Road Trip from the Very Bad Place

My sister and her family are in town for a few more days before they take off back to California.   Being the good sister that I am, I decided to make a quick trip home.  With my two puppies.  (Dramatical doomsday music just kicked in.  Sit real still and you can hear it.)

The trip from my house to my parent's (where my sister is staying) is normally a seven and a half hour drive.  That's if my husband is driving and my bladder behaves itself.  Traveling with the dogs usually adds an extra 30 minutes so I was expecting an 8 hour trip.  Oh, if it could have only been so.  

Gavin had to work and since I'm fearless when it comes to travel decided to make the trip by myself.  Normally, it would have been no problem.  I've traveled many a mile by myself and usually enjoy every minute of it.  I love the journey and the independence.  

I have two miniature schnauzers, Eunice and Iola, who are about 7 months old.  Toddlers in puppy years.  Eunice, as I would soon learn in great detail, has a sensitive stomach and gets carsick.  I left my house at 1:00pm and before I could get to the next nearest town, Eunice had puked in the front seat pallet I had made for the dogs.  (No, I don't crate my dogs when I travel.  Bad parent.  Don't care.)

Knowing my exit was a few miles down the road, I left the puke and put the pedal to the metal.  Iola, I also discovered, is a very neat and clean dog.  She cannot handle seeing the puke on the blankets so she started to 'bury' the puke with the rest of the blanket.  In dog world, this is smart.  If you can't see it, it isn't there.  In the people-who-have-to-clean-up-after-dogs world, this is not smart.  Instead of being in one small area, Iola's persistence of cleaning was spreading the damage.  Nice.  

Finally I exited and McDonald's parking lot gained a load of, ahem, 'used' dog food, and I baby-wiped the blankets like a pro.  I've learned to carry Wet-Ones in the glove compartment for the unavoidable accidents that happen when traveling.  Wet-Ones are God's gift to the OCD.  

I grabbed a bite to eat from the drive thru and got back on the highway.  Minor mishaps happen, but hopefully, Eunice's explosion was the 'one' for this trip and the rest should be smooth sailing.  Wrong.  Two bites into my food, Eunice has puked on the armrest/console.  (Thank you, Lord, for leather interior!)  I managed to not puke myself, grabbed the ever-dependable TWO napkins McD's allotted me, and 'catch' the puke before it rolled off into the abyss.  That narrow space between seat and console who's gravity for sucking in trash is like that of a black hole's.  

I pulled over to the shoulder and littered.  I hate littering, I really do.  But the napkins were recycled and recyclable.  And puke belongs outside in nature anyway.  Out come the Wet-Ones to save the day.  I began to talk to myself.  "She's puked twice, she shouldn't have anything else to barf up.  We should be okay."  Wrong.  Before we even make it to Memphis, she's puked again.  It should take about an hour to get from my house to a certain spot in Memphis.  It took an hour and forty-five minutes.  

I am having serious thoughts about turning around and going home.  Three pukes was just not a good sign.  For man or beast.  

Eunice settles down, we get on a straight highway, and both dogs go to sleep.  Whew.  Sleep is a miracle.  I talk to myself again.  "You have a full tank of gas, an empty bladder, and sleeping dogs.  Drive as far and as fast as you can without stopping."  Good plan.  

I hit Arkansas with everything my little 4-speed would allow and the cops would ignore.  So far so good.  Then it began to rain.  No problem, as long as the dogs stayed asleep.  (My dogs hate the rain and won't take a step outside if it's raining.)  I made it to Russellville before they woke up and started getting antsy.  Somehow puke isn't nearly as bad as the thought of them peeing in my car.  Don't ask me why; I know I couldn't explain it.  

Russellville still had a slight misting going on but I thought I'd chance it for a potty break.  Pulling in next to a grassy area, I managed to park in Puddle Mecca.  Great.  The water-logged ground, cold weather, and my spastic dogs created an adventurous, muddy experience.   They would dance around the parking lot puddles, run onto the grass and immediately jump back off because it was so wet.  Then they would jump on me as my cue to put them back in the car.  

About three feet behind my car was a pothole, filled with water.  It's not just a puddle of water.  It's a crater that holds gallons of water.  I had slipped my keys into my pocket because I had planned on running into the gas station to use their restroom.  (I am brave on so many levels, I know.)  With all the 'dancing' my dogs and I had done during their potty break, my keys had slipped out of my pocket.  


I stared at the crater.  I just knew they were in there.  Along with the Loch Ness Monster.   I grabbed an umbrella from my trunk and poked the crater, wondering if it's possible to hear the jingle of keys in a hole that's halfway to China.  I stirred and poked the hole, hearing nothing.  I checked my car again.  Maybe I hadn't really taken them out of the ignition.  Maybe they had fallen in the floor.  Maybe a little elf had stolen them.  Or Jimmy Hoffa.  What if he's in the hole too?

I begin to pray.  Very desperate and urgent prayers.  I know if I don't find them on the ground somewhere, I'll be forced to put my hand in the crater.  I'm too young to die.  And I don't want to die in Arkansas.

Thankfully, I found them about a mile and half away from the car.  Oh glory, glory, glory.  I jumped back in the car, gave my dogs a dirty look, and got back on the highway.  

Enough drama for one trip?  Of course not.  My dogs won't go back to sleep and started to explore the car.  Which made me nervous.  Moving dogs are peeing and puking dogs.  They needed to be still.  So I brought out chew bones.  It did the trick and they settled down chewing on their bones, then went to sleep. 

About an hour from the house, the bone Eunice had resurrects.  I'll admit the error in my judgement of giving Eunice anything else to 'eat' during the trip, but she wouldn't quit moving!  Puke number four was followed by puke number five, six, and SEVEN.  (Seven happened about 8 minutes from my parent's house, by the way. Nice.)  

Seven pukes and one terror-filled moment of lost keys.   It took over nine hours to get to my parent's house.  Nine hours of stress and puke.  That was definitely a road trip from the very bad place.  And I don't mean Arkansas.  

I Forgive You, But It Still Hurts

We all make mistakes.  We commit harm to ourselves or others, sometimes before we even realize what we are doing.  We offer our apologies, duck our head for awhile, but eventually move on, having learned from our mistakes.   Who hasn't told a lie, cheated on a test, or hurt someone's feelings?  We all have.

Mistakes are two sided.  Those who make them and those who are affected by them.  We've all been on both sides, haven't we?  I'm not sure which side is preferable, for both sides suffer to some extent.  It's easy to say you'd rather not be the one making the mistake.  Who wants to be the one screwing up all the time?  Not me.  But then you're stuck being on the receiving end of a mistake.  And some of those mistakes hurt.  Badly.

Clay Crosse, the Christian singer who gained popularity a decade ago, and his wife recently published a book about his sexual addiction and their journey to healing and renewal as a couple.  Two facts that stood out to me: one, he admitted to being a Christian in label only; he did not practice Christianity, and two, he had had this problem for years.

Years.

And no one knew about it.  Not even his wife.  And definitely not the Christian music industry.  I have a strong feeling his success would have been considerably less had his problem been known. 

After reading the book, my thoughts flashed back to a time when I listened to his genre of music.  I remember the sound of his voice and the conviction I heard as he sang words of faith and consecration to God.  I recall thinking, "This guy is a true Christian.  I can hear it in his voice." 

Years pass.  He finally admits he was a fake.  At the height of his popularity, he was only in the business for the success and notoriety.  (His immorality was wrong on its own account, but doesn't directly affect me.  His family, yes; me, no.)  I've never met Clay Crosse, but I still felt lied to.  As though he personally betrayed me.  Tried to trick me.  And I fell for it.  Conclusion: he's a jerk and I'm an idiot.

But, then, so were the thousands of others who liked his music.  We can't all be idiots. 

Again, we all make mistakes.  Some are spur of the moment or even accidental.  Some may last a day or week or month.   I get that.  We all screw-up, even as adults.  It's the YEARS part that bothers me. 

I am, as most are, quick to forgive mistakes that happen over a short amount of time.  Eventually, and with a whole lot of prayer, I'll forgive everyone.  But even then, for some reason, it just seems to take longer to really feel like I've forgiven those who've betrayed my trust for YEARS.  As though the 'longer' a mistake was, the deeper it cut.   The deeper it hurt.   The longer it will take to recover.

To those who have made (or are currently making) the 'long' mistakes, be patient with those on the receiving end.  We forgive you, but it still hurts.  And hurt takes time to heal.

Jupiter - Earth's Best Friend

Went to Jupiter to get more stupider! 

Please tell me I'm not the only one who remembers that silly rhyme from my childhood. I believe it is a line from a jump rope or hand clapping song.  Like Miss Mary Mac or Miss Suzie.   

But, back to Jupiter.  Discovery's How the Universe Works documentary on the beginning of creation has an episode about planets.  Naturally, they mention earth a few times, but they also spent a lengthy time (in T.V. land) discussing Jupiter.  Jupiter?  Who even thinks about Jupiter?  Not me.  Except when lyrics from my past creep into my head.

Jupiter

Jupiter can be described as our solar system's body guard who has a really big baseball bat.  Because it is so large, Jupiter's gravitational pull is large.  The larger a star or planet is, the greater amount of gravity they possess.  And Jupiter is huge.  Were you to combine all the other planets in our little neighborhood, Jupiter's mass is still two and a half times bigger.  And it's not even a solid planet like earth.  It's just gas.  That's a lot of gas.  And a LOT of gravity.

But "lucky" for us, nature knew what she was doing.  Scratch that.  God knew what he was doing when He designed creation.  By providing Jupiter to our solar system, with all of its mighty gravity, it truly is a baseball bat.  Jupiter's gravity pulls in comets that would otherwise head straight for Earth or other planets.  In case you were wondering, being struck by a large comet would not be a good day for we earthlings.  Yikes.  I think of Jupiter a lot now.  A lot. 

Jupiter also "happens" to be positioned in the inner part of our solar system where its placement (and baseball bat) would benefit all the planets.  That is just so "convenient".

I have nothing against science, the pursuit of knowledge, or education.  I'm all for it.  However, I think people need to stop and listen to themselves.  The scientists on the show repeatedly, in amazement, described how everything that contributes to life on Earth is in just the right place.  The precise distance Earth is from the Sun.  The placement of Jupiter and its fierce gravity.  The Earth's unique magnetic field that deflects solar wind.  Each and every scientist was in awe of these delicate balances, but none of them even hinted at the possibility of a Master Designer.   That just boggles my mind.

It is so apparent.  It is so obvious.  God created the heavens and the earth.  He thought of everything.  Now I can't stop thinking about Jupiter. 

Until next time.

The Creator

Documentaries are boring. That's what I used to think when I was young and knew everything. (Ahem.) Second rate filming? Naturally.  But don't be snobbish - these people are on a budget, you know?  I just watched Discovery Channel's How the Universe Works and, boy, was it an eye opener. 

First, a few comments: 

1. Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs is the narrator.  His voice is low, mellow, and soothing and I usually end up taking a nap halfway through an episode.  I can't help it.  I'll even turn on an episode I've seen before just so I can sneak in a quick nap.  He's better than a lullaby. 
2. The graphics are top notch.  Half the time I can't tell which scenes are actual pictures from space and which are simulated.  Discovery, apparently, has the money to make a decent documentary.
3. I'm pretty sure I was supposed to learn everything about space in the 5th grade.  Either that didn't happen or I forgot everything except the earth revolves around the sun.  The shows are a great teaching tool.
4. All the experts interviewed are the hard core scientist type.  Their explanation for everything involved the words 'lucky for us', 'by chance' or 'fortunately.'  God received zero credit.  But, maybe He can't receive credit on a Discovery sponsored show?  I don't know. I hate politics. 
5. Speaking of God, I learned something about Him that thirty-three years of Sunday School hadn't been able to get through my thick skull.

God is not just the Creator.  

As I watched each episode, the first being titled The Big Bang, I was blown away at the images of space they showed.  Unimaginable beauty.  Different gases mingling together made blankets of rainbows that were awe-inspiring.  God is an Artist.  An absolute artist. 

According to the show, the beginning of the universe was simply an explosion that occured billions of years ago.  From that explosion, elements were created that eventually formed with other elements as they were hurled through space from the blast.  Be they right or wrong, (I'm not here to debate the Big Bang theory) what amazed me was that I learned the universe is still exploding.  Stars, like our sun, that are dying will implode, then explode.  And the explosions are beautiful.  Arcs of light and color shooting out from the sphere and then the remaining gases as they linger around the star's core.   

Helix Nebula

The Helix Nebula is an example of a dead star.  A dead star.  That's the most beautiful dead thing I've ever seen.  Which leads me to the thought that God made death to be beautiful.  (Note: The colors seen are actually gases reflecting the light from the remnant of the star - that small white dot in the middle.) 

The light and energy created from one star's death is atomic.  In death, a star is more powerful than in its life.  Amazing. 

The rock, elements, and gases blown off a dying star are the building blocks of new planetary systems.  God fashioned the cosmos in such a way that in violent death, potential life was born.  Born and available to be fashioned into something new.  

God is not just the Creator.  He is the Creator of things that create.  Nothing He made was  stagnant or finite.  Everything created in the beginning was meant to create, then recreate  on its own.  It is cyclical by design.  Life, be it in the heavens or on earth, is full of inherent potential.  The potential to create. 

My mind naturally veers off on a tangent.  As living human beings are we creating?  Not just physically with progeny, but spiritually.  Those who have been filled with the Spirit of God possess spiritual creative power.  The potential to create - spiritually.  The Bible refers to God's Spirit as 'rivers of living water'.  Living, by default, means creating.  Spiritually creating what? Which begs the question; if something isn't creating, is it really living?  Is it dormant?  Untapped?  Unused?  Neglected?

Asking the questions is easy.  Answering them is not.  I'll stick to asking them and let someone much smarter than I answer them. 

Until next time.

Childish Adults

Is there anything more uncomfortable and unsettling then when you come in contact with a full grown adult who behaves as if they were an eight year old? I don't know how to handle them. Conversations are awkward because you aren't sure if they will understand all the big words you may use. You certainly don't want to have lunch with them-what if they throw a fit over the service/check/carpet color? Friendship is out of the question. Politeness isn't, however, for we must always be polite.

You can't be rude and ignore them hoping they will go away. Too convenient. But it also goes against the grain to speak/interact with them as a child, because then you feel like one too. And if the teenage years did nothing else, it birthed a deep desire to NEVER relive your adolescence.

Can you tell them to just grow up? Ask them to stop whining? Get over it? Share?! No, you can't. Remember the last time you corrected a spoiled, undisciplined eight year old? Horrors. Now, add 30 years to that brat. What do you get? A spoiled, undisciplined 38 year old who has a license (as an adult) to do whatever they please. Double horrors.

Politeness rules the day. Just be nice. Smile a lot. Hope that one day they graduate from the school of hard knocks and learn to act their age.

And, for the love of Pete, don't be childish yourself.