Today's prompt: What is the worst accident you have ever had? The most recent? The silliest? The srangest? The most painful? The most embarrassing?
(Reprinted by permission all rights reserved (c) C.M. Mayo "Giant Golden Buddha and 364 More 5 Minute Writing Exercises" www.cmmayo.com/d5mwe.html)
Worst: The first time I fell off my horse. I had only had him for a few months and still didn't really know how to ride. I started running him on the canal road behind my parents' house--a strip of dirt road that wound alongside a deep, wide cement canal. Sultan sensed he was headed for home, so when I tried to get him to stop he tossed his head and fought me. As he rounded the corner I tipped out of the saddle but, like the amatuer I was, I kept the reins clutched in my hands. So as Sultan kept running, I was dragged across the rough, gravelly dirt. I don't remember how I got there, but somehow, without being trampled by Sultan's hooves, I ended up clinging to the side of the canal, crying out for help, watching Sultan turn into a little speck at the other end of the road. A guy from the adjoining neighborhood came running and pulled me out, then chased Sultan down where he had finally come to a stop, munching on a clump of weeds without a shred of concern for me.
Most Recent: I am accident-prone. But a recent one I can think of was when Baby Brown Eyes head-butted me and jammed my lip into my braces. I cried. He cried. And I was holding an ice pack against my fat lip for the next hour.
Silliest: Now that I'm about to share this with the world, I think it qualifies as most embarrassing. On my 16th birthday I invited a bunch of friends over for a sleep-over in a tent in my front yard. As the night progressed we got goofy and a few of us decided to run up and down the street. That's it. Harmless, right? Ok, ok, we also decided it would be a good idea to run up and down the street with our underwear on the outside of our clothes. I can't explain our teenage thought process. We just thought it would be great fun. So when we got back to my yard I saw a couple people walk out of the house and thought for sure it was my sisters. I didn't want them to catch me in my present state, so we all rushed back into the tent. In the chaos my friend Shanna jabbed me right in the eye with her finger. My first thought amid the searing pain was that my eye had fallen out, and I started yelling exactly that. It took a minute for me to realize that my eye was still intact, but that was the end of the fun for the night.
Strangest: My dad raises bulls for meat. Before I got married and moved into a house of my own, those bulls shared a pasture with my horse. This was never a very big deal; for the most part I ignored them and they ignored me. Occasionally my dad would buy a bull with a more aggressive streak, but usually a yell or throwing an object at such a bull was enough to keep him away. Until one summer when I was home from college. That year my dad's bull was the meanest ever. One day, as I was walking through the pasture to get my horse, the bull started following me and wouldn't back off, no matter how many times I hit him in the head with my horse's halter, the only weapon I had at my disposal. My horse ran off and I found myself backed up against the neighbor's fence, an angry bull lowering his massive head at me, tearing the grass into chunks with his hooves. I knew I had no where to go, and right before he lunged at me I squeezed my eyes shut, certain I was about to be impaled. Instead, I was caught between the bull's horns and dragged a few feet. He let me go and backed off a few steps, in which time I grabbed my fallen glasses and scrambled up the fence. As I sat astride it, pondering what to do, the bull still kept trying to come at me, slinging snot through the air as he angrily tossed his head. In the end I climbed the fence into my neighbor's yard and escaped that way. After that, I stayed as far from that bull as possible. And a few months later, he was in the shape of a hamburger on my plate.
Most Painful: The third or so time I fell off my horse. He spooked at something and I came halfway out of the saddle but managed to hold on. I was at a precarious angle, though, and couldn't pull myself back up. "Just let go," I told myself. "It won't hurt too bad." Wrong! I landed flat on my back on the hard asphalt road. The pain radiated through my body and for a minute or so I couldn't even move. At least Sultan stood patiently next to me until I managed to stand up again.
Most Embarrassing: The day after Mr. Brown Eyes and I got back from our honeymoon, I turned my truck too soon out of my parking spot at the apartment complex and scraped it against a pole. Ok, it didn't just scrape. It got completely stuck. The sickening shriek of stressed metal not only called my husband over, but a neighbor guy who helped me get unstuck. I felt so stupid that even his help embarrassed me. And then Mr. Brown Eyes told him that we had just gotten married. The neighbor replied, "Oh, and she's wrecking the car already?"
Tell me I'm not the only one who does things like that,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Singing in the Rain
Do you know the one thing that makes sweating through Arizona summers worthwhile?
Thunderstorms.
I realize thunderstorms are dangerous. Driving home yesterday afternoon, we could hardly see the car in front of us through all the dust blowing across the road. But somehow, even though I practically pee my pants when I ride a rollercoaster, I have no fear of thunderstorms. I love the thrill of watching our trees whip wildly in the wind, rain pouring down in silver sheets off our roof. I love sitting on the front porch with Mr. Brown Eyes and watching the lightning flash over the mountains. I love hearing the thunder crack so loud my heart stops for just a second.
The best thunderstorms are the ones that hit in the middle of the afternoon. One minute the air is so thick with heat and humidity it could suffocate you, the sky clear blue and bright with sunshine, and the next minute, it seems, the sky is dark and cool, refreshing rain is pelting your skin. It's like a little gift from Mother Nature, a welcome reprieve from the scorching summer sun.
The summer after we bought our house, however, my love for thunderstorms seriously waned. The first storm of the summer hit one afternoon while Mr. Brown Eyes was at work. I had already discovered a leak in our dining room, so I put a towel down to soak up the water and went about whatever activities I used to engage in before becoming a mother, like painting my toenails and vacuuming. (Seriously, what did I do with all that spare time I used to have? I have no idea.) Then I heard a steady plop, plop coming from the living room. Following the sound, I found another leak over our staircase. Two, actually. I set bowls down to catch the drips. The plop changed to a thunk as the drips hit the plastic bowls.
Three leaks, I thought to myself. Not a big deal. We can take care of them.
Then the plop, plop resumed, this time on the opposite end of the living room. Once again I followed the sound and found a leak on the left side of the fireplace. I put the bowl down, but then--another plop. Another leak, on the other side of the fireplace. This one was steady and splattered rainwater all over me. I put another bowl underneath it.
By now I was running out of bowls and the rain was coming down harder, pummeling the roof with a staccato beat. But just as soon as I located one leak, the plop of water hitting the carpet would signal another one. I found myself scrambling back and forth across the living room, moving a bowl here, throwing down a towel there, until there were so many leaks I couldn't possibly pinpoint them all.
I gave up trying to keep our living room dry and tore at my hair in frustration. I fell to my knees and begged, pleaded, for Heavenly Father to stop the rain. But when I opened my eyes the rain was pouring down harder than ever, my living room a regular metronome of plops and thunks. I cried. I prayed again, certain that if I had enough faith Heavenly Father would have compassion on my predicament.
But it kept raining.
For a moment I was angry, and then a quote I had heard once or twice returned to my mind, "Sometimes the Lord calms the storm, but other times He calms the child, while the storm rages on."
I realized then that Heavenly Father had seen fit to let the storm rage on, but He was offering me His comfort. So I knelt down again and changed the tone of my prayer, asking instead for peace and comfort to make it through the storm. The thunder continued to rumble outside, the rain drip, drip, dripping from my ceiling for most of the afternoon, but I was comforted. Instead of praying to change my circumstances, I prayed to change myself.
Thankfully, the leaks in our ceiling are now (mostly) fixed, and I can enjoy thunderstorms again.
They are seriously the best thing about Arizona summers.
Bring on the rain,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Thunderstorms.
I realize thunderstorms are dangerous. Driving home yesterday afternoon, we could hardly see the car in front of us through all the dust blowing across the road. But somehow, even though I practically pee my pants when I ride a rollercoaster, I have no fear of thunderstorms. I love the thrill of watching our trees whip wildly in the wind, rain pouring down in silver sheets off our roof. I love sitting on the front porch with Mr. Brown Eyes and watching the lightning flash over the mountains. I love hearing the thunder crack so loud my heart stops for just a second.
The best thunderstorms are the ones that hit in the middle of the afternoon. One minute the air is so thick with heat and humidity it could suffocate you, the sky clear blue and bright with sunshine, and the next minute, it seems, the sky is dark and cool, refreshing rain is pelting your skin. It's like a little gift from Mother Nature, a welcome reprieve from the scorching summer sun.
The summer after we bought our house, however, my love for thunderstorms seriously waned. The first storm of the summer hit one afternoon while Mr. Brown Eyes was at work. I had already discovered a leak in our dining room, so I put a towel down to soak up the water and went about whatever activities I used to engage in before becoming a mother, like painting my toenails and vacuuming. (Seriously, what did I do with all that spare time I used to have? I have no idea.) Then I heard a steady plop, plop coming from the living room. Following the sound, I found another leak over our staircase. Two, actually. I set bowls down to catch the drips. The plop changed to a thunk as the drips hit the plastic bowls.
Three leaks, I thought to myself. Not a big deal. We can take care of them.
Then the plop, plop resumed, this time on the opposite end of the living room. Once again I followed the sound and found a leak on the left side of the fireplace. I put the bowl down, but then--another plop. Another leak, on the other side of the fireplace. This one was steady and splattered rainwater all over me. I put another bowl underneath it.
By now I was running out of bowls and the rain was coming down harder, pummeling the roof with a staccato beat. But just as soon as I located one leak, the plop of water hitting the carpet would signal another one. I found myself scrambling back and forth across the living room, moving a bowl here, throwing down a towel there, until there were so many leaks I couldn't possibly pinpoint them all.
I gave up trying to keep our living room dry and tore at my hair in frustration. I fell to my knees and begged, pleaded, for Heavenly Father to stop the rain. But when I opened my eyes the rain was pouring down harder than ever, my living room a regular metronome of plops and thunks. I cried. I prayed again, certain that if I had enough faith Heavenly Father would have compassion on my predicament.
But it kept raining.
For a moment I was angry, and then a quote I had heard once or twice returned to my mind, "Sometimes the Lord calms the storm, but other times He calms the child, while the storm rages on."
I realized then that Heavenly Father had seen fit to let the storm rage on, but He was offering me His comfort. So I knelt down again and changed the tone of my prayer, asking instead for peace and comfort to make it through the storm. The thunder continued to rumble outside, the rain drip, drip, dripping from my ceiling for most of the afternoon, but I was comforted. Instead of praying to change my circumstances, I prayed to change myself.
Thankfully, the leaks in our ceiling are now (mostly) fixed, and I can enjoy thunderstorms again.
They are seriously the best thing about Arizona summers.
Bring on the rain,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Thursday, July 14, 2011
The Purpose of Cats
We have a cat.
I'm not sure why.
You can ride a horse. You can walk a dog. What do you do with a cat?
Nothing. The cat does stuff with you. The cat makes you put out a box full of sand that she poops and pees in and you have to clean up. The cat jumps on your bed in the middle of the night to remind you that it will be morning in four short hours and you had better not forget to feed her. The cat sheds her unwanted fur on your couch and waits until you vacuum it, then sheds some more. The cat begs and begs to be fed, then promptly hacks up a hairball at your feet in gratitude. The cat turns her nose up at your love and affection, but jumps into your lap and sticks her tail in your face when you're caught up in a good book.
It makes you wonder why anyone loves cats.
I love cats. Ok, maybe not any cat, but I love our cat. I fell in love with her when she was brought into the animal hospital where I worked. She was a kitten, just days old, and one of our clients had found her and her two littermates at a construction site, motherless and hungry. The vet techs agreed to trade off taking the kittens home each night and bottlefeeding them, but despite their best efforts the kittens got sick and two of them died. The remaining kitten was put into the incubator at the animal hospital, her every need attended to. She managed to pull through where her siblings had not, and when it was clear that she would survive one of the vet techs named her Oot, short for One Out of Three.
The animal hospital became Oot's home. She was given a small kennel full of toys and every day the daughter of one of the vet techs would come and play with her (and, to Oot's dismay, bathe her). One day as I was working the front desk, she brought Oot up and handed her to me. Still a tiny kitten, Oot fit perfectly in my two hands, a little ball of soft gray fur with big, expressive gray eyes. I cooed and gushed over her and she lifted one white paw and daintily batted at my face. I fell in love right then and there.
Working at the animal hospital gave me many opportunities to bring home needy and unwanted animals, but I was still living at home at the time, and my dad's answer was always an emphatic, "No." I knew he would never agree to me bringing home another cat. So I didn't ask. I stowed her, mewling pitifully, into a cat carrier and drove her home, where I introduced her to my parents and promised that when I moved out, so did she.
I could almost feel little Oot's joy when I let her out of the carrier and, no longer a prisoner of the kennel, she romped and spun and rolled and played the way a kitten should. Well, a little more psychotic than a normal kitten, but I chalk that up to being imprisoned too long. Or maybe to getting too many baths. Either way, it was really cute the way she curled up and attacked her own back feet.
True to my word, when I married Mr. Brown Eyes Oot came to live in our apartment with us, where she spent most of her days hiding from Mr. Brown Eyes' cat, Critter.
Now she spends her days shedding, begging for food, and escaping from Baby Brown Eyes, who thinks she's the funnest toy he's ever seen. He'll chase her around the house, squealing in delight, reaching for her fur with his chubby little hands. Sometimes he actually manages to grab her tail but, instead of trying to bite him, she merely wails in agitation until one of us releases her. And then the chase begins again.
So I guess Oot does have a purpose after all.
She is still a brat, though,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
 |
| (Courtesy of Danielle Bright Photography) |
You can ride a horse. You can walk a dog. What do you do with a cat?
Nothing. The cat does stuff with you. The cat makes you put out a box full of sand that she poops and pees in and you have to clean up. The cat jumps on your bed in the middle of the night to remind you that it will be morning in four short hours and you had better not forget to feed her. The cat sheds her unwanted fur on your couch and waits until you vacuum it, then sheds some more. The cat begs and begs to be fed, then promptly hacks up a hairball at your feet in gratitude. The cat turns her nose up at your love and affection, but jumps into your lap and sticks her tail in your face when you're caught up in a good book.
It makes you wonder why anyone loves cats.
I love cats. Ok, maybe not any cat, but I love our cat. I fell in love with her when she was brought into the animal hospital where I worked. She was a kitten, just days old, and one of our clients had found her and her two littermates at a construction site, motherless and hungry. The vet techs agreed to trade off taking the kittens home each night and bottlefeeding them, but despite their best efforts the kittens got sick and two of them died. The remaining kitten was put into the incubator at the animal hospital, her every need attended to. She managed to pull through where her siblings had not, and when it was clear that she would survive one of the vet techs named her Oot, short for One Out of Three.
The animal hospital became Oot's home. She was given a small kennel full of toys and every day the daughter of one of the vet techs would come and play with her (and, to Oot's dismay, bathe her). One day as I was working the front desk, she brought Oot up and handed her to me. Still a tiny kitten, Oot fit perfectly in my two hands, a little ball of soft gray fur with big, expressive gray eyes. I cooed and gushed over her and she lifted one white paw and daintily batted at my face. I fell in love right then and there.
Working at the animal hospital gave me many opportunities to bring home needy and unwanted animals, but I was still living at home at the time, and my dad's answer was always an emphatic, "No." I knew he would never agree to me bringing home another cat. So I didn't ask. I stowed her, mewling pitifully, into a cat carrier and drove her home, where I introduced her to my parents and promised that when I moved out, so did she.
I could almost feel little Oot's joy when I let her out of the carrier and, no longer a prisoner of the kennel, she romped and spun and rolled and played the way a kitten should. Well, a little more psychotic than a normal kitten, but I chalk that up to being imprisoned too long. Or maybe to getting too many baths. Either way, it was really cute the way she curled up and attacked her own back feet.
True to my word, when I married Mr. Brown Eyes Oot came to live in our apartment with us, where she spent most of her days hiding from Mr. Brown Eyes' cat, Critter.
Now she spends her days shedding, begging for food, and escaping from Baby Brown Eyes, who thinks she's the funnest toy he's ever seen. He'll chase her around the house, squealing in delight, reaching for her fur with his chubby little hands. Sometimes he actually manages to grab her tail but, instead of trying to bite him, she merely wails in agitation until one of us releases her. And then the chase begins again.
So I guess Oot does have a purpose after all.
 |
| Wasn't she just the cutest kitten ever? |
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Writing Prompt Wednesday #7
I just want to say, for the record, that it's starting to feel like there are a lot more Wednesdays in the week than there used to be.
Today's prompt: Write a short story (or start a longer story) with this as the opening line: "Imogene Hornwinkle was the meanest, nastiest, most horrible girl in all of third grade" (Courtesy of Glen and Karen Bledsoe's Writing for Children website http://www.gkbledsoe.com/articles/process/prompts.html.)
Imogene Hornwinkle was the meanest, nastiest, most horrible girl in all of third grade.
I would know because she was also my best friend.
How could this be, you ask? How could a girl as sweet as me be friends with such a monster, a girl who, the first day we met, popped the head off of my favorite Barbie doll and flushed it down the toilet? A girl who hides dead bugs in her desk just so she can toss them down the shirt of the nearest unsuspecting bystander? A girl who purposely dives into the mud in protest of the dress her mom made her wear that day, and then blames me for pushing her?
I don't know how it happened.
I had never even talked to Imogene except to tell her to leave me alone and yes, she could have the cookie from my lunch, just please don't cut my hair with those scissors. But that day, the pretty girls in class--Brittany McDonald, Clare Durphy, and Shirley Wolster--clustered around my lunch table, intent on making me their victim because Clare hadn't known what "illiterate" meant when the teacher asked her, and I had raised my hand and given the correct definition.
"Nice dress, Janie," Shirley said in a sing-song voice. "You must like it, since you wear it everyday."
"I have a word for you," Clare hissed. "Do you know what 'dork' means?"
Brittany laughed. "Yeah, or 'loser'? Or 'ugly'?"
I sank further and further into my chair, wishing I could disappear entirely. I imagined they would keep making fun of me until I laid my head down and cried, and even then, but just as their jeers were cutting deep, I heard another voice. When I saw Imogene pushing her way through my three tormentors, I was sure she was coming to join in the fun.
To my surprise, she turned on Brittany. "Who are you calling ugly, Buckteeth?"
Brittany started, then scowled. "Imogene Hornwinkle, you..."
But Imogene was turning her attention to Clare. "And you. Janie can't help it that she's smarter than you. Everyone is. Maybe you should start reading the dictionary."
"What would you know about it, Imogene?" Shirley sneered. "You failed last week's spelling test."
"On purpose," Imogene bragged, smirking. "And besides, you didn't see me making fun of Janie just because I failed and she didn't. That's stupid. Oh, but I like your dress."
Shirley smiled. "Thank you."
"But I think it needs something..." That's when we realized Imogene was holding something behind her back. Before Shirley knew what hit her, she was wearing the remnants of Imogene's lunch--mashed potatoes and peas in her hair, chocolate milk all over the front of her dress, yogurt dribbling down her arms. With a shriek she dashed toward the bathroom, followed closely by Clare and Brittany.
Imogene placed her now-empty tray on the table and took a seat next to me. I just stared at her, my mouth hanging open in awe.
"Shut your trap, Janie. You look like a fish."
I closed my mouth quickly, then mumbled, "Thank you."
She either didn't hear me or pretended not to. "I didn't finish my lunch. Give me your cookie."
"But..."
"Do it or I'll break your arm."
I handed her the cookie.
We were best friends from then on.
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Today's prompt: Write a short story (or start a longer story) with this as the opening line: "Imogene Hornwinkle was the meanest, nastiest, most horrible girl in all of third grade" (Courtesy of Glen and Karen Bledsoe's Writing for Children website http://www.gkbledsoe.com/articles/process/prompts.html.)
Imogene Hornwinkle was the meanest, nastiest, most horrible girl in all of third grade.
I would know because she was also my best friend.
How could this be, you ask? How could a girl as sweet as me be friends with such a monster, a girl who, the first day we met, popped the head off of my favorite Barbie doll and flushed it down the toilet? A girl who hides dead bugs in her desk just so she can toss them down the shirt of the nearest unsuspecting bystander? A girl who purposely dives into the mud in protest of the dress her mom made her wear that day, and then blames me for pushing her?
I don't know how it happened.
I had never even talked to Imogene except to tell her to leave me alone and yes, she could have the cookie from my lunch, just please don't cut my hair with those scissors. But that day, the pretty girls in class--Brittany McDonald, Clare Durphy, and Shirley Wolster--clustered around my lunch table, intent on making me their victim because Clare hadn't known what "illiterate" meant when the teacher asked her, and I had raised my hand and given the correct definition.
"Nice dress, Janie," Shirley said in a sing-song voice. "You must like it, since you wear it everyday."
"I have a word for you," Clare hissed. "Do you know what 'dork' means?"
Brittany laughed. "Yeah, or 'loser'? Or 'ugly'?"
I sank further and further into my chair, wishing I could disappear entirely. I imagined they would keep making fun of me until I laid my head down and cried, and even then, but just as their jeers were cutting deep, I heard another voice. When I saw Imogene pushing her way through my three tormentors, I was sure she was coming to join in the fun.
To my surprise, she turned on Brittany. "Who are you calling ugly, Buckteeth?"
Brittany started, then scowled. "Imogene Hornwinkle, you..."
But Imogene was turning her attention to Clare. "And you. Janie can't help it that she's smarter than you. Everyone is. Maybe you should start reading the dictionary."
"What would you know about it, Imogene?" Shirley sneered. "You failed last week's spelling test."
"On purpose," Imogene bragged, smirking. "And besides, you didn't see me making fun of Janie just because I failed and she didn't. That's stupid. Oh, but I like your dress."
Shirley smiled. "Thank you."
"But I think it needs something..." That's when we realized Imogene was holding something behind her back. Before Shirley knew what hit her, she was wearing the remnants of Imogene's lunch--mashed potatoes and peas in her hair, chocolate milk all over the front of her dress, yogurt dribbling down her arms. With a shriek she dashed toward the bathroom, followed closely by Clare and Brittany.
Imogene placed her now-empty tray on the table and took a seat next to me. I just stared at her, my mouth hanging open in awe.
"Shut your trap, Janie. You look like a fish."
I closed my mouth quickly, then mumbled, "Thank you."
She either didn't hear me or pretended not to. "I didn't finish my lunch. Give me your cookie."
"But..."
"Do it or I'll break your arm."
I handed her the cookie.
We were best friends from then on.
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Thursday, July 7, 2011
No Pain, No Gain
After my most recent braces-adjustment, my teeth hurt almost as bad as they did when I first got my braces on. At lunchtime I went to bite into my juicy, delicious hamburger and...couldn't. I had to cut it up into bite-sized pieces and chew very slowly lest my teeth clamp together too hard and send pain shooting through my mouth.
At first I was frustrated that I have to experience this soreness all over again, but after a while my frustration yielded to gratitude. I am glad my teeth hurt. It means my braces are doing their job and my teeth are straightening. If they didn't hurt, they would probably still be crooked and all this awkward metal in my mouth would be for nothing.
So bring on the pain! I mean, in little, managable doses, please. That I can subdue with some Tylenol.
I think it's the same with life. Pain is necessary for us to become everything Heavenly Father sees in us. It hurts, and we don't like it, but if we never experienced it, how would we progress? We would never be happy because we wouldn't know what it felt like not to be happy. We would never feel the stretch in our souls as we rise to meet our challenges, the sweet satisfaction of overcoming, that quiet peace that comes in the midst of our pain "which passeth all understanding."
This life is a chance for us to grow, learn, and become more like our Heavenly Father. Pain is a necessary component in teaching us those lessons.
But Heavenly Father doesn't just throw pain our way and watch us squirm. He loves us too much for that. He's given us a Savior who, through the Atonement, has experienced every kind of pain possible, much more than any of us will ever have to suffer. He can comfort us, strengthen us, heal us, and hold us. And He will. If we just turn to Him.
And let's not forget that, between the pain, Heavenly Father gives us exquisite moments of happiness, moments when the curtain is lifted just a bit and we get a glimpse of heaven, a reminder of all that can be ours when the pain is done.
Not that we should all jump up and down and wish for pain. But at least, when it comes, we can remember that it is not without purpose.
Braces: They straighten your teeth and teach you life lessons.
I'm going to go slurp some applesauce now,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
At first I was frustrated that I have to experience this soreness all over again, but after a while my frustration yielded to gratitude. I am glad my teeth hurt. It means my braces are doing their job and my teeth are straightening. If they didn't hurt, they would probably still be crooked and all this awkward metal in my mouth would be for nothing.
So bring on the pain! I mean, in little, managable doses, please. That I can subdue with some Tylenol.
I think it's the same with life. Pain is necessary for us to become everything Heavenly Father sees in us. It hurts, and we don't like it, but if we never experienced it, how would we progress? We would never be happy because we wouldn't know what it felt like not to be happy. We would never feel the stretch in our souls as we rise to meet our challenges, the sweet satisfaction of overcoming, that quiet peace that comes in the midst of our pain "which passeth all understanding."
This life is a chance for us to grow, learn, and become more like our Heavenly Father. Pain is a necessary component in teaching us those lessons.
But Heavenly Father doesn't just throw pain our way and watch us squirm. He loves us too much for that. He's given us a Savior who, through the Atonement, has experienced every kind of pain possible, much more than any of us will ever have to suffer. He can comfort us, strengthen us, heal us, and hold us. And He will. If we just turn to Him.
And let's not forget that, between the pain, Heavenly Father gives us exquisite moments of happiness, moments when the curtain is lifted just a bit and we get a glimpse of heaven, a reminder of all that can be ours when the pain is done.
Not that we should all jump up and down and wish for pain. But at least, when it comes, we can remember that it is not without purpose.
Braces: They straighten your teeth and teach you life lessons.
I'm going to go slurp some applesauce now,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Dance, Dance, Dance
Confession: I LOVE "So You Think You Can Dance." Last week, this dance made me melt into gooshy romantic goo.
And this one made me feel all deep and moved.
Man, I wish I could dance.
Does polka-ing in the living room with my baby count? Or slow-dancing in the kitchen with my husband?
That's the only kind of dancing I do.
If I am ever able to capture it on video, I will share Baby Brown Eyes' dancing skills with you. He dances like me, with one exception. He looks cute while he's doing it.
I just look like a dork.
But I won't let that stop me.
Can't wait to watch tonight's episode,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
And this one made me feel all deep and moved.
Man, I wish I could dance.
Does polka-ing in the living room with my baby count? Or slow-dancing in the kitchen with my husband?
That's the only kind of dancing I do.
If I am ever able to capture it on video, I will share Baby Brown Eyes' dancing skills with you. He dances like me, with one exception. He looks cute while he's doing it.
I just look like a dork.
But I won't let that stop me.
Can't wait to watch tonight's episode,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
Writing Prompt Wednesday #6
Today's prompt:
Describe the lifeguard. Why does he (or she) take an axe to the oak tree? Write your story in five minutes.
Describe the lifeguard. Why does he (or she) take an axe to the oak tree? Write your story in five minutes.
(Reprinted by permission all rights reserved (c) C.M. Mayo "Giant Golden Buddha and 364 More 5 Minute Writing Exercises www.cmmayo.com/d5mwe.html)
His name was Chip. He had deeply tanned, golden skin and blond, almost bleached hair that he liked to keep short and spiked. He pretended to be tough, ripping off his tank-top in front of the bikini-clad girls and showing off his firm pecs and rippled abs. But he was really a big softie inside. He like poetry and cried whenever he watched "A River Runs Through It."
He went out into his parents' backyard one morning to find a tiny baby bird dead on the ground. It had fallen out of its nest in the leafy oak tree. This was not the first crime the oak tree committed. When Chip was three he fell out of the tree and broke his arm. When he was 14 he carved his initials in the tree's trunk next to the initials of his dream girl, and she promptly dumped him. Then, just last year, a branch from the old tree had broken off and landed directly on his brand-new motorcycle. The baby bird was the last straw. The tree had to go.
Don't mess with Chip,
The Brown-Eyed Girl
The Brown-Eyed Girl
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