I fell asleep on the couch last night. Waking up to a tap, tap, tap on my shoulder, there stood my 16 year old.
My husband was nowhere in sight.
The chicken.
He refuses to wake me when I fall asleep for fear of what I will say to him. More correctly ~ how I will say it.
I stumbled to the kitchen which was still a mess after dinner. I shoveled all the dirty stuff into the sink, brushed my teeth and fell into bed next to the sleeping chicken.
Sound familiar?
Lots of us are falling asleep not remembering what was on the television.
Working my way through 2 Thessalonians, I’ve made it to the third chapter. I’m reading all of Paul’s letters in chronological order. (Because I have absolutely nothing to do.) Galations was first, then the two he penned to the church in Thessalonica. The city was founded by Cassander, one of Alexander the Great’s army officers.
He named it after his wife, Alexander’s half sister.
Thessalonica. I like it a lot. It’s a good thing I’m done acquiring children. Now that I found out it’s a proper name, I would have named a daughter such.
Tess. Alright, I threw out the “h” ~ but Thess just sounds ridiculous. Looks like it should be in some Dr. Suess book.
Not like Thessalonica. Which I love.
(I have completely and totally wandered off point here, but will leave this in risking my credibility as a decent writer ~ because I love the name Thessalonica so much.)
THE POINT of this post.
I read “Do no weary in doing good” this morning. 2 Thessalonians 3:13.
Don’t weary in doing good. Paul loved that church…and that’s what he told them. He knew what it was to be weary living the gospel when everything around him screamed different. The television, the Internet, the women at the temple of Dionysius whose togas left nothing to the imagination.
We all get weary sometimes.
The smallest action of good is a victory. Sometimes that’s all we can muster… a bitty action of good.
If you are weary today, I wish you rest.
I think Thessalonica the perfect name for a cat ~ don’t you?
Sometimes it’s hard to believe so much time has past. For me and those darn brothers from Utah.
The best part is the audience. Now granted they aren’t sitting behind tables eating like those Partridge Family concerts. (And I use the term concert very loosely.)
Take the girl on the edge on left of stage in white blouse. She didn’t move a muscle.
Her head didn’t swivel as they walked out. Her eyes didn’t even move….Was she human? Those were the Osmonds circa 1970 for pity’s sake. Maybe the sheer thrill/terror of it all rendered her paralyzed.
Too funny…At least they clapped. I don’t remember if she was able to clap. That would be sure sign of paralysis for no one in 1971 sitting on front row of Flip Wilson audience would dare be so rude.
Lip-syncing never looked so cool. Hey, I just figured out who I’m dressing as for Halloween.
Lemonade stands. The last bastion of childhood entrepreneurs everywhere.
I never had much luck with them. Guess that’s why I didn’t pursue a degree in business.
First you have to manufacture the product. Market it. Then sell the heck out of it.
My daughter had begged to have a stand for weeks. She had a friend over this weekend so I let them run with it. Giving them the go ahead was like waving a red cape before the bulls charging into Madrid’s Plaza de Toros de Las Ventas.
Alright. They look innocent enough. But behind those demure smiles beat the hearts of Steve Jobs and Sam Walton. My son the artist looked at their success and started making braclets to sell. They didn’t sell.
But those girls moved the lemonade.
I got them started by mixing up a gallon of Crystal Light. That was all I had but thought surely that will hold them for an hour.
Five seconds. I double pinky swear. It only took five seconds for the first car to pull up.
I looked. And I looked again. There was someone out there.
Michelle Robinette ~ first customer..
Then another car stopped. Then another.
Kathryn Cardwell and Mary Claire.
Fifteen minutes and the gallon was gone. I gave them a jug of lemonade made a few days ago that was in the fridge while I ran to the store.
I went back another time for more cups and ice.
I finally had to drag them in after 5 p.m. ~ three hours after they poured that first glass.
They made over 40 dollars and donated over half to the church.
The only piece of advice I gave them was sell low. They did and sweet people paid high.
That’s the beauty of a small town. And a killer location.
Things were on schedule the first day to get out the door on time. Then I remembered to take a picture.
Isn’t that covered in the How To Be a Parent With No Regrets Handbook?
Always photograph your child on the first day of school.
Here are the two little ones before we hopped in the car.
Joe picked this location and wanted to be hugging the little tree. (A little fir that miraculously escaped death this summer from the heat after looking as if he had been singed by some ferocious forest fire.)
Two things are evident in this picture. They genuinely seem happy about school starting and they dressed themselves. Don’t they devote an entire chapter on that in the How To Be a Parent With No Regrets Handbook?
Notice the beach chairs. I have yet to put them in the garage after returning from the beach this weekend. Laziness? Could be…but more likely a silent statement that even though school might be in session on the calendar, I refuse to give in on summer yet. I’ll show them. (Who, I’m not exactly sure. Not like I can stop the earth from tilting on it’s axis away from the sun — but I can still protest.)
Then here is our 16 year old leaving yesterday morning.
He has that racing-away-from-the-paparazzi look.
I clearly told him to wait for me to get my camera. At that point, he started to run.
So there you have it…Snap away while you can.
Another school year has begun.
Next year I’ll try the sports action mode on my camera.
I’m not signing up for a marathon this season. (Personal decision maybe to be explained in later post.)
There are a few half marathons this fall/winter — just signed up for today. The Atlanta 13.1. Where the party meets the pavement or at least that’s what they advertise. We’ll see…..
No triathlons this summer.
I needed a goal.
After much careful thought and prayer, I decided the next focus of my life should be:
to do a split again after 20 years.
I used to be very flexible as most people under four decades are.
But age and the constant pounding of the running I love so much has made me one very tight rubber band.
Bill Rodgers, the great marathoner and part-time flake, said that for the masters athlete stretching is almost important as continuing in your sport.
“Yes, it’s true you don’t see racehorses stretch. You also don’t see racehorses sit behind a desk eight hours a day, or run on asphalt, or run after being sedentary for the previous 40 years. I don’t see racehorses eating spaghetti either, but that doesn’t mean runners shouldn’t. So maybe when we’re all bred solely to run fast and spend our days trotting around dirt tracks, we can forego stretching. In the meantime, all runners, at least of the human variety, should stretch.” The Complete Idiot’s Guide To Running ~ Bill Rodgers
Since most definitely, either literally or figuratively, I am not a racehorse — I shall stretch.
Stretch my way to a split.
So starting today, August 3, 2010 I am on a quest to do a split once again. We shall see how long it takes.
I’ll even post an after picture as proof. (For I certainly won’t be doing it in public.)
And no before pics. It may come as a surprise but I do still have a shred of self respect.
I have been very, very neglectful of my blog. Not intentionally mind you. In mid-July, life just put on Rollerblades.
I’ve been trying desperately to stay upright. Though I did take a nasty spill while running last week at Sandestin. My goofy left foot didn’t clear a slight bump.
For so many years, a group of Madison residents have made it down there in late August to race the Sandestin Triathlon.
Don’t think I’m going to make it this year. But when Joe Cardwell forwarded this Youtube link to a video he put together, I had to share.
If I can do these triathlon things, anyone can. So pick a race and get swimming, biking and running…and remember to keep smiling.
Long live the Cotton-Patch. Hope I’ll be out there next year.
And the last part really is the E Untold Story. And Joe, whatever you did to my husband’s hair — thank you.
