Eaten any good books lately?

Bam! Cuteness. Don't you love how I put a picture of my adorable little girl right up front so as to influence your perception of this post?

Ok, that wasn't really my intention, but it works (maybe).

My little one seems to have a fondness for books already, and I couldn't be more proud. Her favorite thing to do is to get into her closet and throw out all of her board books. Then, she'll splay them out all over her bedroom floor, and give each one a little nibble.

Mmm...Bookie Monster.

I hope that this enthusiasm for the printed word sticks with her. My dream is that one day, she'll be "hungover" from an all-nighter with her favorite piece of fiction, unable to tear herself away from the pages.

I was lucky enough to grow up with an English-teacher mother, and bookaholic father. Books were tucked away in every nook and cranny of our house. I can't remember a time when most conversations with my father didn't start with, "what are you reading now?"

He got me hooked on James Lee Burke and Martin Cruz Smith, fictional mystery series that took me away to vodka-soaked, post-Chernobyl Russia and corrupt-yet-lovable New Iberia Parish, Louisiana. Dave Robicheaux and Arkady Renko seem like crazy uncles who took me in and showed me the ropes of "reluctant good-guy" crime fighting.

If there's one trait I hope my daughter inherits from her momma's side, it's the desire to devour one tasty book after another.

I'm askeered

I have a confession to make. I am terrified of flying. I love to travel, I love airports, I even love rolling my suitcase around like I'm somewhat important.

I just hate the actual flying part. Takeoff is probably the worst, but then there's that moment mid-flight when you've finally calmed down and you realize, "Crap!," I'm suspended thousands of feet above the ground with no way out. Maybe that's what I don't like, the lack of control.

I have a trip to Chicago on Tuesday, and while I'm excited to go where "nobody knows my name," my stomach has been turning in knots ever since I booked our trip on Expedia.

So, any suggestions for making the skies a little friendlier?

Tolerance is not enough

Don't get me wrong, I'm not "anti-tolerance." I just think it's time we move beyond it. We teach and preach tolerance, when really, we need to extend ourselves to love. 

The Googleictionary has three definitions for tolerance:
1. Tolerance is the quality of allowing other people to say and do as they like, even if you do not agree or approve of it.
2. Tolerance is the ability to bear something painful or unpleasant.
3. If someone or something has a tolerance to a substance, they are exposed to it so often that it does not have very much effect on them.

Does that really sound like the way we want to live? I understand they underlying premise, that we need to better understand our fellow man/woman and not allow room for hatred, bigotry or prejudice. There have been a lot of good things come out of the "tolerance movement," but I feel that one of the negative side effects has been a dampening of personal convictions and passions. Many people feel so afraid of saying something politically incorrect, that they say nothing at all. I'm not sure which is worse.

Tolerance is better than hatred, but love is by far better than tolerance.

The Parable of the Good Samaritan

Luke 10:25-37 (New International Version)

  ²⁵On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?"

 ²⁶"What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?"

 ²⁷He answered: " 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'^[a]; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'^[b]"

 ²⁸"You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. "Do this and you will live."

 ²⁹But he wanted to justify himself, so he asked Jesus, "And who is my neighbor?"

 ³⁰In reply Jesus said: "A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead. ³¹A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. ³²So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. ³³But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. ³⁴He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. ³⁵The next day he took out two silver coins^[c] and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'

 ³⁶"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?"

 ³⁷The expert in the law replied, "The one who had mercy on him."
      Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."

A great man

A good man does the dishes
A great man does them without being asked

A good man tells you he loves you
A great man shows you he loves you

A good man changes the baby's diaper
A great man sings to her and makes her laugh while doing it

A good man asks you to dance at a wedding
A great man twirls you around the kitchen when there's no music playing

Thank God I've found a great man.

There's no place like home

"Look what y'all are missing," said the e-mail from my sister yesterday. Attached were six or seven pictures of the bluebonnets in bloom in Texas, and I'll admit, they were very beautiful. She said this jokingly, I assume, because she lived in Arlington, TX for several years after she was first married, and my husband and I moved to Salado, TX three weeks after we tied the knot. Our stay was short-lived, but I'm glad we went.

I miss my husband's family in the Austin area, and we miss the easily-found live country music halls, but other than that, there's no place I would rather call home than Kansas. I find the flatness truly calming, and the sunsets cannot be beat. Although I'm terrified of tornadoes, and dream of dying in one nearly every night (what does that symbolize?) I have to admit I like the thrill of storm season.

So you can have your oceans, your mountains, your bluebonnets. I'll keep my glorious wheat fields and genuine people smack dab in the middle of it all, and be perfectly discontent.

Country life ain't easy, but it sure is fun

Long story short, my husband and I bought 82 acres near my hometown a little more than two years ago. We have 30 acres of trees with a creek running through it, and 52 tillable acres that we lease to an old farmer named "Cleets" (aka Cletus). We moved a farmhouse 11 miles and paid through the nose to have electric lines brought in (if you ever want to know how much it is for a mile's worth of power lines, I'm your woman). We plopped the house down in the middle of the field and called it home.

We've endured eyelid-peeling winds from every direction, with no mature trees nearby to buffer the constant beating. It wasn't uncommon to have snow blow in through our patio door, and my Swiffer cowers in the corner underneath the sink, knowing his soft, fluffy appendages are no match for the fine grit that settles on every surface in the house when the field to the south is being tilled.

It's been rough. Very rough. But when I sit down to dinner, and see the house my mother was born in a mile to the south, or hear an owl softly hooting in the pre-dawn hours as I'm loading up to leave for work, or smell the earthy aroma of our land before a rainstorm, it's all worth it.

The Parent Trap

I can't believe I fell for it. Browsing through my most recent Parent's magazine (cause I'm cool like that), a blurb on the front cover cried out to me: "See your kid on our cover. Quick! Visit parents.com."

"Who?  Me?" I ask as I glance behind me. "You'd like to put my adorable, sweet little Anna on your cover? Ok!" And I ran to the computer and uploaded her little mug just as soon as my fingers would let me. It wasn't until after I hit "submit" that I felt a pang of guilt.

I had become one of those parents. The one who thinks their kid is the cutest-wutest 'lil munchkin ever. But doesn't every parent feel that way? At least until the first time you discover the masterpiece of a finger painting they made just for you...in their crib...with poop. (Still waiting for that one.)

But can you blame me? I mean look at her. She is pretty darn amazing.

Are second dates always awkward?

I wouldn't really know. Haven't "dated" since I was 18, and even then, it was "love" at first sight (or close enough) with my hubby when we met at Sheplers. I worked in Women's, he worked in Boots, and the intoxicating smell of leather and steamed felt hats created a ripe environment for two young Wrangler-wearing kids to fall for each other.

But here I am, sitting down on my second date with Blank Page. I was pleasantly surprised how I felt this morning after our tryst last night. I didn't feel dirty, used, or taken advantage of. Turns out, we kind of like each other.

Nevertheless, it's still intimidating and a little awkward. My husband hovers behind me, and I feel the need to minimize the screen. "Don't watch me," I chide him. He shrugs and walks off, not in Wranglers, but in camo pajama pants.

Why do I find it so hard to be authentic? Is it because my profession has smoothed my jagged edges in ineffective butter knives? Or because my agreeable nature silences my tongue "so as not to offend?" Or maybe, and this is what I'm afraid of, I don't know who I am anymore.

I had the pleasure of experiencing a lesson in "ethical leadership" from Bill Grace today at a conference hosted by the Kansas Health Foundation. Even though our political ideologies aren't closely aligned (I'm presuming), I walked away with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. He walked us through an exercise in nailing down our three most important values. Mine were: Faith, Family and Truth.

For anyone who knows me and my family's story very well, you'll know that those three words are dead-on. We've all got a story to tell, and mine's pretty heavy. It involves suicide, sex abuse, and the Catholic Church. But above all the story is also one of love, fierce loyalty and proof that there is life--wonderful, sweet, fulfilling life--after your whole world is ripped out from under you.

This one's for Mia

Blame it on the cherry-pomegranate juice, or the brilliant Kansas sun reflecting off of the stainless-steel Chipotle patio table, but somehow my friend Mia convinced me that I need to give this writing thing a go--for real this time.

I'm not really sure what happened to me. Somewhere amidst my hectic life, I lost my courage to write. Not my passion, but my courage. Give me a topic to write about, give me a word count and my audience and I'm golden. Give me a blank page, with no restrictions, no particular audience and my fingers do the "clickity-clack backspace waltz," where my best move is stammering out a few contrived sentences before frantically deleting it all.

What if no one likes it? What if I reveal my true self and I don't even like it? Not many people enjoy standing in front of a full-length mirror naked. And if they do, they're probably either intoxicated, crazy, or haven't put their glasses on yet. (So maybe if I get a little tipsy and leave off the specs, my writing will start to look fabulous.)

Ok, that's enough exhibitionism for now. Better publish this before I chicken out and my right hand hovers toward the upper-right side of the keyboard.