SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO MARVEL

Yesterday's look at the sandhill crane stopover in central Nebraska gave us a bird's-eye view of that astounding natural wonder, migration. Speaking of migration miracles, today's the day the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano. Arriba!

Thousands of people, including many children, will gather at the 1776 Franciscan mission in that town, halfway between Los Angeles and San Diego, for the annual arrival. It's literally a bellringer, for that's how the swallows are welcomed each spring -- with the mission's mighty bells.

I know, I know, it has to do with the equinoxes, but I still wonder: how do the birds KNOW, every Feb. 18, that it's time to leave their winter quarters in Goya, Argentina, and start the 7,500-mile trip back for San Juan Capistrano?

How do they KNOW the way?

And how DO they always manage to arrive on March 19, or thereabouts? And leave for South America again every Oct. 23, or thereabouts?

How can they fly from dawn to dusk every day for a month without stopping to eat or drink, so that they can keep to that schedule? I thought OUR family set optimistic and challenging travel itineraries. . . .

And how DO they manage to stay so slim and aerodynamic, considering that each swallow eats 1,000 insects a day during their stay in the vineyards and fruit orchards of the Sierra foothills.

Just as the sandhill cranes help prep the farm fields in Nebraska every spring, the swallows are a miraculously efficient natural pesticide, and help regulate fruit development, in that southern California ecosystem. So they both help the local economy.

They both draw in tourists, too. It's fascinating to see how the Nebraska migration marvel has spawned all kinds of art activities, from paintings to photography to dress-up contests for metal crane sculptures. In San Juan Capistrano this weekend, they'll have mariachi bands, Aztec dancers and a parade.

Ah! Synergy . . . from biology to agriculture to the arts. You've got to love it.

Imagination's on the wing when nature shows us, yep, it's spring.

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Prayer request: Praise and thanks for the successful surgery for our young friend with the dangerous bone spur from Norfolk, Neb., Chasse (see March 5). She has two metal rods in her arm and a purple cast now, but the arm doesn't bow and there’s no more bone protrusion at the elbow. It hurts . . . but she knows it's worth it. (2 Corinthians 4:17)

MIGRATION MAMAS

Mom and I took three young'uns out to see Nebraska's marvelous migration saga: the return of the sandhill cranes to the Platte River wetlands in the middle of the state.

They're taller than our 4-year-old, with soft gray feathers and a dashing spot of red on the tip of their heads. They fly in loose V's with their long, skinny necks stretching straight forward and their long, skinny legs sticking straight back. They're modern-day pterodactyls -- breathtaking to watch from your car or the many viewing stands and blinds in the area.

They think there are 650,000 of them that winter throughout the southern end of the continent, and somehow -- miraculously -- know when it’s time to scoot north. They always take a pit stop of three weeks or so in March, in an 80-mile stretch of cornfields and sandbar-speckled river banks in Nebraska's midsection.

Then, as if on cue, they wing to Alaska, Canada and Siberia to nest for the summer.

We learned a lot about them at the Crane Meadows Nature Center east of Kearney, Neb., and then had a ball just driving around, watching them feed, fly and ''loaf,'' or nap standing up. It's a great example of synergy between nature and agriculture, since the birds come right before planting time and clean up the grainfields for the farmer, leaving lots of little fertilizer dividends for this year's crop.

It's fun for moms and grandmas to explore nature with kids and see it afresh, through their eyes. It was a great chance for the kids to witness how their Grandma migrates toward humor, too. As we left the nature center and began our crane-watching drive, we came around a wooded bend to see a herd of Angus cattle.

''Ooooh!'' Grandma exclaimed. ''There are some BIG cranes!''

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Prayer request: A dear friend is celebrating two years of sobriety today. His whole family is immensely better off. Praise You, Father, for bringing him to the point of repentance, giving him discipline, and rewarding him with the ultimate blessing, new life in the Spirit. (Ephesians 5:18)

HOLLYWOOD HUNKS AS HEROES AGAIN

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

I've been wondering why some cute actor like Liam Neeson doesn't hurry up and play the part of St. Patrick, that Irish spiritual stud muffin, in a new movie. It would make sense artistically and financially, now that Mel Gibson has made such a success of telling the stories of other Christian greats, from Jesus Christ to William Wallace, and the Christian mega-allegory of ''Lord of the Rings'' won every Oscar in sight.

Enough of anti-heroes and angst. It's time for heroes again.

St. Patrick's is a great story. He was kidnapped as a child in Britain and put into slavery as a shepherd boy in 5th Century Ireland. The paganism and human sacrifice were atrocious, but St. Patrick, like another little shepherd boy, David, spent a lot of time in prayer . . . and God spoke freedom to him in a dream, promising there'd be a ship waiting for him and everything.

There was. He escaped back to Britain and the rest, as they say, is history.

He rose through the ranks of the Catholic Church and went back to Ireland, this time as a great evangelist. He helped the pagans literally turn their swords into plowshares. He built a network of monasteries that single-handedly preserved the core of the literature of western civilization -- Greek, Roman, Jewish, Christian -- so that the barbarians couldn’t destroy our roots. Read more about it in Thomas Cahill's neat book ''How the Irish Saved Civilization: The Untold Story of Ireland's Heroic Role From the Fall of Rome to the Rise of Medieval Europe.''

I'm looking for a whole new wave of hero stories out of Hollywood now. Can't you see Tom Cruise as a gorgeous and gritty Daniel? How 'bout Julia Roberts as Esther? Dustin Hoffman as St. Paul? Can't you imagine the fun Stephen Spielberg would have recreating Noah's flood?

Movies like that would have the luck o' the Irish at the box office . . . because, you know, the luck o' the Irish comes from the great Producer in the sky.

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Prayer request: Peace and rest for an adult daughter who has power of attorney and has been dealing with an elderly mother's stolen car, half a continent away. Giving up one's precious days off to deal with faxes and phone calls to the police, insurance, towing, impound, repair, attorneys, bureaucratic details . . . oh, Lord, help mother and daughter cope. (Titus 2:3)

THUMBUNNY'S FASHION SHOW

First, it was the Hindenburg, a big blob of gauze around my left thumb. I sliced it and diced it pretty good last Friday night while cooking. The quickie emergency room said it didn't need stitches, just a big blob of gauze for three days.

I tried to keep the Hindenburg clean Saturday and went around like a Finnish speed skater, with my left arm tucked behind my back. We put on a birthday party for six little girls and had Mom over for a ham dinner. Naturally, I got green frosting from the Winnie the Pooh cake on the gauze, and plenty of dirt. So we cut some off and rewrapped it. Now it was a cigar.

On Sunday, I needed a shower. I put newspaper plastic over the cigar and wrapped a rubber band around my wrist, tight. It got drenched, anyway. There's nothing so mournful as a sopping wet cigar. It plopped into the wastebasket.

So I got out my own gauze, and fashioned my own little bandage, using Scotch tape. It looked like a finger-puppet Moses, with a white beard in front and a flowing long headdress in back. My fellow church-goers no doubt thought I was a dedicated Sunday School teacher. REAL dedicated.

But Moses kept falling off. Monday, I tried again. This effort looked like a deranged Easter bunny. It kept falling off, too.

Today, I'm down to three misshapen Band-Aids around the tip of the thumb. Sparse. Utilitarian. Unimaginative.

But so far, it's working best of all.

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Prayer request: We lift up a 15-year-old boy who was crushed to be cut from the baseball team yesterday. Oh, Lord, inspire him to call upon You for help. Frame this as a challenge . . . a quest. Encourage him to work on his game and try, try again. When he "makes it" next time, he'll know it's because You love him . . . and want him to play ball! (2 Chronicles 32:31b)

THE COMMUNITY PROJECT TURNS 4

Four years ago today, Whoopsie Daisy Williams blasted her way into this world, seven weeks early and half the size of her three older -- much older -- sisters. Our tail-ender! Papa's little dividend!

The aged mom, also known as moi, had toxemia so bad that I resembled a Macy's parade balloon. My blood pressure was over 200. Since only about five minutes had passed between the time I found out about this late-in-life pregnancy, and the premature delivery, it really wasn’t so bad on my end.

But Whoopsie -- OK, her name is ''Madeleine Joy'' -- stopped breathing twice, had to go in the neonatal ICU, and had to stay there for a week. It was a much more stressful scenario than the first three deliveries, which were so easy, my theme song was: ''Jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton -- have a baby -- jump down, turn around, pick a bale a day.''

But in the midst of the exhaustion, anguish and stress of that childbirth, a corps of guardian angels surrounded our family and especially me, to bring us through this life challenge to the point where now we don't know what we ever used to do for FUN before Maddy arrived.

A toast, today, to all those who have made this so sweet.

I'm fondly remembering my late Grammie Miller's humorous touch. She was past 90 when Maddy was born. While I was still in the hospital, she suggested that I put a set of dentures in a water glass at my bedside, since word had spread in the maternity ward that there was a REALLY old mother in the midst of the 20-somethings.

Then she and I would do a ''Little Red Riding Hood'' switch: SHE'D get in the bed and pose as the new mother, and I'D be the ''visitor.''

''Grandmother! What big STRETCH MARKS you have!''

We were afraid to do it for fear of liability lawsuits over the cardiacs it'd cause.

To Grammie and all our other guardian angels: thanks.

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Prayer request: Thanksgiving today for Dawn, who is home after a second brain surgery and doing well (see 2/9 prayer request). We are grateful for the medical marvels that bring healing in such difficult cases. We also pray for improvement for newborn baby Luke, who has a rare metabolic disorder. Comfort and sustain his parents, Father God, and help us all to be grateful for our wonderful bodies. (Luke 12:23)

MADDY & MAUDIE

And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten, the cankerworm, and the caterpillar, and the palmerworm, my great army which I sent among you.
-- Joel 2:25

I loved my Grandpa Darst, but he died when I was in fifth grade, and the memory of him is fading away.

He knew how to farm and fish, was great at math, ran a bank and an auto mechanics shop, and could do anything . . . anything! . . . with machinery.

I remember him down on the dock at our summer cabin in northern Minnesota, tinkering with NautiGal, his big, beautiful boat. He and my dad built the cabin from scratch on a slab of Minnesota granite. They ''engineered'' it sitting side by side looking out over the gorgeous lake in their crazy felt hats.

To this day, in our family, if you're dealing with a problem, you ''have it in engineering,'' because that's what Grandpa used to say. And anything that works well ''runs like a sewing machine.''

His woodstove was ''Bessie.'' His car was ''The Flivver.'' His outhouse was ''The Biffy.'' His World War I telescope for observing passing boats was ''The TV.''

And his little red tractor, the queen of the place, was ''Maudie.''

She was a 1940 International Harvest Farm-All Cub, with a matching red trailer and great, big Studebaker headlights that stuck out like lobster's eyes.

There was no road, so everything was barged in. From shore, Maudie hauled all the building materials up to the cabin. Once it was complete, she started hauling luggage, waterskis, gas tanks, fishing tackle . . . and little girls.

I'll never forget the aroma of Maudie's exhaust mixing with the scent of the fir trees. I loved sitting on Grandpa's lap, ''helping'' him cut lakeside hay and haul it to a deep-woods dump.

Maudie's tires were her ''boots.'' Her engine was only 9.6-horsepower, and the womenfolk joshed that they had MIXERS more powerful. But Maudie got the job done.

And she required little maintenance. Her ''garage'' was the same dented Campbell's soup can placed over her exhaust pipe, year after year.

You know what's coming.

Things change.

Grandpa died.

Dad kept everything going and gave his own grandkids lots of rides on Maudie, too. But a dozen years ago, he died, too. Sadly, our daughters barely remember him.

The place sat idle, then, much of the time. We eventually lost it in an eminent domain action by the federal government. It took private land for a national park, Voyageurs, and forced us out.

My siblings and I split up everything, crushed that our family shrine was lost under our watch, but consoled by the mementoes. My first choice: Maudie.

How to get her home, though, with no road access?

We waited 'til winter, and then barged her over the frozen lake by snowmobile. My husband trailered her 680 miles home, and found a mechanic in Iowa with Grandpa's same machine-magic. He and his 10-year-old son rehabbed her this past winter.

My husband brought Maudie home last week. She started up, first try. Our eyes locked and we grinned: ''runs like a sewing machine.''

Our ''tail-ender'' daughter Maddy ran out for a ride. She'll never know her grandpa or her great-grandpa . . . but she'll get a sense of who they were, through Maudie. Family lore lives on.

The twin grins of husband and daughter erased in an instant all that I had lost, and restored all that Maudie had meant to us through four generations.

No, things can never be the same. But they can be just as good. Only different.

I walked alongside, my lungs filled with tractor fragrance and my eyes emitting liquid exhaust. The next Campbell's soup can I come across will be Maudie's new ''garage.''

Some things never change. And that's OK, too.

She's already starred in her new home: Maddy's 4th birthday party was yesterday, and Maudie carried the hyperventilating party-goers around the neighborhood. Petting the neighbor's new miniature horse was almost as fun as riding behind a cute old tractor.

The kids launched their arms to the sky, shouting ''Hip! Hip! Hooray!'' Maudie belched. Maddy beamed.

The decades fell away, and there with them were two beloved old men from our past . . . hauling us into the future on an old, faithful family friend.

I think Someone had the moment ''in engineering'' all along.

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Prayer request: Thank You, Father, for bringing our Jordan home safely for spring break. She's back in North Carolina now, matching friends' tales of Florida beaches and wet T-shirt contests with her own Nebraska stories of sandhill cranes and an antique tractor. We pray for safety for all spring-breakers in these next few weeks, and hope they always take delight in the diversity of Your blessings. (1 Corinthians 12:4)

THUMBS UP

I'm typing this verrrrrrry carefully. There's a gauze dirigible on my left thumb.

There was no rabbi for miles, but last night while slicing roast beef I circumsized the tip of my thumb.

I was hurrying for our teenager, who wanted to go see her future husband Johnny Depp in the opening of his new movie. I found the knife in a drawer and it was a lot sharper than my usual set.

Two hours and 12 Band-Aids later, the thumb was still bleeding, so off I went to the emergency room.

It's pretty embarrassing to be there with a slightly sliced thumb that hurt like a “1.2” on a scale of ''1 to 10,'' when other patients are coming in by ambulance, on stretchers, etc., with real emergencies. But the staff treated me like a princess as they wrapped four miles of gauze around it and said I'd be a national champion hitchhiker with a thumb that flashy.

It has to stay there for 72 hours. I can't shower and WAH! I can't do dishes. Heyyy! I'm beginning to like this particular disability.

On the way out the door, the doctor won my heart. He gave me a great big ''thumbs up'' sign.

BASEBALL BOYS WILL BE BOYS

Years ago, a single mother friend of mine who has four sons, then ages 15 to 9, was driving them from Omaha to Kansas City, the nearest professional baseball venue. This was because their beloved Boston Red Sox were going to be playing there, and they got tickets.

All along the Interstate during the nearly four-hour trip, though, they were playing car tag with two young men who were apparently the world's greatest New York Yankees fans.

The first time the Yankee car passed the Red Sox mother and sons, they saw the Yankees hats in the back window. So naturally the four boys all put on their Red Sox hats, asked their mom to speed up, and passed the Yankees, waving, smiling and pointing to their hats.

A few minutes later, here came the Yankees again, this time wearing their hats, and returning the good-natured taunt.

These hijinks continued to the outskirts of Kansas City, when suddenly the Yankees brought out their big gun, fan-wise: they held up a Reggie candy bar -- you know, the one in honor of Yankees superstar Reggie Jackson.

This was intended to be the ultimate one-up. The guys in the Yankees car beamed, and sped ahead.

But the boys were not beaten. They rustled around in the back seat of the car as their mother wondered how they would respond. Finally, they asked her to speed up and pass the Yankees one last time.

They were holding up a piece of notebook paper with large letters challenging:

''REGGIE WHO?''

From the look on those d___ Yankees’ faces, the boys knew they’d scored a home run!

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Prayer Request: Thank You so much, Lord, for empowering single parents like this one to provide wonderful life experiences and memories for their sons and daughters. We know You love it when we have fun. (Ecclesiastes 2:1)

COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT

I'm happy to note that the State of South Dakota has now banned human cloning. It's a felony up there to perform or attempt to perform a cloning operation. This is good.

This is also smart. If you don't make cloning a crime, then you're stuck fighting it in the civil courts with long, drawn-out lawsuits.

The best legal theory there would be that human cloning is ''copyright infringement'' against our Maker.

Well, that's what it is.

At least South Dakotans don't have to worry about going around with a great, big © on their foreheads anytime soon.

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Prayer Request: We pray for safety for Patrick, the son of a good friend and ''pigeoneer'' from Iowa, who is going to Kuwait with the Army shortly. He has been having some trouble receiving emails from family and friends. Lord, clear that up so that he can be in touch without having to resort to messenger pigeons like his dad. (Haggai 1:13)

ATTABOY!

There's a teenager at a local high school who is not really a star athlete and not really a star student. In fact, he'd be the first to tell you that he has gotten teased all his life for not exactly being the strikingly handsome and razor-sharp movie star hunk that all teenage boys would like to be.

But he's a participant in the school, anyway, because he is athletic trainer for a couple of the varsity teams.

The GIRLS' varsity teams.

And at the last girls' basketball game, the absolute GODDESS of the senior class, a gorgeous and glamorous girl who renders all the boys into helpless pools of goo, hurt her shoulder.

She flopped onto the bench in pain. Here came the athletic trainer. ''Let me rub that shoulder for you,'' he soothed.

Every other teenage boy in the gym trained their laser eyeballs onto him in excruciating envy. And oh, the smile on his face. . . .

That's the way you play the game, sports fans.

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Prayer Request: Today begins a three-day fast and prayer campaign revolving around key political issues in legislatures and courts in Nebraska and other states right now: partial-birth abortion, gambling, human cloning and gay marriage. Prayer warriors are to focus on repentance on Wednesday, humbling turning their hearts to the Lord on Thursday, and thanksgiving on Friday. Bless this effort with Your victories, Lord. (Isaiah 58:3-5, Psalm 51 and Isaiah 58:5-12)

CHICKEN PLUCKERS

Our high school had its annual fund-raising ''Cake and Choral'' last night. There was great singing, dancing and fellowship . . . but my favorite was the chicken-pluckin' act.

There was a barbershop quartet of four very talented, very humorous boys in adorable costumes with the classic, ''My Old Man’s a Sailor.'' It involved a rubber chicken and the claim that one boy's dad was ever-lovin', chicken pluckin', etc. etc. etc. It was just plain silly entertainment -- fun and G-rated. Maybe you had to be there. But wholesome entertainment like that is so rare.

It reminded me of my days as a ''Kappa Picker.'' I played banjo in a college sorority hillbilly singing group. There was no sex, no off-color jokes, no revealing costumes . . . just singin' and pickin' and good, old-fashioned fun. Wish the kids today were exposed to more of it.

We had a ''hillbilly rap'' that would have fit right in last night:

Look at them sticker-pluckers!
Ain't they neat?
Pickin' them stickers from them feet.
Pickin' them weevils,
Pluckin' them briars;
Pullin' 'em out with sticker-pluckin' pliars.
Want to be a sticker plucker?
Don't need a ticket.
Get yourself a pair of sticker-pluckers
And stick it!

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Prayer Request: A high-school girl we know and love has recently made a very difficult decision, which we believe is a great decision. Best of all, it was rooted in prayer. Father, bring her success and fulfillment, for she has chosen Your way. (Hebrews 11:25)

THE WAWA IN WACO

Ewww! There’s something wong with the wawa in Waco. We enjoyed visiting that Texas town last weekend, where our daughter Neely is at Baylor University. But the water tasted and smelled just terrible. We should have known something was up when the motel had bottled water waiting for us in our room.

When I tried to brush my teeth – bleah!

Turns out there are dairy cattle in the vicinity, and there’s been more rain than usual. The environmental scientists think there are runoff problems from phosphorus in the ag chemicals being used.

They say it won’t hurt you but they know they have a serious problem with the taste, and they’re working on it feverishly.

“Don’t Drink the Water!” used to be for SOUTH of the border. Hmmm. I just hope this doesn’t drive all those squeaky-clean, G-rated college students at Baylor to drinking bottled beer!

The GOOD news is, Neely and her roommate got a water purifier. Let’s hope they don’t need it for long.

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Prayer Request: Special blessings and comfort for a beautiful new friend named Sandy, who is going through a very difficult divorce. Father, hold her close, give her faith, and bring friends around her to give her strength and cheer. (Luke 22:32)

Just back from a long weekend in Texas visiting our darling daughter at Baylor. Cheers! -- S.

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THE WEE McGREGOR

Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee. . . .
-- Jeremiah 1:5

Forty years ago, the wife of my friend Albert Walsh, now a retired judge in David City, Neb., gave birth to their ninth child. He was seven weeks premature.

That month, President and Mrs. Kennedy had lost a newborn son to underdeveloped lungs. This baby had the same problem. The doctor said he was having difficulty breathing. They put him in the ''preemie nursery.''

That evening, some relatives accompanied Al and Eleanor to the nursery. The tiny baby was red-faced and struggling.

At 6:20 the next morning, Judge Walsh was jarred awake by a phone call. His son had just died.

He comforted his wife as best he could and went to Mass. Everyone was glad the little one had been baptized. They named him Marion Michael.

They say losing a child is the hardest thing to go through in life --- a direct hit on your happiness, an assault on your sense of security -- always difficult beyond words.

But there's a way to respond. And Judge Walsh found it.

What happened next is one of the best examples of spiritual warfare I've ever heard. Let Judge Walsh reminisce:

''I had to tell our eight children, which caused the tears -- mine and theirs -- to flow freely. We had opened our hearts to this child who now would not be coming home.

''The children and I were crying during breakfast. I decided to put some music on our record player to try to cheer us up. We heard vocals by the 'Brothers Four,' selections from Victor Herbert, German band marches, operetta marches, the 'Light Cavalry Overture,' and Gilbert and Sullivan.

''Then I put on some Scottish Highland martial music, featuring bagpipes and drums. While the Black Watch Band was playing the famous old Scottish battle song, 'The Wee McGregor,' my wife called. I held up the phone for her to hear.

''We agreed the music was especially appropriate for our situation. It starts so softly that at first you can't hear it. Then it gets louder and louder, a beautiful melody. When it's going full blast, strong and beautiful, it fires up your blood. Then it gradually fades away until you can't hear it anymore.

''It was just like that with our son, Marion Michael. He came into our lives and family, captured our hearts, and then drifted away from us.''

They think of him now as their ''anchorman'' in heaven.

Some 40 years later, as an Epiphany gift, another son, John, and wife Donna gave the Walshes a compact disc of Scottish Highland martial music, featuring ''The Wee McGregor.''

It helps to remember, and to know your loved ones do, too.

I can just see that father with his eight tearful children, sitting around the breakfast table listening to the soulful bagpipes and pounding drums of that Scottish song. It lifted their spirits and opened their hearts to the ministrations of the Lord, which so often come to us through music . . . when words aren't enough.

I bet the children pictured their little brother in a teensy tam o'shanter, wrapped in plaid, marching off to heaven.

I see pure love in this story -- the love of a father who wished to lighten the hearts of his grieving children, and still express how he felt about the son he'll never know, at least not on this earth.

How I wish people who think abortion, human cloning and human embryonic research are all OK would think the way Judge Walsh does.

How I wish they'd treat the tiny humans they're dealing with as ''Wee McGregors,'' not just blobs of tissue.

These are precious little souls . . . to be loved.

Thank you, Marion Michael, for reminding us of that. That's why you were born. It's why you won't be forgotten.

Your life story is distinctive and uplifting, like the bagpipe music that links you to all of us still on our way to heaven . . . and trying to take the high road.

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Prayer request: An extra dose of comfort for all those who have suffered a miscarriage or the death of a newborn child or sibling, Father. Let faith sing in their hearts like the incomparable sound of bagpipes. (Matthew 9:22)

DailySusan will resume on Monday, March 8

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MILK CARTON MADNESS

This is embarrassing. But do you remember the hysteria a few years ago about child kidnapping? How there were tragic photos of endangered, missing children on milk cartons and so forth?

Confession time: when I went to the grocery store, I anxiously kept my hand on my toddler daughter as she rode the cart through all the aisles in the grocery store.

I was afraid she'd be snatched by some crime ring If I turned my back to get the best deal on string beans. I remember stretching like an Olympic gymnast with my left hand to get a package of Oreos from the bottom shelf without letting go of her little 2T overall strap with my right.

Comes now an eye-opening book that exposes that and some other despicable media hoaxes:

In 1999, guess how many children were kidnapped by strangers in this country? I'd have guessed 5,000.

The answer: 93.

That's one of many startling facts in the book ''The Progress Paradox: How Life Gets Better While People Feel Worse'' by Gregg Easterbrook. He says increasing anxiety and a 10-fold spike in unipolar depression since World War II are the results of upsetting and deceiving media hype. There's also the all-out assault against God which mires people in pointlessness, the breakdown of the traditional family, and self-serving tort lawyers who have created the feeling in society that we are ALL victims, or about to be.

We all need to resist what the author calls ''headline-induced anxiety'' caused by news and entertainment programs that deceive us into thinking there's a preposterous calamity about to befall us, right around the next corner.

Of course, if your child IS abducted by a band of wild-eyed, Oreo-brandishing, string-bean powered aliens, that's another story.

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Prayer Request: An 11-year-old northeast Nebraska girl, Chassé, has to have surgery on her left arm this coming Wednesday at Shriners Children's Hospital in Minneapolis. A bone spur on her growth plate has caused her a great deal of pain in her elbow and she has lost all strength in her left arm. She may lose the use of the arm unless this procedure is successful. Pray that Chasse, her parents and siblings will be ''armed with faith'' as they face this medical challenge. (1 Peter 4:1)

MARCH FOURTH!

Q. What day of the year is a command?
A. March 4th!

I know, it's corny. But that's what we always used to say on the fourth day of March when I was growing up. I'm sure we did a little comical, stiff-legged marching, too. It was a nerd tradition.

These are the remnants of an American childhood that was far simpler and full of whimsy than today's over-sophisticated ones.

I have a 40-something friend who has taught everyone to say ''Bugs Bunny!'' on the first of each month. Why? Because her grandmother insisted that that was something you did.

Another one is looking forward to having her own grandchildren, because she's going to resume a sweet, whimsical practice that her grandmother did for her every spring. On the day that she spotted the first robin of spring, she would send her grandchildren a telegram.

A little fun makes all the slush, mud and chill breezes of early spring seem doable. I even see some early tulips peeking up in a protected spot in the yard.

March 4th! Spring has sprung . . . or is about to!

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Prayer Request: We join our young friend Laura in prayer for a miracle of reconciliation with her estranged husband. Bring him to You, Father, and teach him to be accountable. We thank You that, despite being devastated, Laura is still full of joy and peace because she knows her identity, self-worth and future are in You. (1 Timothy 6:6)

LITTLE BOYS & CEILING FANS: PART II

Today we hear the saga of another longsuffering mother whose two sons used to play with the ceiling fan. Their game was UNDERWEAR FAN FOOTBALL.

You read that right.

When they were the age that they could almost be relied upon to take their own baths, they would get undressed while the bath water was running and wad up their underwear. Then one would climb on the bed and place the aforementioned unmentionables up on the fan blades while the other would hit the switch.

Then they would both make a mad dash for the flying drawers. Whoever caught the most undies in the best of five runs got to take his bath first . . . which meant the other little guy had to wipe up the bathroom.

Their mom sighed, but accepted it, since they had a ''no balls in the house'' rule. What else could they throw and catch without breaking a window, a trinket or a head?

Boys will be boys . . . and moms will always be their #1 fans.

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Prayer Request: A man and wife who are new believers are going to go to ''The Passion'' movie in a few days with their spiritual mentors. Father, we pray that You will use this powerful movie for them and all married couples to see how the Savior's suffering and sacrifice on our behalf reflects His love for His Bride – and let all of us respond accordingly (Luke 18:42).

LITTLE BOYS & CEILING FANS: PART I

Monday's account of drip-drying women's undergarments on a ceiling fan produced two stories from mothers of sons. Here's the first one; tune in tomorrow for the second:

''One spring, I decided to turn on the ceiling fan in the dining room . . . hadn't even used the fan all winter, just the lights. So as the boys sat at the table for lunch, I started up the fan and stepped back to the kitchen, when. . . .

''BOOM!!!

''My heart pounded from the sudden 'gunshot' in the dining room. I thought the nearby door must have shattered. I ran there, wondering why there was no broken glass from the sniper lurking in the yard. I looked at the door – it was untouched. Then my eyes fell to the floor.

''There lay a petrified fish stick.

''When my sons burst out with that little boy infectious laughter, it finally became clear.

''Scott said, 'Hey, Trev, remember that fish stick I kept throwing up in the air last fall 'til it landed on the fan???'''

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Prayer Request: Follow-up on 2/25/04 prayer request for Adam, 24, hospitalized with a mysterious ailment after living in Rome: the family is thankful for prayers. He was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis. He has been pumped full of prednisone and another medication. He will need to learn to live with it and the flare-ups. But he's back in school and doing fine. (Acts 4:30)

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3/2/04 • Send this to your friends!
Unique, day-brightening, informative and funny . . . join the email list on http://www.DailySusan.blogspot.com

CEILING FAN BRA-VO

I was just reunited with a softball friend from last summer and reminded of a stunt she pulled that stays with me as one of those unforgettable images of married life.

See, she is a woman of heroic proportions -- very statuesque. She is beautiful and diligent and takes great care with everything she owns. That includes her unmentionables – her undergarments.

Careful, diligent women never, ever put them in the dryer. When you are of heroic proportions, you can wind up with dents, twists, rips and other problems that render your bustline as having ''heroic distortions.''

Therefore, she always lets her mighty steel-belted brassieres hang-dry.

But one day, there was no room in her laundry room to do that. And her husband was out of town. So what the heck?

She hung them from the ceiling fan in the family room.

Naturally -- you KNEW this would happen -- he came home from his business trip in the middle of the night.

She awoke with a start. He was shaking her. ''OH, I'M SO GLAD YOU’RE ALIVE!'' he was saying. ''WHAT HAPPENED DOWNSTAIRS?''

One can only imagine what manner of cultists or criminals he thought had been rampaging through their peaceful home.

I'll leave it to your imagination as to how she explained herself.

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Prayer Request: Lord, safely return a loved one who has been struggling with breathing problems and is on the road coming home today. Breath of Life, fill his lungs and his heart with Your power and peace. (Acts 17:25)

THE CANTOR AND THE KLANSMAN

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.
-- Matthew 5:44

A Jewish friend overheard people last week talking about ''The Passion of The Christ'' movie and how they should watch out for the ''Christ-killers'' among them and ''how evil the Jews are.''

His wife, a cashier, heard a torrent of anti-Semitic statements from people waiting in line.

Remember that scene in ''Shrek'' where the princess does a triple handspring, elaborate judo and split kicks bonking the bad guys? That's what I’d like to do to numbskulls who are anti-Semitic . . . and anti-Christian.

Don't they know the Bible says Jews are God's beloved, chosen people?

And Jesus went through torture and death out of love for Jews along with everybody else?

And the crucifixion by the Romans of Jesus Christ -- a Jew named ''Yeshua'' -- was the most anti-Semitic act in history? That He was among thousands of Jews the Romans crucified over politics?

And when YOU make anti-Semitic statements, YOU kill our Savior, all over again, because He commanded: ''Love one another.''

Duhhhhhhh.

Oyyyyyyy.

Anti-Semitism: you think of Russian pogroms, Nazi Holocaust, crimes in Europe and Malaysia, terrorism in Israel, horrid shortwave radio programs, and hate-mongering websites worldwide.

Now there are claims that ''The Passion'' movie is fomenting it right under our noses. Christians have an opportunity to serve Jesus by standing up against it.

How? Study the awesome book ''Not By the Sword: How a Cantor and His Family Transformed a Klansman,'' by Princeton University writing instructor Kathryn Watterson (Northeastern University Press, 2001), details on www.amazon.com

It happened a few miles from me. In Lincoln, Neb., a Jewish cantor, Michael Weisser, and his family moved into a new home in 1991. They got a phone call: ''You will be sorry you ever moved . . . Jew Boy.'' Two days later, a package was flung on their porch with a note, ''The KKK is watching you, scum.'' Inside were pictures of Hitler and caricatures of Jews and blacks.

Police told the Weissers the likely harasser was Larry Trapp, Grand Dragon of the Nebraska Ku Klux Klan.

Trapp had been suspected of terrorizing Jews, Vietnamese and African-Americans for some time. His apartment was crammed with Nazi paraphernalia, hate literature and reportedly enough weapons to blow up a small city.

What would you have done? Buy Dobermans? Set up traps? Get him thrown in jail?

Or do what Jesus would have done? That's what Cantor Weisser did.

Trapp was in a wheelchair because of health problems. One day Weisser called him and graciously offered to take him grocery shopping.

Friendship blossomed.

It turns out Trapp had been beaten and abused as a child; his father used racial epithets against Jews and African-Americans. Trapp's life had been painful, and now, diabetes was killing him. His legs were amputated; he was nearly blind.

Trapp didn't need victims. He needed love.

It came: his visiting nurse witnessed Christ to him . . . a Vietnamese Buddhist hospital volunteer befriended him . . . a black neighbor prayed daily for him.

The Weissers took the lead. One day Trapp asked them to help him throw away his hate propaganda . . . and to forgive him. Eventually, Trapp apologized to each of his hate-mail victims.

As Trapp's health worsened, the Weissers invited him to live with them. Mrs. Weisser quit her job to care for him. He died on Sept. 6, 1992 . . . after having converted to Judaism in the Weissers' synagogue, a building he once threatened to bomb.

A Lutheran minister and friend conducted his funeral service to a full house. Many openly cried.

They cried the same tears people are crying in movie theaters everywhere. Because the Grand Knight of the Nebraska KKK finally saw it, too:

Love. Unconditional, unrelenting, awesome, powerful, wonderful love.

Thank You, Yeshua Mashiach . . . the Anointed One . . . Who sees our tears and hears our cries, beyond the movies into real life . . . and always, always finds a way to bring us love.

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Prayer request: The Jews are the apple of Your eye, oh God; You love them greatly. We pray for this movie to inspire us to oppose hatred in all its forms, including anti-Semitism, and demonstrate the will and power of the living Messiah. (Zechariah 2:8)

FOREFINGERS OF STEEL

We still haven't quite recovered from seeing a copy of the exercise video, ''Buns of Steel,'' in the TV set of a 70-something person we know.

And there's something cruelly fascinating about the artwork on ''Abs of Steel,'' the companion video for sculpting one's torso.

But now I'm proposing a cheap, fun, new exercise for the forefingers of America. In the wake of the Janet Jackson scandal and the ongoing controversy over indecent broadcasting by Howard Stern and fellow shock jocks, I say we all need to exercise . . .

FOREFINGERS OF STEEL!

Whenever you hear something awful on the radio or see something awful on TV, use that mighty forefinger to turn it off. First chance you get, use it to dial the phone number of the station manager and tell him or her what you think of what you heard or saw. Courteously, of course.

I have been tolerant enough to let the radio be tuned away from my favorite Christian station to a teen rock station when my teenagers have friends in the car. But they still haven't quite recovered from the ignominy of seeing me using my Forefinger of Steel to turn off foul lyrics, when they come, which they always do. I do it with dramatic flair and passionate resolve.

I usually let my forefinger stay on the ''off'' button a few seconds longer than necessary, and twist my face into just the right degree of disgust, to make my point.

It only took a few ''reps'' of that exercise to work. Now, we pretty much ride in peace, filth-free.

I may have buns of jelly and abs like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, but I'm in real good shape when it comes to giving raunchy radio the finger . . . and everybody's ears are better off.

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Prayer Request: We pray today for people in positions of authority in broadcasting and the music business, Lord. Help them to be more discerning about their massive influence on our youth. Help them to insist upon promoting only that programming which is pleasing to You. (Romans 12:9)

ROCK THE SHOCK JOCK

My friend Fritz from Florida is glad ''Bubba the Love Sponge'' is kicked off the radio after the shock jock's employer, Clear Channel, was fined $755,000 by the FCC for allowing him on the air so long with his indecent, revolting sex talk.

Fritz writes, ''How crazy is the world these days? Reading the St. Pete Times this morning, there are about 20 letters to the editor in favor of gay marriage and asserting that Bush is being divisive by opposing it.

''Then we have the letters in opposition to the firing by Clear Channel of the 'shock-jock.' This guy was the nastiest, filthiest disc jockey I've ever heard. I've been around the block and heard all sorts of things, but this guy was over the top on the radio. And the letters to the editor are critical of the firing?''

He wishes the media would quit giving weirdos, perverts and degenerates so much front-page coverage and credibility.

I don't think we gave ''Bubba the Love Sponge'' the right correction, though. I think we should have sentenced him to set his own radio dial, in car, home and earphones, to POLKA MUSIC, for the rest of his natural-born days.

The only way to clean out filth like that between someone's ears is with bubbles. Lots of bubbles in the music. You know, like that OTHER Love Sponge from the 1960s . . . Lawrence Welk.

Thank ya, boyzzzzzzzz.

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Prayer Request: Praise and thanks to you, Father, for giving me such a great and sensitive friend, Carol. She showed up at my door the other day when she thought my voice on the phone sounded sad. She brought me a cheer-up book . . . and my favorite, chai tea. Thanks for sending Your ''picker-uppers'' into this world, Father. (Psalm 26:3)

HAWAIIAN OY

Postscript on our North Carolina trip: we loved the Wright Brothers Memorial, the oceanside aquarium, and the safari across sand dunes to try to spot some wild ponies. Striking memories, all. But the grand finale was a gourmet lunch in the beautiful, intriguing home of my husband's father's cousin and his wonderful wife. They live on a picturesque lake in Durham.

He's a magician and she's a fine artist. Their home oozes creativity, color and joy. We adored their furnishings, especially the warmth and wit of their tablecloth, embroidered with the signatures of all the guests who have enjoyed their hospitality.

Second best of all, for Maddy, was a chance to throw chunks of stale bread to the Canada geese out their back door.

Best, though, was her introduction to a certain musical instrument. You could tell this was no ordinary home: they had a ukulele right there handy. She fell in love with it. It was just her size.

Her face would get this soulful expression, and even though she held it to the right instead of the left, and strummed from the bottom up, she was in her element. Put a little Hawaiian shirt on her, comb her hair funny, and voila: a mini Don(na) Ho!

So naturally, when we got back home, we went to the music store, which had one on sale -- $25.95 -- and she has been ''in concert'' ever since.

It's funny now. But we may live to regret this.

However, this frazzled mom says, if ukulele music has charms to soothe a savage 3-year-old breast, play on!

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Prayer Request: On the other side of my husband's family, there's a crisis. Unborn twins need to stay unborn for at least two more weeks, but the water broke around one of them yesterday. Contractions were stopped with medication. Mother and babies are fine so far, but this is 'way, 'way early for them to be born. Father, we pray for maximum development time in utero, and for a healthy, happy delivery when Your timing is right. By the way, guess where these dear twins live? The Twin Cities! (Psalm 139:14-16)

MEET THE PARENTS

The climax of our North Carolina trip was to meet our daughter's boyfriend's father. Gulp!

It reminded me of the funny movie ''Meet the Parents.'' Only this time, WE were the Fockers – hicks from Nebraska who could never measure up to this former New Yorker, a North Carolina businessman who sent his son to a tony boarding school in New Jersey and summered on the coast and so forth.

I thought about getting some of those fake hillbilly teeth and a buffalo jacket to wear when we were introduced: ''Howdy! How're YEW?'' But the premonition of Jordan's horrified face stopped me in the nick of time. Instead, I just flossed and tried not to make a scene.

He was delightful and asked the right questions -- Nebraska football, life with a 3-year-old, the snow we've had. We ordered grits and sweet tea. I think we ''passed.'' For sure, he did.

The whole time there was this new aura over our gathering -- a little scary, and yet sweet and exciting. If this young man is ''the one,'' then this stranger will be our fellow in-law with a lot of influence over our daughter's future life, arm-wrestling with us for who gets 'em for Christmas and stuff.

I didn't really like it . . . and yet I liked it.

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Prayer Request: Adam, 24, the only son of some friends of a friend, is hospitalized with a mysterious illness. He has severe diarrhea, can't eat and has lost 30 pounds in two weeks. He studied in Rome last semester and that may be connected. Also, Kaitlyn, 4, is having surgery today in Omaha for a tumor on her spine. She has been afraid and crying at the hospital. Oh, Father, heal these precious children and comfort and strengthen their parents in faith as they look to You in these trying days. (1 Peter 1:7)

NOTHIN' COULD BE FINER . . .

. . . than to be in Carolina in the moooooooooornin' . . . and afternoon and evenin' and especially in February, when it's relatively warm and colorful . . . it's a great state.

We visited our oldest daughter Jordan at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and dropped off her teenage sister Eden for a few days. She got to go to classes and attend an Actual College Party With Actual College Boys, learning from them that ''Friends Don't Let Friends Go to Dook.''

Meanwhile, we parents and Maddy, 3, drove to the coast to get some R&R at the Sanderling, a gracious hotel on the Outer Banks north of Duck, N.C. It was the first ocean experience for Maddy, and a treat to see it through her eyes. Two shellers coming up off the beach were ''mermaids,'' and she saw both a dolphin and a whale in her first glimpse. Or so she said.

It was the off season, so we were able to get a good table in a swank, historic restaurant in Duck, which is a classy mixture of southern California and Scottsdale. They weren't really set up for kids, though. No lids on the drinks; naturally, Maddy spilled her Shirley Temple. Then she was holding the plastic straw in her mouth like a warthog and wiggling her ''tusks'' around, which was not very amusing to our diligent and ultra-proper waiter.

Finally, as we were putting on our coats, she got a few steps out ahead of us down the exit hallway, and spotted the bright-red fire alarm. She had it in her hand, half-pulled! AA-OO-GAH! Both Dad and Mom did Secret Service-style DIVES and stopped her in time. Then she wailed in fright at the expressions on our faces. So much for R&R, traveling with a 3-year-old ''Curious Georgette.''

Tomorrow: Meet the Parents.

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Prayer Request: A spiritual counselor friend asks prayer for a newly-believing couple with children ages 9 and 10 ''who are so busy keeping score over their hurts inflicted on one another that they may sink the ship before we get away from the dock. Their marriage is a mess. Pray for soft hearts and a willingness to look for the tiny glimmer of goodness and hope . . . and to be willing to build on that.'' (Philippians 4:8)

BACK FROM A TRIP TO THE OUTER BANKS AND CHAPEL HILL, N.C. CHEERS! -- S.
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IS GOD FURRY?

And this is the will of him that sent me, that every one which seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may have everlasting life: and I will raise him up at the last day.
-- John 6:40

I'm grateful for the Mel Gibson movie, ''The Passion of The Christ.'' It’s going to clear up a whole lot of misconceptions about my Jesus.

No, He wasn't a liar. No, He wasn't a lunatic. No, He isn't dead.

And no, He isn't furry. At least, I don’t think He is.

See, I was driving with Maddy, age 3. Moms know you have to keep up the sparkling conversation and fascinating improv, or they'll chew through their carseat straps and watusi on your head.

So I was showing her how, when you turn the knob on the car radio 'way down, you can't hear the music anymore -- but it's still there. Turn the knob back around, and you can hear it again. Voila!

Inspiration! A ''teachable moment''!

''Hey, Maddy,'' I said, ''God is like music. We can't see Him. We can't always hear Him or understand Him. Sometimes we tune Him out. But we still know He's alive, right here in our hearts.''

SCORE! At least, I thought I had.

But noooooo. You NEVER score on a 3-year-old. She came back with a barrage of questions:

''What does God look like?''

''Does He have a wife?''

''Is God furry?''

I opened my mouth to try to answer, but then turned to my time-tested strategy:

''I don’t know. Ask your Dad.''

How do you explain water or air? I'd die without them, just as I'd die without my personal relationship with Jesus Christ – my all-day, every-day, death-defying, awe-inspiring, ever-humbling, ever-encouraging walk with the living God.

But how do you explain Him to somebody who doesn't know Him?

Voila! If they're of age, you take them to that movie, and then out for coffee. Brace yourself for deep questions. And be ready with some yourself:

''The Bible says you can only get to heaven if you believe in Jesus and accept His sacrifice on the Cross. After watching that movie, do you think a lot more people will?''

''You hear people say they are going to heaven simply because they try to be good. But the Bible says you can't get there on your own power -- only through belief in Jesus' sacrifice. Do you think this movie will change a lot of people's minds?''

''People say they love Jesus, but they do all kinds of things He told us not to do. Do you think this movie will make them realize they've been sinning and need to repent?''

I guess that's what I'm most looking forward to: seeing how much people learn and change from seeing Jesus in His defining moment in this movie. Maybe they'll begin to see Him in their every moment . . . and redefine themselves as part of His Body.

It's hard enough trying to 'xplain Him to Maddy. Of course, you can't take children to that ''R'' movie. You have to find ''teachable moments'' . . . and bear the consequences.

And yes, it happened again.

On Sunday, we worshipped with our oldest daughter in the beautiful, historic University Presbyterian Church in Chapel Hill, N.C. We took Maddy up to the balcony to try to minimize the impact of her mushroom cloud of disruptive activities.

A young couple brought a beautiful baby boy up front to be baptized. Golden sunlight pierced through the tall windows onto his blond fuzzhead and made his long christening gown glow bright white.

In the hush, Maddy asked loudly:

''IS THAT JESUS?!?!?!?''

Shoulders shook on the people in front of us. I got sweet tears in my eyes and hugged her close. ''No, Maddy. But He's right here.''

He’s not ''fur'' at all. He's near – as near as your heart, Maddy.

I hope people see Him on that movie screen . . . and meet Him at last.

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Prayer request: Lord, we pray for a hedge of protection around all those involved with ''The Passion.'' Let this movie be a profound blessing to all those who know You, or will come to know You through this film. (Job 1:10).

A SALUTE TO THE COACH OF THE YEAR

Great news: our daughter's softball coach, Terry Graver, has been named the Nebraska High School Softball Coach of the Year. He's a teacher at Elkhorn High School, an admirable husband and doting father. Everybody loves him. He's someone who has it all.

The award no doubt honors his ability to bring out the best in his squad, since they finished fourth in the state tournament despite losing not one but two All-Staters from the year before.

What I'd like to honor today is what I saw happen mid-season last fall. The girls got into a slump. They lost three games in a row to teams they should have pounded. They made bonehead mistakes. Coach yelled a little bit. OK, he chewed them you-know-where, and at high decibel levels, too.

The girls let their lower lips tremble a little bit. They banded together to bad-mouth this terrible, horrible, no good, very bad coach. They cried and wailed. How could he be so mean to them? How could he yell like that? Didn't he know what he was doing to them?

Before our eyes, they bonded into a team.

And then they went out and TROUNCED the next four or five opponents.

They got their mojo back. They surfed that wave all the way to State, where they overachieved and played great and made everybody proud.

Especially Coach Graver . . . the not-so-meanie . . . who knew what he was doing, all along.

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DailySusan will resume on Sunday, Feb. 22.

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Prayer Request: Health update on our close friend Steve, who survived an aortic aneurysm late last year with miraculous surgery: ''I did a bunch of tests yesterday; spent the whole day at the hospital: CT angiogram, ultrasound of the heart and aorta and others. . . . Supposed to start a three-month rehab next week. Only able to do two minutes on the treadmill; three years ago I outran the machine. That sucks. Cardiologist says I am now in the less than 1% Survival Club . . . that is how many survive my surgery this long. Onward and upward.'' Amen to that! (Philippians 3:14)

TRIPLE-DECKER JOB OFFERS

She got canned at Thanksgiving, and it hurt a whole lot. Someone higher up made an unfair, selfish decision. It was a big betrayal.

She’s in her 50s now, and that’s a tough age to be out competing for a job in her field. Christmas came and went and nobody was in to new hires. Money started getting tight. She got real down on herself and even started questioning her own value as a human being.

DailySusan was among those praying for her.

Well, guess what? In the last few days, she has received not one, not two, but THREE job offers.

THREE!

She had the unusual privilege of having to choose between three nice jobs. She took her favorite, of course – just minutes from her home. It had been a 3 1/2-hour interview, but to her, it felt like five minutes. She was asked to make an impromptu presentation in front of all these executives, but because of all her years of experience and her love for her field of work, it was “a breeze.”

They loved her. They affirmed her. They validated her.

THEY HIRED HER!

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Prayer Request: Thank You, Jesus, for answering our prayers for this dear friend, and bless her work for that company to the highest degree. May they all prosper, and may they all attribute their success to You. (3 John 2)

SECRETS OF THE 'NECESSARY ROOM'

A friend was powdering her nose in the ‘’necessary room’’ of a popular restaurant when she saw a darling little girl carrying her Madeline doll into the stall. Why? Because the doll had to ‘’go,’’ of course. The little girl's bemused mother played along as the little girl solemnly held the doll over the commode, then to the sink to pretend-wash her hands. The friend did a double-take. That wasn't just ANY deranged little girl and her deranged mom.

It was Maddy and me.

THE THINGS WE DO FOR LOVE!

Among the other restroom secrets that only little girls can tell:

-- The first time Maddy experienced an automatic flush, she informed me, ''My 'pretending friend' did that for me.''

-- In the doctor's office, the t.p. was high-quality, with a lovely pattern of roses embossed on the surface. ''That’s because we're in the girls' room,'' Maddy reported. ''In the boys' room, they have BIG SHOVELS.''

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Prayer Request: We are grateful for the good attitude of an older friend in southeast Nebraska with heart problems, who had a stent (a wire mesh tube) and pacemaker installed in January. He is having trouble walking. But he says he is thankful for the ''parts that do work'' and especially for friends who stay in touch. Lord, bless him for his ''attitude of gratitude.'' (Colossians 2:7)

DARK SECRETS

Stand in awe, and sin not: commune with your own heart upon your bed, and be still. Selah.
-- Psalm 4:4

We women have our own Homeland Security. It's a deep, dark secret, a stash of ammunition brought out only in severe crisis mode.

It's dark chocolate.

I have been known to serve chocolate chip-less chocolate chip cookies. In a pinch, I'll even turn to squares of baking chocolate. On a really bad hair day, dark brown sugar, mainlined, will work.

I wrote recently about going on the Atkins diet, and waxed orgasmic about my immediate 15-pound weight loss. A big reason: I gave up my ''dark secret.'' I've since learned how many other women have the same one.

A friend opened that email and literally had a Ghirardelli candy bar – dark chocolate, of course – halfway to her mouth. She dropped it like a hot potato, and stashed it away for another day.

That's what we do – we stash. And sometimes, we get found out.

My friend Chris once accepted four dark-chocolate candy bars from a friend who was going on a diet. ''Hide these for me,'' she urged. Only women understand missions like these. Chris has a ''dark secret,'' too. But she resolved to preserve, protect and defend that candy in case it was ever needed.

She turned to the only place on the planet still her own: her underwear drawer. For weeks, those candy bars hid there without incident.

Then one Saturday, she came home and saw her husband on the deck steps with one of the candy bars, half-eaten. ''Hey, Baby!'' he exclaimed, grinning. ''Look what I found in your underwear drawer!''

She gasped in horror: ''That's PATTY'S!!! And you ATE it? Did it not OCCUR to you that it MIGHT belong to someone ELSE?''

Turns out for the first time in history, he decided to put the laundry away, found the stash, and thought it was hers.

Men just don't understand. But they're right about one thing: when problems emerge, we shouldn't turn to turn to things that make us fat or drunk or in a stupor. I've learned this, being on Atkins these past six months. We have another Secret to turn to.

It goes like this: the other day, I found out that someone had done something really mean to me. But if I called them on it, it would make things worse. I was stuck. I really, really wanted a handful of chocolate chips. OK, a bag full.

Then, Maddy, age 3 1/2, made me stop and watch her repeatedly dent the belly of her rubber porcupine to see how long it took the dent to disappear. This was a DOG TOY! I had BETTER things to do! But I could imagine her in a psychiatrist's office someday: ''Why do you think you have these neuroses and psychoses?'' ''Because my mother never cared about my hobbies.'' So I stuck with it. Visions of Hershey's ''Special Darks'' danced in my head with each belly-dent iteration.

Then I met friends. One of them gave the other one a box of Italian candy – dark chocolate, of course – with a toy porcupine decorating the box. Salivating, I told them about the ordeal with Maddy's rubber porcupine, and wistfully said that I had never seen a real porcupine.

That evening, the accumulated stress overwhelmed me. I ran upstairs, hurled myself on my bed in the dark, and had a great, big, honkin' pity party.

I cried and sobbed and fumed to God. Then I got the hiccups. They're silly. I chuckled. My funk was broken. I got up, and for once, kept it all to myself.

WELL! At bedtime, my Bible flipped open to Psalm 4:4 -- basically, ''just pour out your troubles to Me, and otherwise, shaddupaboudit.''

I beamed. I don't need dark chocolate or anything else. He's my REAL secret . . . my REAL sweet.

And then yesterday on a whim we took Maddy down to the zoo. Down in the deep, dark secret of the Desert Dome, guess what I saw, for the first time in my life?

A porcupine.

Thank You, Jesus. Life with You . . . how sweet it is.

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Prayer request: Comfort, Lord, for my sweet friend Mary, who has been such a faithful and loving daughter, but whose mother went to be with the Lord. Open the family's hearts to the fruit of the Spirit at this tender time. (Galatians 5:22,23).

BEE MY HONEY

Happy Valentine's Day to young lovers, middle-agers, and especially those oldies but goodies, who've made marriages work over the decades.

Here's a quote worth sharing with brand-new bridegrooms and every married man you know, especially those precious, priceless LONGTIME married ones:

''The married man is like the bee that fixes his hive, augments the world, benefits the republic, and by daily diligence, without wronging any, profits all; but he who contemns wedlock, like a wasp, wanders an offense in the world, lives upon spoil, disturbs peace, steals sweets that are none of his own, and meets misery as his just reward.''

-- Owen Felltham, English essayist and poet, 1602-1668

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Prayer Request: Thank You for my "honeybee," Lord. Send a double dose of Your wondrous love to every married couple in the world, Father. It’s what pleases You most – sweet, pure, true, strong, committed, protective, sacrificial, enduring love between a man and a woman living by Your model, for Your glory. (1 Corinthians 13:13)

BILLBOARDS WE'D LIKE TO SEE

A friend sent a really silly email joke with mockups of humorous and mostly R-rated, inappropriate slogans on phony roadside billboards. A few I can repeat:

(Graphic: an Asian chef with fancy knives)
Sushi: Still your best bet for intestinal worms.

(Graphic: the Canadian flag)
Canada: Leading the world in being just north of the United States.

(Graphic: a bride and groom)
Planning a wedding?
1-800-RUNLIKEHELL

(Graphic: a dazed guy with his hand on his forehead)
Dude, we totally forgot our slogan.
-- American Medical Marijuana Association

(Graphic: luscious doughnuts)
Chew, you fat b-------s, chew!
-- Krispy Kreme

(Graphic: a big diamond ring)
Two months' salary, my a----.
-- ZIRCONIA


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Prayer Request: We call upon the Most High to protect our teenage snowboarder friends and their entourage on their trip across the Plains to the Rocky Mountains this weekend. May they encounter You in Your wintry splendor, Lord, and come back with happy stories and no casts or slings. (Psalm 36:6)

DUHHH-ARWIN DUHHH-AY

Let's say you hit a golf ball 30 miles and it lands without a bounce in the cup on the 18th green of a golf course that far away. That's what human conception and fertilization are: miraculous. And yet that has happened, just that way, billions of times . . . and we've got the people to prove it. You're not an accident – you're a miracle!

That's why I get so TEED OFF at people who still say Charles Darwin was right in 1851 when he wrote ''The Origin of Species.'' He has blocked the faith of more people than anybody else in human history by postulating that random chance and natural selection are responsible for the universe and all forms of life in it . . . not God. Boy, is that stoooopid.

Yes, I'm reading another book: ''What Darwin Didn’t Know: A Doctor Dissects the Theory of Evolution.'' It's by Geoffrey Simmons, M.D., a physician since 1969 who has studied the human body and evolutionary theory his whole life. It's a wonderful read about the human body, from the cell to all the complex systems, neurological through excretory.

It'd be a great gift to give anyone who is doubting their faith, especially since today is Darwin Day, marking the birthday of the English naturalist over 150 years ago who studied male barnacles and proclaimed that there is no God.

And that, girls and boys, is . . . excretory. :>)

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Prayer Request: We pray for diligence for road engineers and their bosses in government as they design and fix streets and highways. Lord, we mourn the revelation that in the October 2001 fatal bus crash on West Dodge Road in Omaha, the lanes were so narrow that there were only nine inches of ''room for error'' at the spot of the collision, a sharp jag, no guardrail. . . . Father, may it never happen again. (Romans 12:8)

THE FOUR P'S

We're having my grandmother's piano refinished and refurbished by an old, old company in downtown Lincoln, Neb.

Gram used to play the piano for the silent movies. I remember being awed by how her long fingers would dart all over the keyboard of her baby grand, embellishing old melodies. She played by heart . . . and her playing is remembered that way.

Her piano is an Everett. It dates to 1922 or so.

The piano shop is on a corner near the downtown core that I'm sure was in its heydey, hustling and bustling, when Gram's piano first arrived.

Now, they say, that intersection has the Four P's:

Pawn

Porno

Police

And, of course . . .

Piano!

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Prayer Request: For our friend Chris, we pray that going back to work after eight weeks off with a painful disability will be as much of a joy to her as it is sure to be to her coworkers and customers. Take away her pain, Lord, for she is one who glorifies You in her work and sees her job as a ministry. (Revelation 21:4)

HEART-TO-HEARTS AND HOMOSEXUALITY

The little one made colorful hand stamps on doilies yesterday to send as Valentines to the grandparents and other special people. Somehow, she got it in her head that the pink handprints were ''girls'' and the red handprints were ''boys.'' As we worked with both her hands, we were very careful to have one red and one pink handprint on each doily, not two of the same color. That was by the artist's command, not the go-fer's.

Whoever thinks same-sex ''marriage'' is natural has never made Valentines with a little child. Funny how they know what's what. How on earth do we -- or should I say a few radical judges and terribly confused people -- forget?

But how do you explain all this to a child? How do you communicate God's love for us individually, and His purpose for our body designs, without invading a child's innocence? It's wrong to give them lewd descriptions of what homosexual sex is, and tell them about the health hazards of nonlubricating body parts and sperm getting into the colon and so forth.

I mean, none of that is very Valentinesy.

But here's one way: tell them that the only kind of love God wants us to have is ''heart to heart.''

If you can't make love facing your loved one, with your heart next to your loved one's, it isn't really love. And if your hearts can't merge as one in the creation of a new heart – a new human being – which is only possible through the love between a man and a woman, then it isn't God's kind of love, either.

From God's heart to yours, and from yours to your child's . . . a Valentine message that hearts of all sizes can hold.

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Prayer Request: We pray for a great job offer to come to Leslie, Father, in such a way that she clearly sees Your hand in this important life change. Help her to see beyond the new job, to the real blessing, which is Your caring and provision in her life. (Colossians 3:2)

TEENAGE MUTANT IN PANIC MODE

Our sweet 16-year-old is very patient about babysitting her 3-year-old sister, especially if it’s on a Saturday morning when they can both park in front of the ‘toons and she can pretend she’s babysitting, not enjoying her old favorites.

Well, this past Saturday, the toddler was parked and the mom was out the door. So the teenager went downstairs get her ever-present cellphone in case any of the mutants cared to call with one of their earth-shaking issues, like “Wuzzup?” “Not much. You?”

Naturally, it rang while she was down there, so she conversed in the privacy and splendor of her own room. And maybe she let it go on a little long. Maybe a lot long.

She vaulted the steps two at a time to rejoin her young charge . . . but the toddler was no longer there.

She wasn’t in the kitchen. She wasn’t in her room. She wasn’t in the basement. She wasn’t anywhere in the house.

Worse yet, her little purple winter coat was still hanging in the closet!

SHE MUST HAVE WANDERED OUTSIDE IN HER JAMMIES AND BARE FEET, IN 28 INCHES OF SNOW!!! SHE MUST BE OUT THERE RIGHT THAT MOMENT, FREEZING SOLIDLY INTO A LITTLE BLUE BOARD! WHICH MEANT SHE, THE TEENAGER, WAS GOING TO BE SO, SO GROUNDED!

The teenager went into Full-Scale Panic Mode. Her eyes surveilled the backyard landscape. Hmm: no little blue body in the visible drifts. No little pixie footprints, either.

But what was that, back by the trees?!? Little waving shadows behind the uncut tufts of prairie grass!

She burst outside, ignoring her own bare feet, as the theme song from “Chariots of Fire” sprang into her head. You know, the song they played when they were running really fast along the white beach. Only for her, it was white snow: “Duh duh duh duh duhhhhh duh, duh duh duh duh duhhhhhhh. . . .”

Yeah, duh, all right. She practically dove into the snow behind that grass. But that wasn’t a freezing cold toddler! That was a barn cat!

The toddler was nowhere to be found. The teenager was toast. Her feet were freezing cold, but the rest of her? Toast.

She returned inside, and fretted about it intensely for 30 anxious minutes . . . until her dad arrived with the toddler in tow, in her OTHER winter coat, happy and unblue and unfrozen.

While the teenager had been downstairs taking that call, the dad had unexpectedly come home and taken the little cabin-bound one on an exciting outing to the hardware store and “Burber King.”

No, he didn’t leave the teen a note. That’s the kind of stuff GROWNUP mutants do!

And yes, he should have been grounded. Or made to write 100 times, “I will not take Maddy without leaving a note. I will not take Maddy. . . .”

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Prayer request: Lord, we lift up to you Dawn, who is recovering from brain surgery, and suffering pounding headaches, eyesight problems, and doubt and fear. Heal her, Father, and protect her job despite these many absences. Keep her spirits up and help her graciously receive care, even though as an R.N., she’s used to being the one delivering it. Give her medical team the wisdom of the Holy Spirit and keep her family strong in Your might as she undergoes another surgery soon. Help her recall, Lord, that You are her head, and You have her in both Your mind and heart. (1 Corinthians 11:3)

SAVED BY THE TOILET

. . . (F)or he hath said, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.
-- Hebrews 13:5

I had this funny friend. She made my cheeks hurt from an excess of laughing. I scolded her for being so hard on my face – the last thing it needed.

I lay there in the hospital after giving birth to a 9 1/2-pounder, and had to listen to her making wisecracks, extremely graphic and highly inappropriate, that made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to give birth again.

She was super-smart, super-organized, capable, sensitive and thoughtful, the last person you'd expect to become a desperate, suicidal alcoholic.

But she did.

It's a long, sad, familiar story. Stuff went wrong. Real wrong.

She got down on herself. She slipped into self-destructive habits. The wit and wisecracks left her. She put up a good front for years and few people knew, but her private hours were black and blue. She felt all alone. She ate and ate and ate, and drank and drank and drank.

Then one terrible night, she tried to kill herself.

I still can't believe she did this. There are so many better, smarter ways of dealing with life's problems. Being stupid is just not like her. But one night, she hit bottom. She drank a whole bottle of booze, swallowed a whole bottle of pills, and stretched out her body on her lonely bed.

She had had it. This was the end. She was going to die.

But she forgot about one thing:

The female bladder.

She didn't know how long she had been laying there. She just knew that all of a sudden, she had to ''go.''

In her drugged state, it never occurred to her that, if you're going to die by your own hand in a few minutes, anyway, you might as well wet the bed. People are already going to be mad at you.

But nooooo. Ever the perfectionist, she had to get up and go to the bathroom. Somehow, she managed to stagger in there and onto the toilet.

Her head was spinning from the booze and the pills. Her body was heavy and leaden. Her muscles went off duty. She was dizzy. As she stood up from the toilet and turned to flush, she lost her balance and fell backwards — crash! smash!

Somehow, she broke the toilet.

Water seeped out from the toilet tank onto the bathroom floor where she lay. She may have passed out, but the cold water woke her up at least partly. She came up on all fours. She forgot the suicide attempt and how she got there. She was woozy. But her heavy-lidded eyes saw the water pooling up on the floor.

''Heyyy!'' her foggy brain thought. ''There's a leak!''

She crawled and dragged herself to the telephone. In her fog, she couldn't remember the apartment manager's phone number. The only phone number she could remember was ''911.''

So she dialed it. And, in her drugged-out, boozed-up state, slurring her words and making very little sense, she reported that there was a leak on her bathroom floor.

The 911 operator was sharp. She knew the call was about a lot more than a leaky toilet. She knew what an O.D. sounded like. She got my friend's address and sent a rescue squad.

My friend passed out again, but they broke down the door and got her to the hospital. They had to pump her stomach and I don't know what all.

She lived, though.

She had help.

She thought she was alone, that night.

She wasn't.

She forgot that Someone had promised to always be with her.

He didn't.

She didn't think her life was worth living.

He did.

If God can use crazy things like a pillar of fire, a talking donkey and the belly of a whale to get people's attention and show us His love, why not a life-saving toilet?

My funny friend put it this way: she was saved . . . by the ''throne'' of grace.

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Prayer request: If there's anyone in your life who might be struggling with despair and depression, tell them this story -- not for them to ''test'' God, but for them to realize that He really is with us, every minute of every day on earth. (Romans 8:38,39).

INNER STRENGTH AND INNER TUBES

Just came from a funeral that made me smile. That’s the best kind, you know. She was a believer and she’s with the Savior now. That’s worth smiling about, for sure.

But what I really liked was an anecdote the minister told about how, despite her many medical conditions and challenges, later in her life she had a hankering to go tubing. That’s right: float down the river in an inner tube and look like a total idiot . . . but a happy total idiot.

The reason that wish was so outrageous is that she had to be on an oxygen tank. Most people would have been hopeless and bitter about the limitations and difficulties that caused.

But she was undeterred. She and her friends simply rigged up one inner tube for her . . . and a child-sized one for the portable oxygen tank.

She showed us all a better way. Life’s like that . . . when you are strong enough to go with the flow.

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Prayer request: For Penny and Rich, who join their lives in Your holy matrimony today, Father, we thank You for their extra-special, sweet, humorous, inspiring “fogie love story,” and we pray that You will keep them close together in sacrificial commitment, and attached to You as they “tube” down the river of life. (1 John 4:19)

WHEN A STUD CALLS YOU A COD

A friend recalled the time she was sitting at her ''table'' in high school when one of the gang came up, bursting at the seams with excitement. Bev, a sweet, quiet, very smart blonde, had big news.

''Guess WHAT?!? Chuck gave me his PICTURE!!!''

The girls all ooh'ed and ahh'ed. Chuck was a hunk, in the top 10, her long-time, long-distance heartthrob, a big basketball stud, and the cutest boy she had ever seen. They were all impressed and happy for her.

Bev continued, ''And guess what he wrote on the back? 'To Bev, a really COD girl!' You guys! He thinks I'm COD! Wow! Chuck thinks I'm COD!''

They were even more impressed, if a little confused.

One of the group reached over: ''Can I see that for a sec?'' She drooled properly over the photo, then turned it over, , , ,

''But that says 'COOL,' not 'COD.' See? He ran the 'o' and the 'l' together, so it looks like a 'd.'''

A heavy silence fell over the table.

It was the highest compliment, to be COD, even though none of them had ever heard of it. Somehow, being plain old ''cool'' just didn’t have the same pastiche.

Well, it was COD while it lasted.

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Prayer Request: A special friend had a Mass said in my family's name yesterday, and a good thing, too: the man of the house had to drive to and from another city on the icy highways, and the teenager was out in it, too. But thanks to prayer cover, everything went – excuse the expression — slick. So we'd like to return the favor, Lord, by asking You to meet her prayer need this weekend for safety and peace around the ''dividends'' (translation: children) who will be near, and also for another friend of hers who is really struggling with the snow and inconveniences therefrom. (John 13:34)

NICKNAMES AND HORSING AROUND

Our 16-year-old daughter has another new nickname. It's about her 20th. She has more aliases than Jesse James. That's the way it is with colorful characters like her.

But this one's really wacky:

''Mr. Ed’s Girlfriend.''

How'd she get THAT nickname? Elementary, if you know teenage logic. See, she makes her own lunch. One day, she must have gone a little crazy with the peanut butter for her sandwich. It was about an inch thick.

She took a big bite, and was struggling to scrape around the insides of her mouth with her tongue, and over her teeth, to be able to swallow.

I guess to her ''table,'' those longtime friends who bestow nicknames as often as possible and with a goal of as much embarrassment as possible, it made her look like the famous TV talking horse. Since she's every inch a girl, she couldn't be ''Mr. Ed.'' Voila, the new nickname.

Teenagers: they're a horse of a different color. And they talk, too.

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Prayer Request: Regarding the upcoming movie about Jesus, we ask for strength and physical protection for director Mel Gibson, producer Steve McEveety, lead actor Jim Caviezel and everyone else associated with the movie. Open doors for it to be shown where it's now being censored. We pray the impact of this movie will win hearts for Jesus worldwide. (Matthew 28:19)

PAINTING POOTSIE PURPLE

I’ve been a mother long enough. I should have known better. But I did the unthinkable: I set up the easel, put out some tempera paint for our 3-year-old . . . and then turned my back.

The dishes were fossilizing in the sink; they had to be done. I heard her humming and chattering to herself. I thought she was contentedly painting on the paper with her little pot of red and her little pot of blue.

But ohhhhh, no. She mixed them. Sort of. Then she made handprints. The fingerprints were red and the palms were blue. The rest of the work – a “porky pine,” if you must know – was resplendently purple. Andy Warhol gone Munchkin. At least most of the paint was on the paper.

The REST of it was covering her naked body from the waist up!

That’s right. While I had my back turned, she whisked off her shirt and decorated her jelly-belly purple, and her arms from fingertips to shoulders, up around her neck, and even around back under her waist, like a halter top.

As soon as I turned around, she took off running to “go show Daddy.”

I just wish I had a photo of my face. Now, THAT would be colorful.

This was the same night as the Super Bowl. In fact, during the same halftime show that has decent people up in arms, I was washing purple OFF two arms, monitoring her shower and tsk-tsk’ing about the purple paint splattering on the tile.

So while everybody was fussing about Janet Jackson and what she was exposing, WE had a DOUBLE dose . . . and they were PURPLE, too.

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Prayer Request: Gratitude, Lord, that our friend Russ was not hurt in his ice-related auto accident. It caused a lot of damage to his car, but not a scratch on body or soul. (Psalm 119:117)

FOR NEXT YEAR’S SUPER BOWL SHOW

Everybody’s in a hubbub over the disgusting, X-rated show of sexuality put on at halftime of the Super Bowl. But the answer, like Janet Jackson’s you-know-what, is staring us in the face:

The Fairness Doctrine!

That time-honored precept of the broadcasting profession holds that, if one side of a controversy or cultural conflict is presented on the public airwaves, then, to be fair, the OTHER side ought to be presented in an equal forum.

We, the American people, own the airwaves that were used Sunday to show the world that unbelievably trashy show that “featured” dancing that was really simulated humping, smutty lyrics, and an obviously planned breast-baring.

It wasn’t what anybody wanted to see. Anybody decent, that is.

So, under the Fairness Doctrine, at NEXT year’s Super Bowl show, the featured act should be something to represent the G-rated community. It should be something that the X-rated community does NOT want to see, just as much as we G-rated people did NOT want to see their show this year. That would be fair, wouldn’t it?

So, next year, they should have to put on a show like the one at the church down the road from us on Sunday nights once a month: senior citizens doing Scottish Highland dancing.

Oh, the pageantry of the laddies and lassies in their colorful costumes! They can dress it up with lots of bagpipes around the stage, tam o’shanters on the cameramen, and maybe serve Finnan Haddie in the concession stands and stuff.

See how many 30-second spots at $2.3 million apiece THAT brings in.

‘Course, some of those old geezers get to spinning pretty good, and those kilts can fly out sideways . . . it’s a peep show all its own, for those who like that sort of thing.

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Prayer Request: Lord, use this Super Bowl flap to wake people up to the sordid oversexualization of so much TV content and music. Help moms and dads teach their children about the “eye gate” and the “ear gate” that they must keep closed to such filth. Help us all to keep our eyes and ears open only to things that will be pleasing to You. (Proverbs 20:12)

WIFESTYLES, THEN VS. NOW

Somebody gave me a cookbook and storybook about the life of a southwest Iowa farm wife in the 1940s and '50s. ''Up a Country Lane Cookbook'' by Evelyn Birkby (University of Iowa Press, 1993) is a real kick in the pants to us high-tech softies who think housework is hard. HAH!

For Evelyn, Monday was always laundry day. She used a square-tub Maytag on her back porch with an attached wringer and two rinse tubs. She ran a hose out to it from the kitchen sink. She had to lift each piece out by hand, with a broomstick, to the wringer to get the soapy water out of each garment. Then she used the same broomstick in the rinse tub to slosh everything up and down in the hot rinse, and again in the cold.

She used the same wash and rinse water over and over again, so she started with the bedsheets, moved through the towels, dishcloths, Sunday shirts, children's clothes, colored things and finally her farmer husband's workclothes.

She cooked her own starch, and wrung it out of each garment by hand before attaching it all to the clothesline to dry. Then she'd fold everything and sprinkled the cottons to dampen them for ironing the next day.

Now imagine doing that laundry routine on a typical February day in the Midlands, on the unheated porch and windswept, below-freezing farmstead. Imagine the weird shapes the clothes would make as they froze on the clothesline. She called them ''icicle scarecrows.''

Next time I feel like whining about my housework, I'm going to think about Evelyn Birkby. Next time I gripe about having to go to the grocery store, I'm going to remember how she had to come up with chicken dinners – the ''do it yourself'' way.

I will never again use the expression ''dancing around like a chicken with its head cut off'' without a little gulp, and a lot of gratitude that this is now, and that was then.

Cluck, cluck! I would have made a horrible housewife back then. I'm a . . . CHICKEN!

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Prayer Request: Praise, thanks and a wink to our heavenly Father today. Remember our prayer a few days ago, that a young lady in Colorado would receive clear guidance on whether the young man in her life is ''the'' one? Money woes seemed to be the stressor. Well, the very next day after she asked for prayer, the young man got a promotion and a raise. She's elated. Well, well, well. Love is in the air . . . and prayer is amazing. (Hebrews 4:16)

The Wet Windowsill

But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it.
-- Romans 8:25

A young friend of ours just got a really cool summer internship in New York City. He says it's because he wore the fancy dress socks we got him for Christmas to the interview. We say it's because he knocked THEIR socks off.

I know a lot of people lately who have lost their jobs. They are struggling to hang in there and find a better one. There are sleepless nights and self-doubt. They feel like losers.

I guess that's why I love to hear about people who nail interviews, get good jobs and scale the ladder of success two steps at a time. It gives me hope that maybe someday, something really great like that will happen to me.

And even if it never does, that's OK, too. Because often, the best ''wins'' don’t come the way you expect.

I learned that on a wet windowsill one spring evening long ago. I had foolishly tried out for our high school's drill team. It was enormously competitive.

We learned the routine and practiced like crazy. Girls who had taken dance class since they were in diapers were sweating bullets over those tryouts. It was a big deal.

I had no business being there. I looked like Rodney Dangerfield in a gym full of gazelles. I grinned like Howdy Doody; they smiled like Miss America. I marched like an East Prussian; they glided like Swan Lake.

I remember stumbling awkwardly into the girl in front of me, grinding my toe into her heel, when everybody remembered to take a rhythmic half-step backwards . . . everybody but me, that is.

The judges had their hands over their mouths, and it wasn't in concentration.

But my beautiful, popular and coordinated big sister was already on the squad. Surely, I had ''pull.'' I clung to hope.

That night, the girls on the squad were going to drive around in a caravan. If you heard cars honking in your driveway, screams, and the doorbell ringing, you knew you were off on a teen-dream adventure. You had ''made it.''

I lay on my bed and peered out the window, cranking it open so I could hear. My heart pounded. I sucked in my breath once as the caravan sped down my street. But it passed my house and went a block south. Distant screams of delight wafted over the treetops.

Maybe they were just getting started. Maybe they would work their way back to me.

Silence. Streetlights.

My throat eventually choked up. I left my chin on the windowsill like a hound dog begging for a bone. Tears streamed down my cheeks and pooled up on the windowsill. I wallowed.

It hurt. It really did.

But then I got my mojo back. Rodney Dangerfield never cries for long. Oh, my gosh, I'd better wipe up this windowsill or I'm going to warp the wood. No way was I going to show up at school the next day with puffy, giveaway eyes. Get up off of that thing, take a shower, and eat chocolate. So I did.

Within a few days, I was named the associate editor of our nationally-renowned high-school newspaper. It was a big job, a big honor. There's no way I could have managed to do it along with Drill Squad.

Ohhh. What seemed so bad was really for my good. No, I hadn't ''made it'' . . . but I had been ''made available'' for something better. Something more ''me.''

So to all those with job woes right now, listen up. Quit feeling like you're Rodney Dangerfield; there's a place being made ready for you where you can be a gazelle. Hang in there. Keep trying. Believe. Soon, it'll come.

And while you’re at it, wipe that windowsill, would you? The only thing in your life that should be warped is your sense of humor.

Drill Squad, Schmill Squad. If you have hope, you can ''make it'' anywhere.

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Prayer request: Peace and comfort, Father, for the family of a young man named Jonathan who died after a long illness recently. One of the sweetest stories about Jonathan came from a man who gave the teenager a construction job. But the boss had reservations. He was worried that Jonathan, the polite son of a minister, would be shocked and traumatized by the cursing and carousing of his fellow employees. But what happened? Jonathan's presence on that work team lifted the standards considerably; the work atmosphere turned around 180 degrees because of his positive influence. (1 Timothy 4:12).