part the sea, I need to trust and walk.

I thrust my balled fist into the air.
Pry it out of my cold dead hand if you must.
And you must, because I cannot let go.

Monday, June 12, 2006


The Beth Moore study is amazing. You know this. You know she's awesome. She can't help it. She's an instrument of God. :P

The opposite of Phillipians 4:6, 7 in Beth-Speak:

"Do not be calm about anything, but in everything, by dwelling on it constantly and feeling picked on by God, with thougths like "and this is the thanks I get" present your aggravations to everyone you know but Him. And in the acid in your stomach, which transcends all milk products, will cause you an ulcer, and the doctor bills will cause you a heart attack and you will lose your mind."


Saturday, June 03, 2006

Stained Glass Window to my Soul.

I am oddly drawn to the imagery of stained glass. It's this intricate puzzle only makes sense when light shines through it. Even if you put all the pieces together perfectly, without light, it's not alive, and it's not fufilling it's purpose. But when the light hits it...

I know nothing about life; I'm 22, jobless, aimless and unsure of anything, dirty, sweaty and tired from riding in a bus all day. Growing numb from all the sights and the barrage on the senses that is a 17-day whirlwind tour of Europe. I find myself in a Cathedral in France. I find myself struck.

I find myself.

I gaze up at the most beautiful stained glass windows I've ever seen, in a blue that makes my breath catch in my chest and tears come to my eyes, I tiptoe around afraid that if I made a wrong move, they would all come crashing down around me. Images of Jesus and Mary and every biblical story that I had been just recently inhaling. I was jealous of the citizens of the town. I bought a thousand postcards and took pictures that did no justice. I brought the pieces home with me and framed them. Right now they are in my bathroom, only because they don't make wallpaper with those images, or else I'd wrap the entire house with it inside and out. Just today I found out that they are Chagall's.

It's was the first piece of art that I loved. I loved how it made me feel, I loved that it was of Christ, I loved that it felt like it was mine. Now that I know more about Chagall, it makes it even more special. He was a devoted family man, who smeared his happiness all over canvases and glass, in the form of a Savior and of violin playing goats.

For my birthday my roomate sara bought me a mini stained glass window that I love. It turned out to be a Chagall too. This I recieved before I went to Europe.

Interesting, I thought, that all of the things that struck my eyes and heart as beautiful turned out to be from the same creator.

One that seems to know just what I need.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Solid as Iraq

I just had to copy this paragraph I just read from Funny Autumn who is stationed in Irag at the moment. And Nate, aka Meat Pocket, I think this is an answer to the late night tuxedo clad conversation we were having regarding our purpose.

I am challenged daily. I declare myself a failure every
other day, then remember that I'm human every other other day. There are
constant reminders around here that I am human and faulted, but certain
occasions when I feel bulletproof and invincible. I make decisions that put
lives at risk...but with the knowledge that my actions cannot control this chaos
that I live and operate in. Not that my attempts are futile--they matter. It is
a balance between knowing that a certain choice may make all the difference...or
have no effect at all.