TYLER'S FIRETRUCKS

Blessed are the pure in heart:
for they shall see God.
-- Matthew 5:8

Our good friends were living in Sheridan, Wyo., with their three small sons, when one day, adorable Tyler, 2½, starting walking at a slant and falling over, like a drunken sailor.

“Tyler! What are you doing, Buddy?” his mother laughed, thinking he was being silly. “Why do you keep losing your balance?”

“I can’t stand up, Mom,” was his reply.

Her smile vanished. He wasn’t kidding. She took him to the doctor. At first they thought he’d been poisoned, but the tox screens were clear.

Then the nightmare began in earnest: the CAT scan showed there was a mass on Tyler’s brainstem.

A mass!

A tumor!

Oh, my God!

But that’s all they knew without more extensive medical testing.

It was 3 p.m. on the day before the Christmas weekend, and most of the clinic staff had already left. The nearest facility with an MRI machine and spinal tap capability was in a hospital in Billings, Mont. It was two hours away . . . and they closed in two hours.

It was a total blur: she sped home and packed up bottles for Tyler’s baby brother, just three weeks old. She slogged his baby clothes from the washing machine into a plastic sack because there was no time to dry them. She tried to keep the baby happy, and Tyler and his older brother somewhat calm. Her husband picked them up with screeching tires, and they literally set sail for Billings. At the time, Montana didn’t have a speed limit. You can imagine.

All the way . . . every moment of that drive . . . they prayed. They got on their cell phones and called all their loved ones, everyone they knew, and got them to pray, too. It may be the only time in recorded history in which “prayers per minute” exceeded “miles per hour.”

They got there in time. Tyler went through all the tests, and spent the night in the hospital, where everybody fell in love with him. What’s not to love about a 2-year-old boy who was crazy about firetrucks, and chattered about his firetruck toys, and the firetrucks he’d crawled all over during his visit to the fire station, and how his grown-up cousin had let him try on his firefighter gear, and it was really, really cool.

Finally, Tyler dozed off, innocent and rosy-cheeked. They slept the fitful sleep of parents out of their minds with worry.

Next morning, the neurologist came in with the test results. He had a funny look on his face.

“Whatever was there, is gone,” he told the parents. “To be honest, I don’t know what happened. Maybe he had a virus. . . .”

Joy erupted all over everybody’s faces. They had no doubt it was the power of prayer.

They hugged their boys, and kissed them, and gathered up their stuff and started for home. They got the seats wet in the car with their tears. A couple of days later, they had the happiest Christmas ever, and then some.

Now fast-forward a few months. They were having supper. The older brother had some spiritual questions, as children do. He asked what heaven looks like, and whether his mom or dad had ever seen God, or talked to Him.

Before they could answer, little Tyler piped up from his high chair:

“I’ve seen God! I talked to Him, too!”

His parents exchanged glances, and smiled.

“Remember when I lost my balance and the doctors put me in that long machine?”

Hunh? They listened intently.

“I talked to Him then. He was really nice, Mom. He told me it was going to be OK . . .

“. . . and I should go on and ride some more firetrucks.”

Firetrucks?

Ride some more. . . .

They were so flabbergasted, they forgot to ask what God looked like. But that’s OK: they’ll see Him soon enough.

And something tells me He’ll have Tyler next to Him, and they’ll be riding in the biggest, shiniest firetruck you ever saw. I mean . . . it’ll be really, really cool. †

NEVER TAKE ADVICE FROM THE MOM OF A GRADUATING SENIOR

I was commiserating with a friend about an arbitrary and capricious rule at our high school that looked as though it was really going to hurt her child. It’s a long story, but it looks like she is going to lose half credit for a class because of too many absences, even though she has turned in all the assignments and has a good grade going.

This youngster is a freshman. Her mom has several more years of getting along with the educrats ahead of her, and didn’t want to mess this up so that they’d hate her and make things difficult for her child.

“I’m so worried!” she confided. “What should I say? What will work?”

Our daughter graduates in a few days, and I’m a cynical, grizzled old veteran of situations like this. I don’t care about my reputation at that school anymore. I told her:

“Forget trying to persuade them rationally. Do the only thing that’s guaranteed to work. WEAR A BLACK LEATHER JACKET WITH NOTHING UNDER IT, AND HAVE IT UNZIPPED DOWN TO YOUR NAVEL.”

A few seconds on the clock ticked by before she knew for sure that I was kidding.

Ah, these younger moms . . . and ohhhh, brother . . . if these educrats only KNEW!!!

OH, THOSE WILD AND SCARY
MORNING KINDERGARTEN GIRLS

Maddy is going to take an arts and crafts class one morning a week this summer from her kindergarten teacher. Maddy and one other girl from the afternoon kindergarten class will join two girls from the morning class in this weekly excursion into the wonderful world of creativity. It’s also a way for a dedicated but highly underpaid teacher in a Christian school to make a little summer money, which we’re all for, and a great way for Maddy to meet some new kids.

But she expressed concern about that very thing. In fact, she was worried. Her little brows knit in consternation. She acted like she was afraid of the other two girls.

Maddy? SHY? The social butterfly of the western world?

Something was bothering her about those girls, all right. Finally, she spilled her guts. “The girls in the morning kindergarten class all have . . . CURLY HAIR!” She covered her face with her hands with a half-laugh, half-sob, like when you’re really frightened but you know you shouldn’t be.

Sounds like someone’s mother has neglected to teach her about . . . diversity?!?

L.Z. AND HER IMAGINARY FRIEND, ELZO

Here’s a story by Maddy, 6, written as a special thank-you to her friend L.Z.,
a friend of our family who lives in Texas but was in town recently
and left a darling purple sack full of Easter games and prizes at our front door.

-------------------------------------------

L.Z. and her imaginary friend, Elzo, took a walk in the forest. L.Z. found a rabbit. Elzo found an owl. L.Z. went up ahead of the imaginary friend. L.Z. got lost. But Elzo sent the owl to fly overhead, and the bunny to hop forward, until they found her, and hugged. Then the imaginary friend found the end of the forest.

Then L.Z. and Elzo went on another walk around their neighborhood. L.Z. found a dog. The dog barked. The imaginary friend found a cat. The cat said, “Meow. Meow.” Then Elzo found a mouse. The cat almost got the mouse. L.Z. was soooooo worried about the mouse but she was happy that the mouse got away. The imaginary friend found a robin. The robin flew into the air, and the imaginary friend followed it to a tree next to a house and then, they walked up the sidewalk to the house. And then they went inside and they figured that that was their house. And the dog ran over to the house and the cat, and the mouse, and the robin and the bunny from the forest, all came. And the owl made a home in the tree by the house right next to the robin. Then, a turtle came to the house and a zebra came in to the neighborhood.

Elzo jumped up and said, “What are we going to do with all of these animals?” L.Z. said, “That’s a good question. Why don’t we start a zoo?”

THE END

PUNS BY THE PORCH

I don’t get out much. I have to make my own fun. Since it’s just me that I’m entertaining, I don’t have to work too hard, either.

Take our front porch. I am a gardener as well as a cornball. Last, but not least, I am the mother of four daughters. Someday, we’d like to get them married off, though, of course, it’s not a hotly-burning priority. They’re all still too young, and will remain “too young” until they are, oh, in their 30s.

But anyway, I planted some flowering plants together by our entryway that relate to our status as a home for four beautiful young ladies. It is funny to think about these plants as silent witnesses and sentinels as a long line of would-be knights in shining armor – OK, their dates – come and go.

First, I put bachelor’s buttons.

Next, I planted impatiens.

Next, I put maiden grass, guarded by a very large and imposing – protective, actually -- mum.

Finally, right by the door, there’s a victorious bridal wreath spirea.

Someday, inside our front entryway, I’ll put a potted plant to go with this whole progression. It’s a tall, sharp and spikey succulent: “Mother-in-Law Tongue.”

If there’s a “divorce plant” out there, I don’t want to know about it!

WHUPPIN'S?

Someone we know who is very sweet and gentle has a temporary job doing research over the telephone. Under the direction of a college psychology professor, she is calling people out of the blue, and asking if they have any neck or back pain.

This is in a state in the Deep South. People have been basically pretty cordial. Sometimes, they’ve been amazingly revealing, too.

One time, a lady answered the phone in a deep, deep drawl and said sure, she had time to talk; she was just sitting out on her front porch. It sounded like a coon dog was howling in the background, and things were clanking (a still? farm implements?) with occasional shouts and screams (Hatfields vs. McCoys?). She interrupted the call briefly to shout, “You kids! Beee-have! YOU KIDS!!!”

Well, it painted a picture.

Then when it came down to the key question – did she have any neck or back pain – the lady said something like, “Lawdy, yes, I have back pain. It’s because of all the ___-whuppin’s my old man has given me. HEY, YOU KIDS!!! . . .”

The researcher thought it was a joke, and almost laughed. Good thing she didn’t. It wasn’t. She just recorded the response, verbatim, on the form, as she is supposed to do . . . and moved on to the next call.

Ah, telemarketing: who knew it had the timeless tragic themes of fine literature, like “The Beverly Hillbillies” and “Gomer Pyle”. . . .

SCABBY CHICK?

We were at a party, and someone pronounced the space-arranging term, “feng shui,” as “FUNG CHOY.”

I knew he was probably right. He looked stylish. I couldn’t help admitting that I’ve always pronounced it, “FENG SHOOEY.”

His wife bailed me out. She looked even MORE stylish. Turns out that, a few years ago, they redecorated their home inside and out in a format known as “shabby chic.” You know: distressed woodwork, paint artfully rubbed off on some corners, certain kinds of fabrics that remind you of a very old English cottage with boatloads of charm. . . .

. . . but her friend misunderstood. SHE thought the new décor was “scabby chick.”

EWWWW! Wallpaper with roosters who look like they have leprosy?!? Throw pillows with fluffy chicks with red sores on their necks?

I wouldn’t even want to go in a home like that, not even to take a . . . PEEP. I’d . . . BAWK!

STICKING WITH A PRODIGAL

For this my son was dead,
and is alive again;
he was lost, and is found.
And they began to be merry.
-- Luke 15:24

There’s a fellow our age who left home after his high school graduation and has never been back. He has lived all over the world. He calls home occasionally. But for more than 30 years, his parents haven’t clapped eyes on him or been able to give him a hug.
He’s the Prodigal Son . . . on Steroids.
Now, there are SOME relatives you WISH would take a long, long trip like that. . .
. . . but there are others we love very much who, for whatever the reason, run away. They leave a trail of broken hearts, late-night phone calls, frantic searches, and endless tears.
They’re our prodigal sons and daughters: lost lambs, gone astray.
But here’s hope: when you love a prodigal, keep praying . . . and never give up.
See, there was this teenage boy, Kyle, from an excellent Christian family. He got involved with a bad crowd, and started messing around with drugs and alcohol. Boom! He got hooked, powerfully. It was as if he was paralyzed and couldn’t break free of self-destructive patterns.
His parents tried to correct him, but he became disobedient, argumentative and rebellious. The younger three children were terrorized. Everyone was miserable. It was heartbreaking.
The parents fasted. They prayed. They moved Kyle to different schools and even tried homeschooling. But he was on a different wavelength. They couldn’t communicate with him. He was becoming a stranger.
They finally became so frustrated that they “delegated” this problem to God. They admitted that they were at the end of their rope. Only God could save Kyle.
Then one day, they dropped him off at a Christian summer camp.
Little did they know, he was at the end of his rope, too.
That night, his dorm leader noticed him “sitting there kind of dead-pan,” and went over to talk to him. The band was too loud – ironic, eh? – so they walked over to the campground.
Tearfully, the truth poured out of Kyle. He admitted that he was running from God, but it had to stop. He admitted all the wrong he’d done.
He recommitted himself to Jesus Christ.
The youth worker said, “In a few moments, God just changed his life, in such a way that those of us who are trained could only hope to do in a lifetime of working with someone.”
That’s the Holy Spirit for you. Effortless! Irresistible! The harder the case, the more amazing the cure.
The youth leader said that for lots of prodigals, things have to get worse before they can get better. “They’ve got to hit rock bottom before they can look up,” he said.
Under his mentor’s wing, Kyle has come so far that he now is leading his friends to the Lord, too. He is so excited about what God is doing in his life that recently he knocked on his mentor’s door at 11:30 p.m., just to tell him something neat that had happened.
The process has taken about a year, with twists and turns. But today, Kyle is living happily at home, clean and sober. School is going well, college is ahead . . . and his parents call his mentor regularly and tell him he’s an answer to prayer.
He knows. But he’s humble.
“Prodigals do need people who’ll stick with them, and establish trust, and love them and confront them,” the minister said. “But we can’t ‘fix’ them. The church can’t ‘fix’ them. Nothing we can do is going to change a life.
“That’s what Jesus does.
“A lot of times, He facilitates it through relationships. But until there’s a heart change, the behavior won’t change permanently.”
What’s his advice for those who love prodigals? “Keep praying . . . and stick with them.”
So you know that guy we know, who’s been inexplicably estranged for 30 years? We’re putting him on notice: we’re praying for him, we’re sticking by him, and we’re trusting in God’s promises.
There’s a fatted calf back here with your name on it. See you soon! †

WHEN YOU'RE DOG-TIRED

I hope you can see the attached video. It’s MEOW-velous.

(Humorous video of a cat appearing to massage a dog, with voiceover, available only on the email version of DailySusan)

WE OIL LIKE FISH

I’m enjoying the email newsletter of my favorite seafood restaurant and specialty store, Absolutely Fresh Seafood in west Omaha. The proprietor has a great sense of humor. He shares recipes, news about the store, background information on the fish, and a generous serving of corny jokes.

This week, he had three zingers:

“You do not need to flip the fish. (It already did plenty of flipping in the water.)”

“Seared Ahi Tuna with a bit of Asian-style foo-foo vegetables. (I don’t know what Chef Jon will put on the plate, but it’ll be good.)”

“Try brushing with oil or spray Pam – the fish – oil the FISH, not yourself.”

AND 15 LIPSTICKS

This is why I had four daughters and no sons. A dear friend revealed that what she thought was the flu was causing more and more abdominal pain and distress, until she realized she had better get to a hospital.

It was late afternoon. Her husband was out of town, so she asked her 17-year-old son to take her. He was all sweaty from soccer practice and had algebra homework to do, but OK, Mom.

As she lay in the examining room feeling worse and worse, he worked on his algebra homework, and after a couple of hours, leaned in close to her and said, “You know, I haven’t eaten. . . .”

Is that a teenaged son, or what?

They had determined that it was appendicitis. She would need surgery once the doctors could all be lined up. She sent her son home with instructions to get fast food for himself, and to bring her back some things for an overnight stay. The drugs were really kicking in, so she must not have been too specific.

She realized just HOW unspecific she must have been an hour later when he brought back his sweaty soccer backpack, unzipped it, and out poured these important items he’d selected for her:

1) One embarrassingly skimpy pair of thong underwear.
2) One pair of mismatched pajamas she didn’t even remember she had.
3) Fifteen lipsticks.

The GOOD news is, he finished his algebra homework, and her operation was a complete success, with the medical team still raving about her gorgeous lipstick shade.

DANBO

We’ve been going through old pictures, getting Eden’s graduation video ready to go. Among the really, REALLY old pictures is a goofy one of my younger brother Danny. He made one of those rash decisions you tend to make when you’re young and carefree. You know, the type of decision you will really, REALLY live to regret if you grow up to become a highly successful, dignified, middle-aged business executive in the Boston area . . . and your sister is a packrat and practical joker who loves to “get” you for your birthday in a few days.

Therefore, “DanBo,” this one’s for you:

(Photo calendar from 1992 with his face on Sylvester Stallone's body from the "Rambo" movie)

HORSIN' AROUND AGAIN

Maddy and her horse-crazy little friend Sami had their first horseback riding lesson Saturday. An old friend from our horse ownership days let the freckle-faced midgets ride Trigger, a 25-year-old Palomino from a ranch in western Nebraska. He’s a blond, but he’s calm and good. He has been living the life of Riley in a manicured pasture on an estate northwest of town, with pedigreed horses worth 50 times as much.

In the beginning, they stood in awe of the tall horse. They made tentative, cautious little circles with their curry brushes, watching his ears the whole time as he flicked them around, wondering what the heck was going on. Gradually, though, they “cowgirled up,” and rode around and around the arena on their new best friend, beaming so brightly there was no need for electrical lighting.

To us, he looked like a dead-broke old quarter horse, barely moving, shuffling along obediently with the glue factory right around the corner. To them, though, he was a wild stallion on the Arabian peninsula, mane and tail whipping spectacularly as he galloped gallantly and raced the wind.

We didn’t have the heart to tell them that THEIR ponytails were moving a lot more than HIS.

SURPRISING SMOKE

We are G-rated. Actually, beyond G-rated: we are N-rated – for “Nerd.”

That’s why I was shocked yesterday when my beloved asked, “What would you like to SMOKE tonight?”

WHAAAAT? How had this bastion of propriety, this captain of industry, this upstanding citizen degraded himself so far, so fast?!?

I turned and saw that he was gazing lovingly at the MEAT SMOKER he had purchased some months before, sitting on the back porch still shiny and unused.

Whew. I thought I was going to have to get a tattoo, some piercings and a motorcycle to go with the Maalox and Depends I’m going to have to start buying some day soon. At my age, a “pot party” is a chili feed, “getting high” is what’s happening to gas prices, and “getting wasted” is what happens to the extra fat you cut off the meat BEFORE you smoke it.

Party on, Senior Dudes!

GOD'S LITTLE PINPRICK

I was feeling like an intellectual stud muffin. I had just completed a five-part series for my education website, www.GoBigEd.com, on the current controversy raging in the Omaha Public Schools. It was chockablock full of pertinent facts and innovative alternatives for reformed public policy in the crucial area of public education. Chockablock!

Voila! I dispatched the last installment by email, imagining that my readers would all have to wear sunglasses and sunblock, the ideas were so blazingly brilliant and the journalistic explication so fabulous. Chockablock, I tell you!

Hurriedly, I helped Maddy get dressed in her cute little uniform for kindergarten, picked up the carpool, and strolled into school. I visited for a moment with the paraprofessional, still secretly feeling like a total genius -- Woman of Stupendous Cranial Powers!

Just then, I noticed I had put Maddy’s navy skort on backwards. We rushed to the restroom to fix it. Yeah! Right! Like, anybody ought to pay attention to MY ideas. I can’t even dress my little GIRL!!!

Sssssssssssss!

What was that noise?

Just God’s little pinprick. He had to burst my self-important little balloon . . . again. Chastened, I returned to my usual state:

Woman With the IQ of a Stump!

Thanks, Lord. I needed that.

FLUFFY'S ESCAPE

My whole life passed before my eyes last night. Maddy came screaming: “FLUFFY’S GONE!!!”

It seems she had left her ever-expanding guinea pig on her bedroom floor as she went to brush her teeth and dawdle before bedtime. When she returned, the tri-toned Fluffington VanChocstraw had headed for the hills, or wherever. It was the first time the new little pet had ever made a break for it, and we were scared.

I had visions of a tiny, rough guinea pig tongue licking my face on my bed in the night.

I had visions of finding a chubby, furry body after the “spin” cycle in a load of whites.

I had visions of not finding her, and then, some time later, she would suddenly appear, with her few possessions in a bandana. She’d be kicked out of the toy trailer in which she’d shacked up with a shiftless escaped gerbil who drank too much and sat on his furry bottom watching NASCAR instead of industriously running on his wheel and stuff. Now she’d be expecting us to support her passel of out-of-wedlock mini-rodents, wanting them to call us “Grandma and Grandpa.”

POOF! My fears evaporated. Maddy found her under the bed.

The poor little thing was just as scared as we were. She ran right into her purple plastic igloo and starting making calls to set up her book deal on her big adventure.

AND THEY ALL DIED HAPPILY EVER AFTER?

We were discussing weird funeral arrangements. OK, I know it’s strange. But I once saw a coffin with an elaborately embroidered message on satin fabric on the inside of the lid. It would have been the last thing the dead person would see, if the dead person COULD see. It looked something like this:

Going Home

I don’t know why, but it creeped me out. Our daughter was more pragmatic. “Geez, Mom,” (she says that a lot). “We just celebrated Easter and the Resurrection. We’re all going to get eternal life. Death isn’t such a horrible thing. Isn’t that what that message is saying?”

I looked off into space, frozen with fear over what SHE was going to have them embroider on the inside of MY coffin someday. No doubt it would say something like:

Geez, Mom

She thought my blank stare and faraway frown meant I wasn’t convinced.

“I mean, put it this way,” she said. “If we were really serious about our faith, shouldn’t we be tying festive tin cans on the backs of funeral hearses, with streamers and a big sign that says . . .

“JUST DIED!!!”

Well, geez. She’s right! And the license plate should read:

Going Home

WHY THEY'RE CALLED DUCK HUNTERS

Said to be a true story out of Wisconsin:

A guy buys a new Lincoln Navigator auto for $42,500, with monthly payments of $560. He and a friend go duck hunting in mid-winter when the lakes are frozen.

These two guys drive onto a lake with their GUNS, a DOG, and of course, the new NAVIGATOR.

They decide they want to make a natural-looking water area for the ducks, something for the decoys to float on.

Now, making a hole in the ice large enough to invite a passing duck is going to take a little more power than the average drill auger can produce. So, out of the back of the new Navigator comes a stick of dynamite with a short, 40-second fuse.

Now our two Rocket Scientists, afraid they might slip on the ice while trying to run away after lighting the fuse (and becoming toast, along with the Navigator), decide on the following course of action:

They light the 40-second fuse, and then, with a mighty thrust, they throw the stick of dynamite as far away as possible.

Remember a couple of paragraphs back when I mentioned the NAVIGATOR, the GUNS . . . and the DOG???

Let's talk about the dog: a highly-trained Black Lab used for RETRIEVING . . . especially things thrown by the owner.

You guessed it: the dog takes off across the ice at a high rate of speed and grabs the stick of dynamite, with the burning 40-second fuse, just as it hits the ice.

The two men gulp, blink, start waving their arms and, with veins in their necks swelling to resemble stalks of rhubarb, scream and holler at the dog to stop. The dog, thinking he is being cheered on by his master, keeps coming.

One hunter panics, grabs the shotgun and shoots the dog.

The shotgun is loaded with #8 bird shot, hardly big enough to stop a Black Lab. The dog stops for a moment, slightly confused, then continues on. Another shot, and this time the dog, still standing, becomes really confused and of course terrified, thinking these two geniuses have gone insane. The dog takes off to find cover . . . under the brand new NAVIGATOR.

The men continue to scream as they run. The red-hot exhaust pipe on the Navigator burns the dog’s rear end; he yelps, drops the dynamite under the vehicle, and takes off after his master.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!

The truck is blown to bits along with the ice underneath it, and sinks to the bottom of the lake, leaving the two idiots standing there with "I can't believe this just happened" looks on their faces.

The insurance company says that sinking a vehicle in a lake by illegal use of explosives is NOT COVERED by the policy. The fellow had yet to make the first of those $560 monthly payments.

That’s the bad news. The GOOD news is, the dog is OK.

RAININ' CATS 'N' DOGS . . . 'N' CHICKENS

One moment of high humor was narrowly averted over the weekend as a tornado swept through a farm east of Beatrice, Neb., on Saturday, and flattened an enormous henhouse.

Days before, the farmer had moved the chickens out of it, so the loss of life, limb, comb and wattle was zero.

He said on TV that he had 80,000 chickens in there. If they’d been there when the tornado hit, who knows? They might have been sucked up into the vortex, cackling and squawking, and then spun out and down back to the ground all over southeastern Nebraska. It just makes a picture.

Of course, the next day was Easter. So if 80,000 scared chickens were dispersed like that, the Easter Bunny would have had a lot of help in distributing eggs hither, thither and yon. BAWK!!!

WITH A BANG

Highlights from an Easter weekend that was as nice as I can ever remember: my adorable (and available, girls) nephew Mark is a computer engineer with the Air Force stationed in Albuquerque. He came home for the holiday. I hadn’t seen him for many months and loved hearing about his many adventures and experiences.

My favorite two factoids were these:

1) He has a friend who was honored as the best graduate of his officers’ training group and is now fighting for us over in Iraq. His last name is “Bang.” I can imagine his platoon: Sgt. Boom, Cpl. Rat-a-tat-tat, and Private Kapow.

2) Mark has had to go out into the New Mexico desert to train to find mines in the sand. This was extremely scary to hear, until he informed us that they aren’t “live.” So there isn’t any danger at all. “It’s kind of like a big Easter egg hunt, without the candy payoff,” he said.

Yeah, well, until I hear those are just jelly beans the other side’s shooting at us, I’m going to worry – at least a little.

SETH THE IMPOSSIBLE, PART II

Your Sunday story is coming to you a little early this week!
Wishing you a joyous Easter!
DailySusan will return on Monday, April 17.

--------------------------------------

For this is the word of promise,
at the appointed time will I come,
and Sarah shall have a son.
-- Romans 9:9

(Continued from “Seth the Impossible, Part I,” 4/9/06, archived on www.DailySusan.com; click on the “Radiant Beams” logo in the upper left-hand corner, and scroll down to “Holidays and Special Occasions” for the first half of this special Easter story about God following through on what seemed like an impossible promise.)

One day, she read Romans 9:9 and Genesis 18:10. In both, the Lord promised a son.
Written centuries apart! On opposite ends of the Bible!
He spoke to her again: “I will surely return to you about this time next year, and you will have a son.”
She circled the date, Nov. 29. God better get moving!
The next summer, she kept seeing a TV ad for the Open Door Mission. A fellow at her church volunteered there. She went with him a few times.
Christmastime rolled around. A group from her church, including him, put up her Christmas lights. She took pictures, and wrote the date on the back: Nov. 29.
Hmmm.
The first Sunday in January, she skipped church. Her Bible journal’s verse that day was Hebrews 6:13 – God keeps His promises.
Brrrrring! The phone rang. It was the fellow. “I was concerned because you missed church today.” They talked.
HMMMM!
A friend dreamed that a man was looking at her, saying, “I think she’ll be cute even when she’s old.” That day’s verse was Isaiah 46:9-11: God was summoning a man to execute His counsel.
They fell madly in love, and married within two months. Woo hoo!
But there was a snag. The new husband had had a vasectomy. She knew it when she married him. She was just so sure he was the one. . .
. . . and she was just as sure that God had promised her a baby. She even bought a little outfit for a baby dedication.
Years passed. Maybe “Seth” wouldn’t come in the usual way. Her sister considered giving up a baby for adoption. Was THAT “Seth”? No; the sister kept the baby. She and her husband took in a 15-month-old foster child, Michael. His mother was dead and father was AWOL. Was THAT “Seth”?
Then his grandfather showed up, and wanted to take him.
She silently begged God, “Please don’t take Michael. I don’t care if I ever see the promised child. Just let me have Michael.”
God spoke, plain as day: “Do you want ‘Ishmael’ . . . or do you want ‘Isaac’”?
It nearly killed her, but she let him go.
That summer, on vacation in Texas, they kept seeing billboards about vasectomy reversal. Her husband asked her to write down the phone number. The price: $10,000. Fuhgeddaboudit.
One year later, he drove through Texas again and saw the same signs. He urged her to call locally. The doctor said they could make payments after putting half down. Half down was the exact amount of their income tax refund.
They went for it.
The next year, they were headed on a long trip to Colorado, but she felt too sick to drive. She called the doctor. Yes, the rabbit died. Moreover, her progesterone was dangerously low; if she had gone ahead with the trip without checking with her doctor, and hadn’t had a shot right then, she probably would have miscarried.
The ultrasound showed it was a boy.
As her pregnancy advanced, her husband reminded her that they had first met at that gas station on the way to the retreat . . . the one at which God had told her she’d meet her mate. Whoa!
However, the husband balked at the name “Seth.” He prayed about it. Three weeks later, he proclaimed that it HAD to be the name.
After all that God said would happen had happened . . . ya THINK?
And finally, the depth and breadth of the promise came to light. It turns out that this was just as big a deal for him as for her. All he had ever wanted to be in life was a father. But at age 20, when he was overseas with the Marines, his wife divorced him and blew town with their newborn son. He never got to know him well, or be the father he wanted to be.
But now that dream was coming true.
Ohhhhhh. She finally got it! Just as the Biblical Seth was a replacement for Eve’s lost sons, their Seth was a replacement for his.
Seth wasn’t just for her. He was for BOTH of them.
He was born. He was perfect. He was dedicated at church in the white outfit she had bought in faith five years earlier.
Seth was a darling baby who has grown into a handsome boy with a glow about him. You just KNOW he’s someone special. He came here for a purpose. It was all part of a plan.
God’s plan, like the one he has for your life, and for mine, and for everybody’s. Seth’s story is just one more example of how nothing can stand in His way to execute that plan. Nothing!
And so we celebrate “Seth the Impossible” . . .
. . . just like another Son of Promise . . . Who came in a miraculous, impossible way at the appointed time to execute God’s plan . . . Whose “impossible” resurrection after a terrible death we celebrate this Easter Day, and every day.
Jesus Christ is risen today. He lives!
Oh, Beloved, celebrate this: God keeps His promises.
Nothing is impossible for Him. Nothing!
Seth’s smile shows it. Easter proves it!
Hallelujah!
Amen! †

HAPPY EASTER, FUNNY BUNNY

Wishing you a blessed Easter rejoicing with dear ones in the knowledge of the love of our Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ . . . and wishing you plenty of chocolate, Peeps, malted milk eggs, jelly beans and all your favorites.

DailySusan will resume on Monday, April 17.

Here’s a heartfelt wish from one of our favorite little “peeps,” Miss Madeleine Joy:

(crayon drawing of a long-legged bunny with baskets and eggs available only on the email version)

OH, THOSE ISLAND GREENS

My hubby got a chance to play that famous Florida golf course, with the island green – you know, the one where there’s water on all sides and you have to hit onto this smallish green, then sashay across a narrow bridge onto the island to putt out.

Well, as cool as that was, he has now been officially one-upped by the quintessential island green, located on the new yacht owned by world-famous golfer Tiger Woods. If this doesn’t float your boat. . . .

(today's email included a photo that purportedly shows Tiger Woods chipping onto a green on a small golf course located on top of what looks like a converted aircraft carrier)

VOCABULARY VULNERABILITY

We are really taking our chances, sending a child of our loins to a Christian school. Those other families are holy, obedient, sweet, clean, kind and reverent . . . you can just tell. Then there’s us. We are . . . well, let’s just say we are “remedial” in some categories, especially verbal restraint.

This week, the kindergartners are studying words with the “sh” sound. You know: ship . . . fish . . . shoe . . .

. . . and, to the screams of laughter of her classmates, our Maddy helpfully supplied:

TUSH!!!!

THE POST OFFICE AND BAD PR

As we near Tax Day, government spending comes to the forefront. After all, it’s why we have to pay taxes. So naturally, we want government spending to be as low as possible.

So I was half mad and half amused standing in a long line at the post office yesterday. There, along the long counter, were not one, not two – but FIVE – count ‘em – FIVE little hinged doors where you could throw your trash, each hiding a trash can that was gold-plated and diamond-studded, no doubt.

Not that anybody ever HAS any trash in the post office line, except maybe some litsy bitsy strands of stick-em paper left over from separating stamps. But just in case . . . our public servants gave us FIVE snazzy-looking, well-marked places to throw it.

And what was even more maddening and amusing was that they didn’t have the word “TRASH” or even “RECYCLING” on the little doors you pushed in. Noooooo. This government office had a no good, very bad word on each of the five trash receptacles, considering that this was our tax dollars at work:

WASTE!

So I’m standing there, in a building purchased with my hard-earned tax dollars, with Tax Day coming near, and moths flying out of my wallet, and I’m seeing . . .

WASTE! WASTE! WASTE! WASTE! WASTE!

I mean, it looked like they were celebrating it!

Next time I go there, I’m bringing some Scotch tape and five little pieces of paper to put above the “W” word on each one. They will say, “DON’T YOU GUYS DARE!”

NOW, THAT'S FAST

Maybe Maddy has been watching too many cartoons. Or she is simply exhibiting the enormous self-esteem of a 6-year-old.

She was telling me that she ran across the house very quickly. She put it this way:

“I ran so fast, clouds of DUST were behind me.”

There’s a third possibility: I need to do my spring cleaning!

SETH THE IMPOSSIBLE, PART I

And Adam knew his wife again;
and she bare a son, and called his name Seth:
for God, said she, hath appointed me
another seed instead of Abel, whom Cain slew.
-- Genesis 4:25

Her husband had left her for another woman. She was alone with her three children for three years after the divorce. Then she became a born-again Christian, and started reading the Bible for the first time, cover to cover. She came to the sibling rivalry scene in Genesis. Cain kills Abel and blows town, and God sends Eve another son, Seth.
For the first time in her life, she heard a voice in her heart that she knew was the Holy Spirit of the living God. She was awed.
He said that He would give her a son and she should name him Seth because God had given him to her.
As if!
That was impossible!
She had no husband! And she already had three great kids. . . .
Soon thereafter, she went to a Christian singles retreat. In prayer before, she asked God to confirm what He had promised about Seth, show her how she could serve Him, and give her a pure heart.
Bing, bang, bong! The keynote speaker covered those three items: God’s promise to Abraham for a son in what seemed like an impossible situation of advanced old age (Genesis 18:14); God telling that son, Isaac, to serve Him and dig wells (Genesis 26), and Ezekiel 36:26-28: “I will give you a clean, new heart; you will be my people and I will be your God.”
Three for three! Whoa!
But again, a baby seemed ridiculous. There wasn’t even a man in her life.
Time passed. She kept encountering references to Abraham and Isaac in sermons, on the radio, in her Bible – God’s faithfulness, timing, and promise of a precious son in unlikely circumstances. It was uncanny.
She learned the name “Seth” means “granted” or “appointed,” and it was through Seth’s lineage that the Lord Jesus Christ was born, traceable all the way back to Isaac, Abraham, and ultimately, Adam.
But nothing changed. She slipped back into doubt. One day she was despairing. She told God that if this promise was really from Him, He should let her know immediately. Within the hour, a friend called with a Bible verse she felt compelled to share: “Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother. . . .” (Psalm 131:2)
But still, the whole thing made no sense. She was confused and depressed, as women in her situation can be. She felt broken, unwanted and unloveable – cast aside. Having another baby was the least of her concerns.
Then she went to a garage sale. She overheard two women talking about a beat-up old wagon, and what a treasure it really was.
One woman said to the other, “Some people just don’t know what they’re missing.”
Immediately, she heard God’s voice again: “That’s how I see you.”
More time passed. She went to a church service in a nearby town and the sermon was on – you guessed it – Abraham. The point was that when God promises you something, it’s huge, not mundane. She was sitting there wondering if she was going crazy, and still doubting, when a woman she had never seen before came up to her and said:
“I have a word for you from the Lord. He says, ‘I have given you ears to hear. Satan tells you that you didn’t hear Me. But he is a liar. You hear me loud and clear.’”
She went to another retreat. She was sure God was telling her she would meet her new husband there. She came across a verse, Song of Solomon 4:16, about a lover coming into a garden. Coming to meet HER?!? How romantic! How exciting!
Hmmm!
On the way to the retreat, they stopped at a gas station. She was introduced to some guys who were going there, too. Her friend thought one of them was cute; she didn’t give him a second thought. Lightning didn’t strike; no one asked her out.
She went home bummed, figuring she’d heard wrong.
Oh, yeah? †

NEXT WEEK: Conclusion, “Seth the Impossible, Part II”

GOTTA KNOWDA LINGO

Yikes, am I out of it. I can’t translate what my senior teenager says lots of times.

She just got her ears pierced for the first time and is enjoying buying earrings now, a new accessory. The other day, she showed me some dangly ones.

“They have the indie emo,” she said.

I nodded – big fake that I am. Finally, I had to ask:

“WHAT THE HECK IS AN ‘INDIE EMO’?”

I was thinking of Indiana Jones on an emu, but I knew that couldn’t be it.

“Indie” is short for independent label music, which apparently is more creative and avant garde than the usual head-banger stuff.

“Emo” is short for emotion, mood, style or genre.

I guess I’ve got that “nerd emo” going. At least it’s familiar to me.

WAY TO GO, CHICKEN LIPS

If you’re asked to go on the Jay Leno show, you should never . . . BAWK. This Arkansas lady’s tale of giving CPR to a chicken is one for the archives. Click on the attachment when you have a few minutes. You’ll cackle!

(Today's DailySusan is a video clip that can't be attached to the blog, but was part of the listserv's email.)

PARIS HILTON AS MOTHER TERESA . . . D'OK

A movie director from India wants porn star and hotel heiress Top of FormBottom of FormParis Hilton to play the role of Nobel laureate and prospective Catholic saint Mother Teresa in an upcoming film. "Her features resemble Mother Teresa," director T. Rajeevnath said after a computer-generated test comparing the X-rated celebrity and the Godly, Albanian-born nun who humbly ministered to the poorest of the poor in Calcutta.

The story is greatly complicated by the fact that it is coming out of Thiruvananthapuram, India, which is giving news editors carpal tunnel syndrome and broadcasters a splitting headache.

But no, apparently, this is not an April Fool’s joke.

You gotta ask it: is nothing sacred?

SANDHILL CRANES AND MY GREAT MOMENT IN DIGNITY

One of the most beautiful sights in the world is central Nebraska along the Platte River in the spring. Thousands upon thousands of sandhill cranes make their annual migration pit stop there for several weeks. They forage in the leftovers in the grain fields before they wing their way to the northern nesting grounds.

This is such a big deal that my former employer, the state’s largest newspaper, used to sponsor celebrity bus tours out there in the spring so that people could get to “Know Nebraska.” Bus tours into the “outback” of Nebraska . . . OK, it ain’t Monte Carlo, but it beats the Pella (Iowa) Tulip Festival.

So who were these awesome celebrities with magnetic drawing power that made people just line up – line up, I say – to go on these wonderful bus tours? And rub elbows with celebrities and look at birds? Probably the least-qualified people in the universe: newspaper reporters . . . including me. Why? Because we come cheap, that’s why.

It was my one and only chance to be a celeb, though, and I blew it. They didn’t tell me that this particular celebrity bus would be leaving Omaha at something like 3 in the morning so that we could get out to central Nebraska before dawn. That’s when the clock radios on the sandbars on the Platte River start going off. That’s where they roost. At dawn, the mysterious, primeval scene is reenacted as thousands of noisy winged dinosaurs fly up for the short commute to the fields.

Well, it is extremely difficult to get that celebrity pastiche at 3 in the morning. So I didn’t exactly look the part. Plus, I get carsick sometimes. Riding for three hours in a smelly, cramped bus with a bunch of people with morning breath and bad coffee was a trigger.

When we were almost there, bumping down country roads, I stifled my increasing nausea, took the mike, smiled my best celebrity smile, and tried to be happy, peppy and positive as I gave the little spiel about the cranes and so forth.

But I was standing up backwards. And we went over a series of really big bumps. It was like shaking a pop can. My head started swirling . . . and the bad coffee started re-percolating . . .

. . . and I threw up all over the front of the bus.

It was artful, though. Artful! I don’t think I got any on anyone. It was just . . . spectacular.

Which is exactly what the folks were there to see. Something spectacular! They were . . . CRANING their necks, all right. THE OTHER WAY!!!

BEANO THE ONE-EYED GUINEA PIG

Fluffington Van Chockstraw is leading a life of leisure in the Williams household. Maddy’s new guinea pig –actual name “Fluffy” -- is the object of her constant faith and abiding love:

Some family friends went through the same thing with a little daughter and a fat guinea pig some years ago. For some reason, the furry rodent got named “Beano,” after the gassy gut medicine. There’s a tender thought for you! Then something happened, and his eye popped out. He swiftly became “Beano the One-Eyed Guinea Pig.”

He became their family’s favorite pet. Not because he had any personality – but because his name did.

IS THERE SURGERY TO FIX NERDINESS?

I was afraid that I was a certified nerd because of the thick glasses I’ve worn since age 7. Now that I’ve had LASIK and can see 20/20, the physical sign of my nerdiness is no more. Could I be? Should I be? Can I now be . . . no longer a nerd, but a BABE?!?! If it’s true that boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses, what about girls who don’t wear glasses but are long past the age at which they are “girls”?

I swear, I went to the grocery store the day after surgery, and saw two or three men giving me appreciative looks. ME!!! Of course, I instantly saw why: they were wearing Coke bottle bottom glasses, and I was now a cool babe, without ‘em. All these years, I’ve gone without wolf whistles because of my specs, eh? That . . . or they were REALLY ogling the steaks that I was standing right in front of. You think?

Well, the nerdiness doesn’t go too far underground. I think it’s ingrained. I have so far: (1) Poked myself right between the eyes thinking that I had to push my glasses up, although of course there aren’t any glasses any more (2) Put my right hand up to my face and scraped it with my fingers when getting ready to take my glasses off – the glasses that aren’t there, and (3) Looked at myself in the mirror and for an instant didn’t realize that it was me – I was startled to be able to see my own naked eyes with my own naked eyes.

Now, THAT’S a nerd.

DailySusan returns with joyous news:
the LASIK surgery was a success!
I’m so thankful for your prayers and encouragement.
To my fellow Coke-bottle-bottom glasses wearers: it’s great! Go for it!

----------------------

WAS BLIND, BUT NOW I SEE

(O)ne thing I know, that,
whereas I was blind, now I see.
-- John 9:25b

At my first eye exam, I couldn’t even see “The Big E,” much less which way it pointed. I had to get out of the chair and grope toward it.

Rx: powder blue fairy wing eyeglasses. Next came pink ones. Later, black, navy, brown and tortoiseshell.

Within a few years, they were Coke bottle bottoms. My fate as a nerd was sealed. I even sported tape on my glasses quite often, because I broke them frequently: smashed them on a trampoline . . . stepped on them at the swimming pool . . . left them on the roof of our car to sail in highway breezes. . . .

Home movies of me waterskiing show me squinting desperately like Mr. Magoo in a bikini, trying to see where the water was and the shore wasn’t. Shaving my legs required contortionism to get my eyeballs close enough to avoid bloodshed. I was always afraid they’d go flying off while playing sports and riding roller coasters.

Though I wore contacts through my teens and 20s, dry eyes and astigmatism forced me back into glasses some time ago.

So you could say eyeglasses . . . framed my life.

Not any more.

I’m FREE! Halle-LOOOO-jah! AY-men! Can I get a WITNESS?!?



A good-luck note left on the kitchen counter the morning of surgery.


LASIK eye surgery brought me from the brink of legal blindness to 20/20 vision, at least for distance. Close-up sight in the right eye is still fuzzy, and I may need to go back for a tune-up. But man! I can see!

For years, I was afraid of LASIK. I once got all the way to the eve of surgery, but had to cancel when I developed a sty and discovered I was pregnant. That was quite a day! A friend solemnly decreed that the Lord was protecting my eyesight with those two interventions. Whoa! Well, I’ve never had a sty since, the other “intervention” is now 6, and many people were encouraging me to try again. So I did.

There was an omen the night before, though. We went out to eat, and the lights suddenly dimmed. AAAIIIEEE! Things are going black!

Then there was a tornado warning, minutes before my surgery.What if the building were sucked upward into a tornado’s spiral right when the surgeon was in mid-slice on my eyeballs?

But the staff put me at ease. They promised not to say “oops” or “uh oh” during the procedure. And no chain-saw sound effects, guaranteed.

The Valium was good. Very good. In fact, I may need to go back several times for fine tuning and have it again. SEVERAL times. I literally kissed my glasses goodbye and kept giggling on the table instead of holding still.

All I remember for sure was that the actual surgery only took a minute, giggle-free. And when the surgeon was replacing the flaps of my eyes, he said it was like squeegeeing a windshield at a car wash. I giggled again, for joy . . . because I could see!

I could see Maddy’s freckles! I could walk in the rain without speckles! I could read speed-limit signs! (Darn!)

I could read the newspaper; before, it was like a ball of fuzz without my glasses. I could see my face in the mirror without craning my neck one inch away.

The BAD news is, I also could see cobwebs, dust bunnies and window smears. Hmm. Previous decades of nearsightedness weren’t all bad.

Just kidding. From all the angles, this is a modern medical marvel. People in ancient times would no doubt call it a miracle.

You know those people in the Bible whose sight Jesus healed? I think I know now how they felt. Incomparable joy, awe and gratitude.

My prayer is that I’ll see everything more clearly now, including spiritual things. And when I see Jesus in heaven someday, I’m going to thank him for sending a high-tech miracle . . . for a nearsighted wretch like me. †

DailySusan is scheduled to resume on Sunday, April 2,
after a refreshing spring break and Lasik surgery on March 30!
Your prayers are sought, and would be much appreciated!
------------------------------

A MAN'S HAND

I have set the Lord always before me:
because He is at my right hand, I shall not be moved. . . .
Thou wilt shew me the path of life:
in thy presence is fullness of joy;
at thy right hand there are pleasures for evermore.
-- Psalm 16:8, 11

She’s a beautiful woman in her mid-20s. Her two little girls are miniatures, with big, brown eyes and raven hair.

At first, I thought she was their babysitter. Now that I’m getting to know her, though, I can see the stress lines already forming on her face.

She was with a man for seven years. He fathered the two girls. But he won’t marry her and doesn’t want them.

Never should have gotten herself in this predicament? She knows. How well she knows! She loved him sooooo much. She thought he would take responsibility, become her husband, accept his family.

But he won’t. He is, in the words of the ancient scholars, a poop.

After a recent birthday party, in all innocence, a dad offered a silly party hat to one of the girls. “Take this home. I bet your daddy would put it on for you!”

She looked up at him solemnly: “I haven’t got a daddy.”

It was heart-wrenching. But it’s reality.

So now this single mother has full-time school and a part-time job, trying to make ends meet, with the girls in school and day care. If it weren’t for her mother and several faithful friends, she could never pull it off.

Her mother, her friends . . . and Jesus. She’s confused and afraid sometimes . . . but she has faith.

Every night, they have a quiet time, just Mommy and the two girls. They light a candle to make it special. They read a couple of Bible verses. They pray.

Privately, she is prayed out. Is He the one You have for me, Lord? Then why won’t he marry me? If He’s not the one, then why did You let me fall in love with him and have children with him? And if He’s not the one, where IS the one? I need him. We need him!

So far, no answer. It’s not time yet.

One night not long ago, during the family devotional, the older daughter asked, “Mommy? How do I know Jesus will always be with me?”

“Well, Honey,” she remembers saying, “I guess He’ll show you.”

They went to bed.

Long about dawn, the young mother was dreaming. She dreamt that she was walking down a sidewalk, and then started up some stairs. At the top of the stairs was a house. Inside the front door was the father of her two children.

She mounted the steps, but all of a sudden became aware that there was another man next to her, holding her hand. Her future husband? They stopped. She became aware that this was no mere man. This was Jesus Christ. She could feel His hand gently but firmly guiding her. With her hand in His, they turned and walked back down the stairs.

Poof! That was the end of the dream. She awoke, knowing that it was His way of showing her that He was with her. He would show her what to do. The father of her daughters was not going to be her husband. She should stop trying to make him something he was not.

She was free! Free to find her true love -- someone else.

It was 5:30 a.m., but she wasn’t a bit tired. Suddenly, she heard an immense amount of singing. Angels? A heavenly chorus celebrating her revelation?

No. It was just birds – lots and lots of birds in the ravine behind her apartment.

She smiled. Angels, nonetheless. They were singing, along with her heart.

Just then, her older daughter rushed in.

“Mommy! Mommy! I dreamed that Jesus was holding me! He showed me He was real! Just like you said!”

They hugged. Tears flowed.

He had made a promise, and He had kept it. And He always would. They needed to know that, so badly.

Hand in hand, feeling loved, honored and cherished, they faced the new day. †

THIS HOUSEHOLD'S HOPPIN'

Maddy can’t wait for her big sister to come home for Easter and meet her new guinea pig, Fluffy. She was chattering away about how big our family has gotten. I was wondering if she was including boyfriends and extended family.

But noooooo. People are slowly becoming the minority around here. We are now a family of 10: six humans; one yellow Lab on perpetual happy pills; two fat and lazy barn cats, TiGrr and Louie, and now a pudgy, cuddly rodent not likely to do any tricks, but at least she stays put.

One of Maddy’s favorite birthday gifts was a frog habitat from one of her homies, Hunter. She is to send in a card to order a tadpole for it when warmer temperatures are reliable. That’s so that we don’t have a “frogberg” DOA in the mail. So we will have a pet frog soon, too.

Maddy wasn’t satisfied. “We need one more ‘aminal,’” she said. “How about a GRASSHOPPER?”

Yumpin’ Yiminy! No wonder it seems like a three-ring circus around here. . . .

ARE YOU HAPPY WITH YOUR SALARY?

Today's DailySusan was a Power Point presentation available only to email subscribers.

WOULD YOU HAVE INVESTED MONEY WITH THIS GROUP?

(Today's DailySusan is a photo of a bunch of hairy, bearded geeks in early 1970s clothes; the photo is available only to DailySusan email subscribers)

Caption: MICROSOFT CORPORATION, 1978

Check the guy in the lower left . . . that's Bill Gates.

Paul Allen, the owner of the Seattle Seahawks with a net worth around $20 billion,
is on the far right, lower corner.

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT YOU HAD EVERYTHING

(Today's DailySusan is a series of new-product pictures from Japan, including a baby outfit for crawling-age babies that doubles as a mop, and tiny twin umbrellas for your shoes. The photos are available only to DailySusan blog subscribers.)

YOUNG MEN IN TUXES

Our daughter was a backup dancer in a talent segment of a beauty contest the other night, and her candidate won “Mr. Congeniality.”

That’s right: eight senior guys were vying for the title of “Mr. EHS” at Elkhorn High School. They were being judged for swimwear, talent, formalwear and interview. It was a fund-raiser for scholarships, and the winners got cash prizes and NEW CARS!!! Well, they were Matchbox cars – but they were new.

In the talent section, we saw everything from a ukulele player, to a nightclub-style singer, to a Star Wars-style laser gunfight, to a “Lord of the Dance” presentation that was really good. Our daughter’s friend dressed up like Richard Simmons, complete with outrageous wig and fake chest hair, and he and four pretty girls did an aerobics workout with amazing energy.

During the interviews, the boys all looked so smashing in their tuxedoes. They all answered different questions. Here was my favorite answer:

Q. What was your favorite childhood memory?

A. Is this still my childhood?

SHRIEKS STILL REVERBERATING

The highlight of Maddy’s Sponge Bob Square Pants extravaganza birthday party on Saturday had nothing to do with Sponge Bob. It was the sight of her encircled by her little friends on the floor of her room, passing around her new guinea pig, Fluffington Van Chocstraw. They were so careful and so gentle with the little thing. It was sweet.

But then, CHAOS ERUPTED AND EAR-PIERCING SHRIEKS BLASTED DOWN THE MISSOURI RIVER VALLEY!

Older daughter Neely and her friend raced to the scene, expecting to see an ax murderer or at least some blood and gore, based on the volume of those shrieks.

But nooooo. It was just that Fluffington Van Chocstraw had done her thing, twice, there on the carpet . . . and the little girls had instantly shrunk away like the Red Sea of kindergartners parting in shock and awe.

And I stood there and contemplated the irony of it all: they won’t remember the cake, they won’t remember the games, they won’t remember the goodie bags or elaborate decorations or any of the gifts.

It’s tough to be upstaged by a little rat in a wig . . . but I have to say, it WAS funny.

OUT OF THE ASHES

To appoint unto them that mourn in Zion,
to give unto them beauty for ashes,
the oil of joy for mourning,
the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
that they might be called trees of righteousness,
the planting of the Lord,
that He might be glorified.
-- Isaiah 61:3

A teenager we know was relaxing at one of those picturesque summer bonfires. It was at a rural firepit with a couple of families and lots of other teens.

All of a sudden, a swirling wind whipped up a cascade of sparks and flames. She was the closest. Her pants legs caught fire.

Two big boys raced to her rescue. They rolled her and put out the fire. But her legs were badly burned.

They rushed her to the hospital, where she was stabilized. And then the burn unit people described the long road back: skin grafts, a lot of pain, and a long, boring summer flat on her back.

Poof! Her dreams of summer fun were literally up in smoke.

It wasn’t fair! To be cut out of life, out of the action! What bad timing, too: she was sad and depressed about her parents’ recent divorce, and struggling to deal emotionally with the aftermath. Now this! Her situation was as black, dry and ugly as burned-out logs.

But you know what? God has a way of kindling sparks of life from dead ashes.

She realized how lucky she was to be alive. She now knew that, in an instant, you can die. She realized how very special everything is, especially family.

Her relationship with her mother improved drastically. Post-burn care is very hands-on. There was no mistaking the love and concern in every gentle touch – every bandage applied -- every meal tray carried in – every joke and conversational tidbit offered to pass the dreary days.

Mother and daughter fell back in love at a stage when many teens are running away and not looking back. It was as if the mother had a chance to heal the daughter from the burns left by divorce. It was nice.

During her recovery, she had time to think about how it felt to grow up in an unhappy home, even though she loved both her parents very much. She thought about the things she overheard them say to each other. She thought about the anger and sadness that now pervaded their lives like smoke.

That’s not how things are supposed to be!

But then she realized: her life was in ashes . . .

. . . but she didn’t have to stay there.

So she made some resolutions. She still believed in love. She wanted to get married. She determined to do everything she could to make her marriage a joy and a success.

She also decided that her life’s work would be to help other people make their marriages come alive and stay alive. How? By becoming a psychologist or a marriage counselor, helping prevent divorce whenever possible, and protect kids from being singed and scarred by it.

By the time she could walk again and go out, the idea was firmly in place. There’ve been bumps in her road. But every time she sees her scars, she remembers that God saved her life for a reason, and assigned her to a special calling. She sees that, in an unexpected way, God was at work in that fire. And now she’s on her way.

That’s the thing about fire. Although it’s dangerous and can harm and destroy, fire also does good. It can reveal things, and clean away what’s blocking the air and the light.

I’m sorry that our young friend got burned. But I marvel how the experience turned out so productively for her. She’s going to help a lot of people in her life. I sense God’s holy timing and purpose in this. Her future is bright.

Beauty for ashes: that’s what He offers. That’s what He gives.

You can get knocked flat by the fires of life that unexpectedly swirl up and burn you. But hold on to hope. You can come up out of the ashes . . . and know where you stand. †

THOUGHTFUL BIRTHDAY GIRL

Maddy got a “Grammy” award! That is, a birthday gift from her grandmother, which are the best kind. One of the grammies got Maddy a cute little shirt for her birthday. It’s hot pink. In sparkly rhinestones, it spells out:

GIRLS ROCK

When her father drove into the driveway the first day she wore it, though, she raced down to her bedroom. “I’ve got to change!” she announced.

“Whatever for?” I asked, mystified.

The suddenly sensitive clothes horse neighed, “My shirt would make Daddy feel sad.”

A LIMERICK FOR ST. PADDY'S DAY

There once was a miser named Clarence
Who simonized* both of his parents;
"The initial expense,"
he remarked, "is immense,
But it saves on the wearance and tearance."

-- By Ogden Nash

(*to “simonize” is to polish, as with wax)

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, to all my fellow Blarney Stone-kissers,
and may the coming year put minimal wearance and tearance
on your wee bod!

A DESERT WOLF CHILLS OUT

A writer friend of mine just spent several nights camped out in the desert of southern Israel with a group of about 15 strangers from all over the world. The experience thoroughly beats our typical family vacations for multiculturalism and unconventional adventure.

She wrote about eating Shayah, a Bedouin bread mentioned in the Bible as a “cake baked on ashes,” and it was – dough thrown right on the campfire ashes with two handfuls of desert dust tossed on top, then embedded in sticks and brush. I’ve had days like that, when I was pretty . . . burned out . . . on cooking. But, she said, it was amazingly delicious.

A sandstorm forced them to camp in a remote wadi basin deep inside a canyon by a dry riverbed. Let Cindy tell the rest:

A lunch table was spread in the wilderness under an acacia tree.

“After-dinner campfire stories had the effect of weaving our group together in the flicker and flare of lanterns. Amid the jumble of sleeping bags, windbreakers, and layers of clothing . . . we were building new layers of community which would last in our memories years after this blustery beginning. We slept completely enclosed in our downy burrows to fend off the winds whipping around us. The haze cleared to reveal a stellar expanse punctuated by a nearly full moon that danced off the desert terrain. This was the ‘Million Stars Hotel.’

“Stealthy furry raiders pillaged the camp that night and made off with a small backpack containing a jar of peanut butter, honey, M&M’s, and a pair of expensive Maui sunglasses. Gary awoke to a clanging clatter of cookware at 3:30 in the morning and sat bolt upright. Before he could aim a flashlight at the source of the racket, a shadowy blur the size of a German shepherd rocketed over the end of our sleeping bag into the darkness of a nearby ravine. . . .

“Some foxy wolf must be sporting the backpack and the Maui sunglasses among his desert canine crowd.”

Now, that’s a picture, isn’t it? They say the desert attracts real characters. . . .

WHEN THE WAITER IS BRUTALLY HONEST

The little old lady was on a three-day cross-country car trip, all by herself. After a full day on the road, she was bone weary. She pulled over at a nice-looking motel somewhere in Arizona that was attached to a restaurant.

The dinner menu looked OK. The waiter arrived, a teen with tousled hair.

“What’s the soup today?”

“Bean soup.”

“Is it any good?”

“I don’t know what happened . . . but today, it is.”

No, she didn’t order the soup, and she kept all 10 fingers and all 10 toes crossed when her entrée arrived. She doesn’t know what happened . . . but it was good.

SPRING BREAK AWAKENING

The college daughter is home on spring break. She takes a lot of very tough courses and is very involved on campus, so surely she was looking forward to a week’s rest and relaxation at home. Best of all: sleeping in.

Not so fast. There’s a young’un in the household, an afternoon kindergartner who’s usually bored stiff every morning, with nobody to play with. At an hour most spring-breakers would consider “the crack of dawn,” the little one opened the big one’s creaky door and walked right up to her bed.

The big sister heard the munchkin footsteps and knew who had come into her room without knocking. She opened her eyes.

AND THERE WAS A GIGANTIC GUINEA PIG, STARING HER IN THE FACE!!!

Now, I’m sure there are college students on spring break at Daytona, Padre Island and Palm Springs who have awakened to weirder sights. But at least this one’s legal, and doesn’t involve wet T-shirts.

A CAR HORN ON HAPPY PILLS

Now that everything’s digitized, why can’t we have some variety and diversity in our car horns? Everybody should have about 10 different sounds to use in various situations instead of plain old honks. It would make motoring so much more creative and fun.

A daughter and I thought of this as we listened, transfixed, to Maddy running across the yard looking for Sunny, our dog, and loudly singing this cheerful little song. In her high-pitched voice, she sounded just like a car horn on happy pills:

SUN-BUN!
HUN-TON!
SWEETKIN DING DONG
DIDDLY DAY!!!

When somebody cuts in front of you in traffic or fails to use a turn signal, you can give them a hostile one-fingered salute, yell “YEW MORON!!!” out the window, or the more sophisticated, 21st Century approach would be to play them THAT song . . . which would certainly cause them to grip the wheel with both hands and keep their eyes on the road, fearing, as they might, an alien invasion.

To deny access to this important new technology by those who might ruin it with expletives or nastiness, I will patent my new invention, even before I make up a prototype. It may be the first time in history anybody has ever gotten a patent who doesn’t know a screwdriver from pliers. But it’s early . . . Sweetkin.

REBA AND ME

(A)nd as many as He touched were made perfectly whole.
-- Matthew 14:36b

My friend Jeannie and I were on our cell phones. She was off to a grocery store miles away to get her granddaughter’s favorite premade hamburger patties. I was going to the post office.

It’s a movie star lifestyle around here.

I whined about my dry eyes. Every morning, they hurt a lot. I stagger out of bed and grope stiff-legged to the bathroom like Frankenstein. I feel for the eyedrops, which I leave on the counter in the exact same place every day, like a blind person, so I can find them immediately.

I do a desperate backbend, eyes wide open, mouth gaping like a dead fish. I squeeze a few soothing, life-saving drops in, blinking and grunting in relief.

TOLD you it’s a movie star lifestyle.

Well, Jeannie had just gotten back from an eye appointment. She was all excited about the new eye massage techniques the doctor had taught her.

“You get in the shower and hold a nice, warm washcloth over them, and hold it there for a while and just let the warm water wash over them. It feels awesome! Then, slowly, with gentle pressure, rub from the inside out, a gentle caress. . . .”

“SHHHH!” I interrupted. “What if Homeland Security or somebody is listening in?!? They might not have heard you say this is about our EYES! They’ll think we’re in some kind of a SEX RING!!!”

But next morning, I tried it. And she was right. It felt great.

Ah, massage. There’s just something about touch that beats everything else. It’s always been that way. In fact, one of the greatest signs of Jesus’ divinity and yet humanity is how He healed people with just a touch. His disciples could do it, too. Today, we hug and pat and high-five, and those actions have healing power, too.

But when we get really serious, we go have a massage.

It’s nice to be kneaded!

However . . . for stressed-out stiffs like me, it can be highly embarrassing.

My first one was during a trip to Scottsdale, Ariz., that I took with another harried mother of young children. We left our husbands in charge of the thundering herds for some desperately-needed girls-only R&R.

We called it our “Take This Job and Shove It Victory Tour.”

For the first two nights, we stayed in a cheapo hotel.

But for the grand finale, we checked in to a really ritzy resort. We made the most of it, swimming in its series of fabulous pools, walking its manicured grounds, dining alfresco . . . and capping it off with massages.

I didn’t want to go. She made me. She said I would feel like a “noodle,” the perfect ending for a relaxing, refreshing trip.

They said to disrobe to the point where I felt comfortable. “OK, then, I’m ready,” I said instantly.

(They call customers like me “noncompliant.”)

They told me to put my face in this padded toilet seat. It was to relieve pressure on my neck as I lay on my tummy. But it’s hard to keep your face straight when it’s surrounded by a toilet seat.

The masseuse must’ve thought my shoulders were shaking because I was nervous. She asked if I wanted a massage that was “gentle” or “intense.” INTENSE? My eyes darted to check if she had leather boots, fishnets and a whip. But the toilet seat blocked my view. Cringing, I said “something kind of in the middle.”

As she started bending, folding, spindling and mutilating, she tried to put me at ease with cheerful chitchat:

“I just did (strrrrrrrrrrretch) Reba McEntire!”

You know, the country and western singing star.

My shoulders started shaking again:

“Are you going to brag to the NEXT customer that you just did aging matron Susan Williams of Omaha?”

She laughed politely, and completed the massage in silence. I can imagine what she was thinking.

But what a massage! It was great. I emerged, just as promised, a complete “noodle,” with my hair in a towel, and toilet ring around my face.

It is, as they say, a movie star lifestyle. †

Der-Tuh-Derrrrr

Cheerleaders have cheers. Advertisers have slogans. But I have little sayings that I like to use whenever I’ve done something dumb.

I get a lot of practice.

For a while, it has been the “dumdum” song from the Cingular ads. You know: “Doot dooooo! Doot doot dooooo!”

But now my teenage daughter has taught me a new one. It reminds me of a happy, clueless little song a Southern animal character in a Disney cartoon movie would sing as he walks down the road, probably with a bucket stuck on one foot and his shirt buttoned up wrong:

DER – TUH – DERRRR!!!!

It’s so, so “me.”

TOLERATING INTERIOR DESIGN DIVERSITY

For our mega-lived-in living room, we are getting new carpet, a new couch, a new Daddy chair and ottoman, and best of all, an elegant new chaise. In Victorian days, the one-armed lounger used to be called a “fainting couch.”

Yes, you guess right what it’s being called instead, by persons unnamed in our cornpone household. But we’re having none of that in my new living room. It will be a place so uncharacteristic of me: it will be clean, it will be sophisticated, and it will have TASTE. Nobody’ll believe I live here.

I’m afraid I’ve passed my undiscerning eye for fashion on to my poor little daughter, though. As I was musing over the fun of having remodeled every room in this rambling house in the last six years, except her 1980s-looking bathroom, it suddenly hit me: now that everything ELSE looked so nice, the NEXT project would have to be Maddy’s bathroom. New paint, new fixtures, new tile: the works!

I told her so. She leaped in the air, arms forming a cheerleader’s “V” for “Victory.”

“AND IT CAN BE PINK AND PURPLE!” she exulted. “WITH HAPPY FACES! AND STARS AND HEARTS!!!”

I think I’m in trouble. Oh, well: decorated in Early Hideous, we’ll all feel right at home.

AMAZING JUGGLER

Take a break when you can, and have your sound on if possible, to watch this amazing juggler. It takes a few minutes, but it’s worth it. If you have dial-up service, you probably won’t be able to see this. Yes, he’s that fast!

http://www.sonnyradio.com/chrisbliss.htm

USING HER AS A . . . WELL, GUINEA PIG

We have had our new guinea pig Fluffy for three days. She is the new best friend of our youngest, Maddy, who is turning 6 in a few days. She got Fluffy as an early birthday present, and has really been giving her a workout. Fluffy has already:

-- surfed our maple floors on a skateboard;
-- been pushed around in a grocery cart nestled in an old tea towel;
-- driven (!!! well. . . she WAS in FRONT) a blue plastic Volkswagen bug;
-- faced off with a tiger – thanks goodness it was only a Beanie baby;
-- ridden around inside Maddy’s shirt, perched on the counter and on the couch, and been carried around in a basket. The only activity I’ve firmly put my foot down about was the wished-for ride on a plastic boat in the whirlpool. I just don’t believe whitewater is appropriate for a junior rodent. Not to mention what such a sight would do to my nerves.

That poor thing has been hauled out of her aquarium home and the sanctity of her purple plastic igloo so many times, I think she’s getting pretty stressed out. We’ve had to insist that Maddy put her in her home for an hour at a time just so that Fluffy can have a chance at some food, water and rest after all that excitement. We’ve had visions of her anorexic, dehydrated body on some TV tell-all show put on by People For the Ethical Treatment of Cute But Basically Pointless Pet Rodents.

Last night, Maddy was cuddling Fluffy while watching TV. It was Maddy’s bedtime, but she was wide awake, energetic, giggling and playful. The guinea pig in her hands, however, was literally nodding off. Her eyelids drooped, half-shut. We could tell she was yearning for the privacy of her purple igloo boudoir. Just like Maddy’s parents!

Maddy’s having a ball. But Fluffy must think she’s on some kind of “Rodent Survivor” show. Let’s just hope she doesn’t vote herself off the island, and wander our home’s ventilation system in search of peace and quiet.

EDWINA WAS A GNAW-TY GIRL

Why is it that no one ever tells you these horror stories about certain types of pets until after you’ve bought one? By then, getting rid of your new pet before these things can happen to you would cause lifelong emotional scars in your child. Now that we have a new guinea pig, Fluffy, the horror stories are coming out of the woodwork . . . literally.

Take the saga of Edwina, the hamster. A friend’s daughter was rushing off to a weekend away, and got Edwina all ready to “batch” it in her cage except for one minor detail: she forgot to put the lid on. She slammed the door to her room and left.

The mother only had to do one thing all weekend: go in on Sunday morning, add a little food, and check on Edwina. Naturally, this adult woman was terrified of rodents. But anything for the cause, and it would be over in two minutes.

EXCEPT . . . the cage was empty! AAIIEE!!!

That awful little rodent could jump out at any moment and give this poor woman a heart attack! Did it escape through the vent and was it going to plop down on the woman’s FACE that night as she SLEPT? You know that skin on the back of your neck? Well, it was CRAWLING with imaginary Edwinas!!!

Worst of all, that busy little Edwina had gnawed all across the bottoms of two solid-oak closet doors, in just that little bit of time that she was free. They were going to have to be taken off, sanded, restained and refinished. It was going to be expensive.

But if the mother did what she was thinking of doing – putting on her 1970s waffle stompers and making a FLAT Edwina – her little girl would be permanently scarred. That would happen, too, if the little girl came home and Edwina was MIA.

So the mother did the best she could: she got the big sack of hamster food, and tossed little handfuls along the perimeter of the room: “Here, Edwina! Come here, Girl! Nice hamster! Where are you, Edwina?”

Fearing the onset of a nervous breakdown, she finally set the container of hamster food in the center of the room, ran out, slammed the door, and went somewhere to cry.

When she came back in, she still didn’t see Edwina. So she went to pick up the container of food . . . AND WAS STARTLED TO SEE THAT INSIDE WAS EDWINA, UP TO HER SNOOT IN SEEDS AND NUTS!!!

The mother screamed and screamed, but got Edwina back in her habitat and got the lid on securely. Like, with 17 big rocks on top.

Her face still twitches as she retells the tale. I just hope Fluffy doesn’t get any big ideas.

I’m surprised and honored. A friend involved in politics in Lincoln encouraged me to write an op-ed opposing the spread of all-day kindergarten across the state and send it to the Lincoln Journal. They ran it today! It’s a hot potato, because a lot of parents like the “free day care,” and many people think it’s academically better for today’s kids. But the evidence shows that it’s not. And it costs a ton. Come see what you think:

www.journalstar.com/articles/2006/03/06/letters/doc440b7077c1357325964818.txt

---------------

FLUFFINGTON VAN CHOCSTRAW

The older three girls criticize us as being ‘way, ‘way, ‘way too permissive with Maddy. They say the thought of a new toy or possession no sooner pops into her little pea brain and out her cupid’s bow little lips, than we run out and buy it for her.

It must come with senility, now that we’re raising a tail-ender in our old age. We were physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight enough with the first round of children to have disciplined them moderately well. At least, THEY remember us saying “no” a lot. They say we’ve forgotten how.

Well, now we’ve done it again. Meet “Fluffy,” our new guinea pig, an early birthday present for Maddy. She is little, cuddly and quiet, at least so far. It was love at first sight; Maddy was jumping up and down as rapidly as a pneumatic drill when she first cast eyes on her in the pet store.

Fluffy is a calico: white head and shoulders with a dark patch over one eye, very movie-star like, and then a dark brown section and a tan section, and then some more white. She reminds me a lot of Neapolitan ice cream. That’s why her formal name is “Fluffington Van Chocstraw.”

At least we recycled an old 30-gallon aquarium for her home, and didn’t have to buy a lot of accessories for this new pet. But, as the older three would say, it’s early, and we’re wussies.

THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler. . . .
-- Psalm 91:3a

Our friend Bob has an unusual hobby: he’s a falconer. He knows how to go out and trap a prairie falcon, and then practically shack up with it for a few months to get it to trust him so that it’ll fly for him.

It’s a timeless, fascinating skill. He uses a jess (leg strap), gloves, hoods and leather pouch lures with meat inside. He gives the bird lots of attention, grooming and of course, great food.

He has built a cage that’s more of a luxury habitat. And yes, after the training and togetherness and fulfillment and fun, he eventually retrains the bird NOT to trust him so much, and releases it back to the wild.

It never ceases to amaze me, though, how a bird of prey can get tricked into falling for his initial trap. I mean, aren’t they supposed to have eyesight that’s lots better than ours? Don’t they see what they’re getting in to? Aren’t they smarter than that?

But then, look at our own lives. Don’t we fall for traps ourselves, all the time?

I think it’s because there’s a Fowler – the Enemy of our souls – who likes to “fowl” things up for us and keep us from God’s best.

He knows us very well. He knows our weaknesses and what’ll grab us. He’s got his obvious traps, of alcoholism and drug addiction, murder and sexual immorality.

But for those of us who can resist the National Enquirer type sins, he’s got more subtle kinds of traps. Not as flashy, but they get us into bondage nonetheless.

For me, the temptation has always been to take on too much. I would get exhausted and cranky, and my family would go without sweetness and light. What kind of a Christian example is that?

Turns out a friend of mine battles workaholism, too. Last weekend, she spilled her guts about it. She works full-time, has a husband and two kids, keeps a spotless house, is good about visiting her older relatives, and does all kinds of volunteer work besides.

Her weekends have gradually gotten completely eaten up by obligations. She shared that she was about to go “TILT!”

So I was glad to be able to tell her this story:

Years ago, a wise friend suggested that I make a list of all the things that were stressing me, and get rid of the things that weren’t absolute “musts.” It came to almost 90 items. I pared it down to 30. I made call after call to cancel various promises and projects, and not a single person squawked. They all understood. It happens. I resolved to never let myself get so tied down again.

Years later, someone I hadn’t heard from in years called to ask me to ghost-write a book for a corporate leader. The project would be time-consuming, but it would pay off very well.

The only problem was, the subject was not all that interesting to me. OK, it was a SNORE! And I had committed myself to writing only to glorify Jesus and His principles. This would be a puff piece. It would divert me from my main Christian calling.

But the guy who asked me was sooooo persuasive and made it sound sooooo enticing, flattering me that it would get reviewed in the Wall Street Journal and stuff. Whoa!

I told him I’d have to think about it.

You knew this was coming: I picked up my Bible that night. It flipped open to Psalm 91:3, which I didn’t remember reading before.

A slow smile spread across my face. The name of the guy who had asked me to do the book? Fowler.

Next morning, I called him: thanks, but no thanks.

I escaped the trap of busy work! I was free to write what I wanted! I felt so light, I could fly.

Yeah, well, until the next trap is laid for me. You know, Satan is an odd bird, strangely persistent. You’ve got to watch him like a hawk. †