By now, we all know the tragic story of Robin Williams ending his own life. It's...man, it's hard to think about.
"He was so funny! His life was great! He was rich! He always looked so happy!"
Did you have any of those thoughts when you heard the news?
I admit, shamefully, that my first instinct was to think that way.
Because we don't know the personal struggles he was going through. Sure, we knew he battled depression and addictions, but we couldn't possibly know how it was consuming his life.
Or were your thoughts more along these lines:
"I would NEVER do that. How selfish of him. Depression isn't that bad...he didn't have to end his life because of it."
If I may say this: how dare you? HOW DARE YOU??
What right do you have to judge and point fingers when you don't know the whole situation? (By the way, this applies to all of life.)
Oh, it's easier that way though, isn't it? To stand back and whisper and shake our heads sadly, while saying to ourselves and our friends that we're glad it isn't us or anyone we personally know.
I can guarantee you...and I'm completely confident in this...that every person reading this knows someone who deals with depression.
Who's considered suicide or maybe even attempted suicide.
And I can just as confidently promise you that you are the last person they'll tell, if your first reaction was to judge.
Why?
Because they've seen your heart and know you're full of judgment.
And that's the last thing they need.
Maybe you're telling yourself that I'm wrong and no one in your life is depressed.
Don't kid yourself, okay? Please don't be that ignorant.
Everyone you know has things in their past that you know nothing about and that they likely have buried under years of hiding it and pretending it doesn't exist.
But it's there and it eats at them.
So they put up walls, hide under protective shells, wear masks, all in the attempt to keep it together for ONE more day.
It's heartbreaking.
I know several people who've lost someone to suicide.
So, of course, I walked up to them and said, "How selfish of them. I just can't believe it. So how are you doing with all this?"
Yeah, no. Didn't do that, will never do that. Because why should we heap guilt on anyone who's dealing with that? A better way to ask that is: What RIGHT do we have to do that? They've just gone through a terrible loss that they're probably already feeling guilt over. They're most likely already going over all scenarios and trying to think of what they should've done differently.
Don't add to that. Don't be that person.
What they need now, most of all, is love and grace.
They need to know that you're there for them, regardless.
That you care.
That you won't speak poorly of any decisions made.
Above all, that you won't pass judgment.
And people who are going through depression?
They also need love and grace.
They need to know that you aren't going to abandon them.
That you'll sit with them, even if neither one of you talks at all.
That if they do talk, you'll listen.
They need to be loved by you the way Jesus would love them.
And He would.
He would sit and listen.
Listen and love.
Love and cry with them.
Hold them while they cried.
Let them know it's safe to trust Him.
Are you safe to trust?
If you're depressed or have suicidal thoughts, please know there's no shame in it. There are real, genuine people who care and want to help.
I'm one of them.
Because this is so important to me, here are some resources if you need someone to talk to:
http://brokenbelievers.com/247-crisis-lines/
http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org
1-800-273-TALK (8255)
Remember: You're valuable, you're loved, and you matter.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Accepting Love
Charlie: Why do nice people choose the wrong people to date?
Bill: Are we talking about anyone specific?
Charlie: Yes.
Bill: Well, we accept the love we think we deserve.
Charlie: Can we make them know that they deserve more?
Bill: We can try.
(The Perks of Being a Wallflower)
I love this conversation.
As much as it breaks my heart, I love it.
Because, how true is it?
(And I believe this applies/can apply to all areas of life, not just dating.)
Think about this:
There are people who don't accept love. They don't know how to.
They want to, but...can't.
Sounds crazy, doesn't it?
They've spent so much time having to earn love and always falling short that they assume any genuine act of love...isn't genuine.
They see it either as an obligation or a duty.
Have you ever met someone who didn't think they were worth anything?
Who degraded themselves?
Who let people walk all over them and manipulate them?
Who constantly put themselves down, because that's what's been done to them?
Who kept searching for love and never seemed to find it?
Maybe you know someone like that right now.
Maybe YOU are that someone.
If you do know someone like that, I hope they'll realize how valuable they are and that they learn to accept love.
If you are the one who has a hard time accepting love, I hope you'll learn to surround yourself with real, genuine, loving people who will help you.
Do I have the answer of how to accept love?
No. I'm attempting to figure it out for myself, in my own life.
But I've been learning and will keep trying, as painful and frustrating as it can be.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
Bowling and the Flu
When I was a kid, from the ages of 10-13, I believe, my family and I would go to family camp at Pillsbury Baptist Bible College.
During the day, and especially since I was younger, we got to do the fun stuff: field trips, fun activities, going off campus to different locations (all code phrases for field trips). Our leaders were twin sisters who were a TON of fun and awesome at finding great ways to kill time in between activities.
One day, the activity was bowling. I've never really cared for bowling, but there was no way I'd get out of going...not that I was going to try to. I hadn't reached my rebellious phase yet, plus I had a healthy fear of authority and of making people mad (okay, so anyone who knew/knows me knows that only came/comes sporadically).
That day, however, I woke up with a terrible pain in my stomach (I would later learn it was something called the stomach flu, which I didn't remember ever having before), so I had even less of a desire to eat, ride in a crowded, loud van, talk to people, bowl, or do anything that didn't involve laying perfectly still. I didn't get sick often, so I didn't know how to handle the pain I was feeling. And that's either because I got sick big time when I was a kid (scarlet fever and chicken pox were the main ones), so my immune system was hardcore, or because I was kept in a bubble and away from all germs and bacteria. I don't remember ever being confined like that, so I guess I'm gonna have to go with the first option.
On the way to the bowling alley, I remember sitting in the van as close to the window as I could. I just sat with my cheek pressed against the glass, trying desperately not to move at all.
You know the feeling right before you need to throw up?
All the saliva that suddenly just FLOODS your mouth?
Yeah, I wasn't used to that and didn't realize what it meant, so I just kept swallowing frantically because I thought that's what you're supposed to do. Also because I thought it meant I was dying and I didn't want to die that day (to be clear: I still don't know how to handle that).
So we got there and I don't remember doing any bowling at all. I sat very still, without moving, on one of those impossibly uncomfortable twirly chairs. The field trip took about 17 years, it felt. (I don't remember enough about anything else we did there, except bowl. So that's all I have to say about it.)
17 years later, we left...only to go to a restaurant. McDonald's, probably. It was such a torturous trip! I just wanted to go to bed!
Finally.
Finally.
Finally.
We got back to campus.
I don't remember saying anything to anyone, I just booked it back to my dorm room so I could lay down.
I climbed up onto the top bunk (which, in hindsight, I shouldn't have done), laid down, then promptly leaned over and threw up onto the floor.
Then I fell asleep.
My mom came in the room after their session or activity or date or musical dance number (I have no idea what the adults did during the day), took one look at the floor and said, "Oh, EMILY! This is so gross!" (I don't remember her exact words...)
Then she got a mop and cleaned it up.
And I was back to the field trips/fun activities/going off campus to different locations by the next day.
It was just like a fairy tale!
Just kidding, it sucked, and having the stomach flu is the worst.
But I'm a survivor.
During the day, and especially since I was younger, we got to do the fun stuff: field trips, fun activities, going off campus to different locations (all code phrases for field trips). Our leaders were twin sisters who were a TON of fun and awesome at finding great ways to kill time in between activities.
One day, the activity was bowling. I've never really cared for bowling, but there was no way I'd get out of going...not that I was going to try to. I hadn't reached my rebellious phase yet, plus I had a healthy fear of authority and of making people mad (okay, so anyone who knew/knows me knows that only came/comes sporadically).
That day, however, I woke up with a terrible pain in my stomach (I would later learn it was something called the stomach flu, which I didn't remember ever having before), so I had even less of a desire to eat, ride in a crowded, loud van, talk to people, bowl, or do anything that didn't involve laying perfectly still. I didn't get sick often, so I didn't know how to handle the pain I was feeling. And that's either because I got sick big time when I was a kid (scarlet fever and chicken pox were the main ones), so my immune system was hardcore, or because I was kept in a bubble and away from all germs and bacteria. I don't remember ever being confined like that, so I guess I'm gonna have to go with the first option.
On the way to the bowling alley, I remember sitting in the van as close to the window as I could. I just sat with my cheek pressed against the glass, trying desperately not to move at all.
You know the feeling right before you need to throw up?
All the saliva that suddenly just FLOODS your mouth?
Yeah, I wasn't used to that and didn't realize what it meant, so I just kept swallowing frantically because I thought that's what you're supposed to do. Also because I thought it meant I was dying and I didn't want to die that day (to be clear: I still don't know how to handle that).
So we got there and I don't remember doing any bowling at all. I sat very still, without moving, on one of those impossibly uncomfortable twirly chairs. The field trip took about 17 years, it felt. (I don't remember enough about anything else we did there, except bowl. So that's all I have to say about it.)
17 years later, we left...only to go to a restaurant. McDonald's, probably. It was such a torturous trip! I just wanted to go to bed!
Finally.
Finally.
Finally.
We got back to campus.
I don't remember saying anything to anyone, I just booked it back to my dorm room so I could lay down.
I climbed up onto the top bunk (which, in hindsight, I shouldn't have done), laid down, then promptly leaned over and threw up onto the floor.
Then I fell asleep.
My mom came in the room after their session or activity or date or musical dance number (I have no idea what the adults did during the day), took one look at the floor and said, "Oh, EMILY! This is so gross!" (I don't remember her exact words...)
Then she got a mop and cleaned it up.
And I was back to the field trips/fun activities/going off campus to different locations by the next day.
It was just like a fairy tale!
Just kidding, it sucked, and having the stomach flu is the worst.
But I'm a survivor.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Masks and Walls
It's so easy to hide who we really are.
My question is, why do we do it? When we realize the freedom that comes with being honest with ourselves and others, why keep hiding?
Because being vulnerable is, in a word, TERRIFYING.
It's so, so scary to tell someone we trust that all isn't as it seems. That our life isn't as neat and tidy as the image we work so hard to project. That, to be honest, we wear many masks and build up many walls so we can protect ourselves and hide and keep ourselves "safe."
And what a very lonely life that is. I know, because I've been realizing how alone I feel, trying so hard to distance myself from the people I care about and who care about me.
But I can't keep living that way.
No one can keep living that way!
We NEED community and to know we aren't alone with our fears and doubts!
With that realization, I've been working hard (with the help of many phenomenal friends) to take off those masks and break down my walls; to get rid of the barriers and to embrace the freedom that comes with accepting love and grace, both from Jesus and from the people He's put in my life.
It isn't easy.
It's a daily fight to stop believing lies.
And it's excruciatingly difficult to change my mindset and learn how to accept what they're saying as truth.
But I won't give up.
Because masks and walls and being alone just aren't worth it.
(Ps, listen to this absolutely beautiful song: Able)
My question is, why do we do it? When we realize the freedom that comes with being honest with ourselves and others, why keep hiding?
Because being vulnerable is, in a word, TERRIFYING.
It's so, so scary to tell someone we trust that all isn't as it seems. That our life isn't as neat and tidy as the image we work so hard to project. That, to be honest, we wear many masks and build up many walls so we can protect ourselves and hide and keep ourselves "safe."
And what a very lonely life that is. I know, because I've been realizing how alone I feel, trying so hard to distance myself from the people I care about and who care about me.
But I can't keep living that way.
No one can keep living that way!
We NEED community and to know we aren't alone with our fears and doubts!
With that realization, I've been working hard (with the help of many phenomenal friends) to take off those masks and break down my walls; to get rid of the barriers and to embrace the freedom that comes with accepting love and grace, both from Jesus and from the people He's put in my life.
It isn't easy.
It's a daily fight to stop believing lies.
And it's excruciatingly difficult to change my mindset and learn how to accept what they're saying as truth.
But I won't give up.
Because masks and walls and being alone just aren't worth it.
(Ps, listen to this absolutely beautiful song: Able)
Saturday, June 28, 2014
The Rottweiler
When my family and I first moved to Kansas City, we used to explore our neighborhood a TON through taking our dogs on walks. We would often be gone for hours because that was when my mom was big on looking for dropped, forgotten coins, (and sometimes dollar bills) so it worked out that we were homeschooled. (That was just about the nerdiest sentence I've ever written.)
One particularly fine day, we were wandering around, looking for money/walking the dogs. Heidi and I were on one side of the street with Riley and Mom and Rachel were on the other side with Kacee. Let me note: we have small dogs. Riley is a shihtzu, Kacee is a terrier-poodle mix. Neither of them realize how small they are.
We were passing a house that had a fairly large dog on a leash, barking loudly and ferociously, which made us both SO glad it couldn't get at us.
Right after we passed that house, right after we finished saying we were glad leashes were invented, right after the last waves of relief washed over us, we saw it. Trotting towards us from across the street.
A Rottweiler.
Alone.
WE PANICKED.
Heidi picked up Riley, who didn't immediately know what was going on, and turned her back to the dog from The Sandlot. I was frozen, not at all knowing what to do to protect us from the huge, silent dog coming at us.
It picked up its pace, heading straight for Heidi and Riley, which made Heidi start panicking even more (obviously) and she then held our tiny dog over the fence of the yard that was closest to us. (Not the one with the huge, barking, leashed dog) That was when Riley realized what was going on, so he was barking and squirming, trying to get at the monster dog.
The Rottweiler walked right up to Heidi, still not barking or making ANY noise, (and that was somehow more terrifying than if it was barking or growling, because we didn't have a clue what to expect) so Heidi started screaming and I started frantically trying to figure out what I was going to do to protect my sister and my dog. (It all happened so fast, I couldn't even grasp what was happening!)
Then it put its dinner plate-sized front paws on Heidi's back, so Heidi was bent over double, still screaming, still trying to hold Riley over her head.
The Rottweiler leaned forward, smelled Riley, then got back on all fours and walked back home.
That was it.
It didn't make a single sound, didn't hurt us, didn't do anything except try to make a new friend.
Heidi and I were both so relieved and shaken, we sat down on the curb and started laughing. The picture in my head of her having a Rottweiler on her back is one of my favorite things ever...it's right up there with her floating in the air when I pulled the rug out from underneath her.
The point of this story is, we survived; and not all Rottweilers are vicious attack dogs, waiting to kill! (But I guess that was proven in The Sandlot.)
One particularly fine day, we were wandering around, looking for money/walking the dogs. Heidi and I were on one side of the street with Riley and Mom and Rachel were on the other side with Kacee. Let me note: we have small dogs. Riley is a shihtzu, Kacee is a terrier-poodle mix. Neither of them realize how small they are.
We were passing a house that had a fairly large dog on a leash, barking loudly and ferociously, which made us both SO glad it couldn't get at us.
Right after we passed that house, right after we finished saying we were glad leashes were invented, right after the last waves of relief washed over us, we saw it. Trotting towards us from across the street.
A Rottweiler.
Alone.
WE PANICKED.
Heidi picked up Riley, who didn't immediately know what was going on, and turned her back to the dog from The Sandlot. I was frozen, not at all knowing what to do to protect us from the huge, silent dog coming at us.
It picked up its pace, heading straight for Heidi and Riley, which made Heidi start panicking even more (obviously) and she then held our tiny dog over the fence of the yard that was closest to us. (Not the one with the huge, barking, leashed dog) That was when Riley realized what was going on, so he was barking and squirming, trying to get at the monster dog.
The Rottweiler walked right up to Heidi, still not barking or making ANY noise, (and that was somehow more terrifying than if it was barking or growling, because we didn't have a clue what to expect) so Heidi started screaming and I started frantically trying to figure out what I was going to do to protect my sister and my dog. (It all happened so fast, I couldn't even grasp what was happening!)
Then it put its dinner plate-sized front paws on Heidi's back, so Heidi was bent over double, still screaming, still trying to hold Riley over her head.
The Rottweiler leaned forward, smelled Riley, then got back on all fours and walked back home.
That was it.
It didn't make a single sound, didn't hurt us, didn't do anything except try to make a new friend.
Heidi and I were both so relieved and shaken, we sat down on the curb and started laughing. The picture in my head of her having a Rottweiler on her back is one of my favorite things ever...it's right up there with her floating in the air when I pulled the rug out from underneath her.
The point of this story is, we survived; and not all Rottweilers are vicious attack dogs, waiting to kill! (But I guess that was proven in The Sandlot.)
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Monster Spider
As most of you know, I'm a nanny to 2 of the craziest, slightly psychotic little boys on the planet. Finn and Declan. 6 and 2. (I am also crazy and slightly psychotic, so it's a good match. The fights are usually pretty fair.)
I am NOT a fan of bugs of any kind. At all. I don't even like having to touch them through 7 layers of kleenex. It's just gross, okay? What I'm trying to say is, I always made Finn do the bug killing back in Kansas City. He didn't like it...but I was the boss, so he didn't have a choice. (It builds character. Stop complaining.)
The bug killing was different every time.
One time, I handed him a shoe and lifted him up so he could reach the bug above the door.
Sometimes it was both of us throwing things at it from across the room. It was kind of a game, except one we both didn't want to play and also our lives were in jeopardy. (Walk a mile in my shoes and THEN tell me I'm wrong about that)
There were even a couple times where we would show them to Declan (The harmless ones! Calm down!) and he would end up playing with them to death.
Just a lot of good, clean fun!
This one day in particular, though, I was picking up towels in the bathroom and there, nestled snugly inside, RIGHT NEXT TO MY HAND, was a monster spider. If I had to guess...I'd say it was roughly the size of a small child. Roughly. My guess might be off, though, because I threw it and ran away screaming. It all happened so fast!
Naturally, I called Finn to come save my life.
Now, as I said before, he usually hated having to kill the bugs for me. But for some reason, he was SUPER excited to take care of it this time. I don't know what changed, but what happened next was one of the funniest things I'd seen him do up to that point:
He came running in, super pumped up with crazy eyes, shoe in hand, and started smashing the spider over and over. At least 20 times. All while screaming like a warrior.
Then he grabbed some toilet paper, picked the mangled spider corpse up, threw his fist in the air...
And did a victory lap around the house with the spider over his head, yelling triumphantly.
I actually had to chase him down and make him throw it away!
I'm not even kidding when I say: That day, that kid was my hero.
I am NOT a fan of bugs of any kind. At all. I don't even like having to touch them through 7 layers of kleenex. It's just gross, okay? What I'm trying to say is, I always made Finn do the bug killing back in Kansas City. He didn't like it...but I was the boss, so he didn't have a choice. (It builds character. Stop complaining.)
The bug killing was different every time.
One time, I handed him a shoe and lifted him up so he could reach the bug above the door.
Sometimes it was both of us throwing things at it from across the room. It was kind of a game, except one we both didn't want to play and also our lives were in jeopardy. (Walk a mile in my shoes and THEN tell me I'm wrong about that)
There were even a couple times where we would show them to Declan (The harmless ones! Calm down!) and he would end up playing with them to death.
Just a lot of good, clean fun!
This one day in particular, though, I was picking up towels in the bathroom and there, nestled snugly inside, RIGHT NEXT TO MY HAND, was a monster spider. If I had to guess...I'd say it was roughly the size of a small child. Roughly. My guess might be off, though, because I threw it and ran away screaming. It all happened so fast!
Naturally, I called Finn to come save my life.
Now, as I said before, he usually hated having to kill the bugs for me. But for some reason, he was SUPER excited to take care of it this time. I don't know what changed, but what happened next was one of the funniest things I'd seen him do up to that point:
He came running in, super pumped up with crazy eyes, shoe in hand, and started smashing the spider over and over. At least 20 times. All while screaming like a warrior.
Then he grabbed some toilet paper, picked the mangled spider corpse up, threw his fist in the air...
And did a victory lap around the house with the spider over his head, yelling triumphantly.
I actually had to chase him down and make him throw it away!
I'm not even kidding when I say: That day, that kid was my hero.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Cookies
Last August before my sister headed back to college, we decided to have a girl's night. I was going to help her finish packing, then we were going to make cookies and watch a movie.
We got her car all loaded up and set to work making some super delicious chocolate chip cookies. Yum!
Now, the most successful cooks...and anyone with a brain...check their ingredient supply before they get started. We may have been a little overly confident (that's a key word in this story) with our cookie making skills though, because we completely blew that off.
Heidi got all the supplies and ingredients and we started measuring and mixing. Everything was going smoothly until we realized we didn't have any brown sugar. (I'd say it went downhill from there, but it pretty much immediately started going downhill, right off the bat.)
We Googled how to substitute for brown sugar, and thankfully we had what we needed to do it! I started measuring the molasses (which is an insanely slow and pain-staking process) and had only done one tablespoon when Heidi knocked my hand away and confidently picked up the molasses bottle.
Heidi: I've got this.
Me: Are you sure? It might be better if we just measure it...
Heidi: No, no. I've done this plenty of times before. Just start measuring the sugar or something.
And before I could stop her, she turned the bottle over and without hesitating, started squeezing molasses into the bowl.
Confidently. Oh, so confidently.
Me: Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don't you think that's enough?? Heidi, you should maybe stop now!
Heidi: Don't worry. I'm really good at guessing amounts. (She's always so confident!)
Me: Okay, if you're sure...
Heidi: *Looks at me dead in the eye with this weird, confident look in her eye, which freaked me out and shut me up*
Me: Yep, you've got this.
She finally decided there was enough molasses in the bowl. We added everything else and stirred it all up. She tasted some of it and the look on her face didn't give me much hope.
Me: How is it?
Heidi: Hmmm...I think there's something wrong with the recipe...
Me: What? Let me taste it...
Heidi: Well?
Me: Definitely too much molasses. That's disgusting.
Heidi: Oh crap. What should we do??
(At this point, she didn't really care what I thought. She just started throwing more flour, sugar, etc. into the bowl, willy nilly. What started as a single batch turned into a triple batch.)
We stirred it some more...and...
Heidi: Nope. Still gross.
That's when I decided to help out. I knew we needed to have something to help lessen the taste of molasses...but what?
Oatmeal! So I threw some of that in there...and it was STILL gross.
Peanut butter, maybe? Why not? (At this point we were super desperate and ready to be done with these cookies.)
Finally, with the combination of peanut butter and oatmeal, the molasses wasn't as noticeable. To be clear, they were still not good. AT ALL. But they were tolerable.
We baked them, watched our movie in bits and pieces, and tried to force down the occasional cookie.
What started off as a single batch of chocolate chip cookies was now a triple batch of molasses/oatmeal/peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies.
That were gross. (I mean, awful. No one even pretended to like them. They weren't even fake nice about it.)
That my dad didn't even like. (Which says a WHOLE lot about how they tasted.)
That stayed in the freezer for a long, long time. (I think Rachel's the only one who liked them.)
That didn't end up going to college with Heidi. (I can't really blame her!)
What did I learn from this? Basically...to NOT let Heidi deviate from the recipe or have control of substituting ingredients.
And to not make cookies.
Just ever.
We got her car all loaded up and set to work making some super delicious chocolate chip cookies. Yum!
Now, the most successful cooks...and anyone with a brain...check their ingredient supply before they get started. We may have been a little overly confident (that's a key word in this story) with our cookie making skills though, because we completely blew that off.
Heidi got all the supplies and ingredients and we started measuring and mixing. Everything was going smoothly until we realized we didn't have any brown sugar. (I'd say it went downhill from there, but it pretty much immediately started going downhill, right off the bat.)
We Googled how to substitute for brown sugar, and thankfully we had what we needed to do it! I started measuring the molasses (which is an insanely slow and pain-staking process) and had only done one tablespoon when Heidi knocked my hand away and confidently picked up the molasses bottle.
Heidi: I've got this.
Me: Are you sure? It might be better if we just measure it...
Heidi: No, no. I've done this plenty of times before. Just start measuring the sugar or something.
And before I could stop her, she turned the bottle over and without hesitating, started squeezing molasses into the bowl.
Confidently. Oh, so confidently.
Me: Whoa, whoa, whoa! Don't you think that's enough?? Heidi, you should maybe stop now!
Heidi: Don't worry. I'm really good at guessing amounts. (She's always so confident!)
Me: Okay, if you're sure...
Heidi: *Looks at me dead in the eye with this weird, confident look in her eye, which freaked me out and shut me up*
Me: Yep, you've got this.
She finally decided there was enough molasses in the bowl. We added everything else and stirred it all up. She tasted some of it and the look on her face didn't give me much hope.
Me: How is it?
Heidi: Hmmm...I think there's something wrong with the recipe...
Me: What? Let me taste it...
Heidi: Well?
Me: Definitely too much molasses. That's disgusting.
Heidi: Oh crap. What should we do??
(At this point, she didn't really care what I thought. She just started throwing more flour, sugar, etc. into the bowl, willy nilly. What started as a single batch turned into a triple batch.)
We stirred it some more...and...
Heidi: Nope. Still gross.
That's when I decided to help out. I knew we needed to have something to help lessen the taste of molasses...but what?
Oatmeal! So I threw some of that in there...and it was STILL gross.
Peanut butter, maybe? Why not? (At this point we were super desperate and ready to be done with these cookies.)
Finally, with the combination of peanut butter and oatmeal, the molasses wasn't as noticeable. To be clear, they were still not good. AT ALL. But they were tolerable.
We baked them, watched our movie in bits and pieces, and tried to force down the occasional cookie.
What started off as a single batch of chocolate chip cookies was now a triple batch of molasses/oatmeal/peanut butter/chocolate chip cookies.
That were gross. (I mean, awful. No one even pretended to like them. They weren't even fake nice about it.)
That my dad didn't even like. (Which says a WHOLE lot about how they tasted.)
That stayed in the freezer for a long, long time. (I think Rachel's the only one who liked them.)
That didn't end up going to college with Heidi. (I can't really blame her!)
What did I learn from this? Basically...to NOT let Heidi deviate from the recipe or have control of substituting ingredients.
And to not make cookies.
Just ever.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Toilet Paper
Growing up in Minnesota, we lived in a fairly large three-level house. Lots of rooms, our basement was a dungeon, and we had a bathroom on each level. For a family of seven, that last part was especially awesome!
During the time that we lived in that house, my brother and I had a very...well...rocky relationship. We're 6 years apart (roughly), he was a teenager and I was in middle school, we are nearly identical with our personalities, and I was the annoying younger sister who was always following him around. Sometimes he was very, very kind and allowed me to be near him when he would hang out with his friends. This usually meant that I had one job: standing in the outfield, shagging baseballs for him and whoever else was playing. I was given two pitches for every one hundred baseballs I brought back to them.
Not two HITS. Two pitches. If I missed them, too bad! Better luck next time!
Another fun activity he would allow me to be involved in was playing basketball. I use the word "playing" loosely. What he would have me do is stand post and he would work on his spin move. That was it. Me, standing in one spot for hours at a time, while he practiced his layups.
I never questioned it, though. I LOVED spending time with him!
Oh, Adam. We were always either best friends or worst enemies.
One day, I was walking past the basement steps when I heard my brother yelling for my mom. I looked around and didn't see her anywhere, so I kept on walking.
"Mom. Mom. MOM. MOOOOOOOOOM!! I NEED TOILET PAPER!"
Oh man...back up. I didn't know what to do! I couldn't see mom from where I was standing and she didn't hear Adam yelling...so that meant she couldn't help him.
It was really too bad, too, because it's the worst to be stranded with no toilet paper and no one to help you. I've been there myself plenty of times, and it sucks.
You're probably thinking, "Emily, you brought him some toilet paper, right? I mean, you could've easily helped your brother out..."
Yeah, I could've.
But I didn't want to.
So I didn't.
So what did I do then? I checked to make sure no one was watching...and I closed the door and walked away.
Oh, calm down. Keep your shirt on. Someone eventually helped him. It just wasn't me.
Because you know what? Sometimes you're on your own in life.
Somedays you're the pigeon, somedays you're the statue.
During the time that we lived in that house, my brother and I had a very...well...rocky relationship. We're 6 years apart (roughly), he was a teenager and I was in middle school, we are nearly identical with our personalities, and I was the annoying younger sister who was always following him around. Sometimes he was very, very kind and allowed me to be near him when he would hang out with his friends. This usually meant that I had one job: standing in the outfield, shagging baseballs for him and whoever else was playing. I was given two pitches for every one hundred baseballs I brought back to them.
Not two HITS. Two pitches. If I missed them, too bad! Better luck next time!
Another fun activity he would allow me to be involved in was playing basketball. I use the word "playing" loosely. What he would have me do is stand post and he would work on his spin move. That was it. Me, standing in one spot for hours at a time, while he practiced his layups.
I never questioned it, though. I LOVED spending time with him!
Oh, Adam. We were always either best friends or worst enemies.
One day, I was walking past the basement steps when I heard my brother yelling for my mom. I looked around and didn't see her anywhere, so I kept on walking.
"Mom. Mom. MOM. MOOOOOOOOOM!! I NEED TOILET PAPER!"
Oh man...back up. I didn't know what to do! I couldn't see mom from where I was standing and she didn't hear Adam yelling...so that meant she couldn't help him.
It was really too bad, too, because it's the worst to be stranded with no toilet paper and no one to help you. I've been there myself plenty of times, and it sucks.
You're probably thinking, "Emily, you brought him some toilet paper, right? I mean, you could've easily helped your brother out..."
Yeah, I could've.
But I didn't want to.
So I didn't.
So what did I do then? I checked to make sure no one was watching...and I closed the door and walked away.
Oh, calm down. Keep your shirt on. Someone eventually helped him. It just wasn't me.
Because you know what? Sometimes you're on your own in life.
Somedays you're the pigeon, somedays you're the statue.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Public Family Embarrassment (or, Singing in Church)
Before my family and I moved to Kansas City, we traveled around to a bunch of different churches, trying to raise support, as I mentioned once before. Or twice. Details.
We had our service down to a science - from the introductions, to my mom's testimony, to our family song, to my parents' duet, to the power point presentation, to my dad's message.
It all ran fairly smoothly each time. Until the Sunday we decided to not have the music in front of us for the family song.
Let me tell you: you do NOT realize how much you rely on something until it's not there in front of you. It is brutal and super embarrassing and you will never live it down.
Us 3 girls sang the first verse, then my parents dueted (new word) the second verse, then we all sang the last verse together.
It all went downhill by the second line of the first verse.
We started off fine, then Heidi confidently pulled a line from later on in the song and decided to throw it in to the first verse. Rachel and I were stunned. Shocked, even! Did we hear her correctly...? We did!
So of course, I started laughing. Discreetly (yeah, no, there was nothing discreet about it). But I tried to sing through it.
Then Heidi noticed that Rachel was staring at her instead of singing. So Heidi, in front of the church, looked at Rachel and shouted, "SING!"
From that point on, I was useless. I didn't even try to sing anymore.
And by now, we were on the second verse, so I had a bit of time to pull myself together...but I used it to laugh. I couldn't have stopped laughing even if I wanted to.
You know the worst part about laughing in church: YOU CAN'T STOP and there's no such thing as laughing quietly once you start (it's not limited to sitting in a pew. It can apparently affect you on stage, too). No matter what dirty looks your parents give you, how unfunny the situation is (not this one. It was very, very funny.), and regardless of the fact that what happens in church probably wouldn't be funny anywhere else. (Except for this. It would've been funny anywhere, no matter what.)
So there we are. All of us girls laughing. My parents valiantly trying to finish the song. But wait, what's this? My mom's laughing too, now? My dad's finishing the song as a solo? Even better. Let's give these people the show they came for.
By now, the audience was starting to really, really, really enjoy my family. There were a good amount of college students, kids, parents, and old people laughing...
...but the best part, to me, was seeing the pastor.
On the floor.
Laughing.
Not even trying to hide it.
There was one moment where I turned around, away from the audience. I was really trying to pull myself together! Then my dad grabbed my arm and spun me back around (that makes it sound super graceful and beautiful and like a lovely father-daughter moment. It really wasn't. It was a pretty violent, unsettling, angry spin.) which made me laugh EVEN HARDER.
My dad finished the song and we all ran for the pew. Yes, ran. All our dignity was long gone.
We still look at each other and holler, "SING!" every now and then. That will never get old. Thank you, Heidi!
We had our service down to a science - from the introductions, to my mom's testimony, to our family song, to my parents' duet, to the power point presentation, to my dad's message.
It all ran fairly smoothly each time. Until the Sunday we decided to not have the music in front of us for the family song.
Let me tell you: you do NOT realize how much you rely on something until it's not there in front of you. It is brutal and super embarrassing and you will never live it down.
Us 3 girls sang the first verse, then my parents dueted (new word) the second verse, then we all sang the last verse together.
It all went downhill by the second line of the first verse.
We started off fine, then Heidi confidently pulled a line from later on in the song and decided to throw it in to the first verse. Rachel and I were stunned. Shocked, even! Did we hear her correctly...? We did!
So of course, I started laughing. Discreetly (yeah, no, there was nothing discreet about it). But I tried to sing through it.
Then Heidi noticed that Rachel was staring at her instead of singing. So Heidi, in front of the church, looked at Rachel and shouted, "SING!"
From that point on, I was useless. I didn't even try to sing anymore.
And by now, we were on the second verse, so I had a bit of time to pull myself together...but I used it to laugh. I couldn't have stopped laughing even if I wanted to.
You know the worst part about laughing in church: YOU CAN'T STOP and there's no such thing as laughing quietly once you start (it's not limited to sitting in a pew. It can apparently affect you on stage, too). No matter what dirty looks your parents give you, how unfunny the situation is (not this one. It was very, very funny.), and regardless of the fact that what happens in church probably wouldn't be funny anywhere else. (Except for this. It would've been funny anywhere, no matter what.)
So there we are. All of us girls laughing. My parents valiantly trying to finish the song. But wait, what's this? My mom's laughing too, now? My dad's finishing the song as a solo? Even better. Let's give these people the show they came for.
By now, the audience was starting to really, really, really enjoy my family. There were a good amount of college students, kids, parents, and old people laughing...
...but the best part, to me, was seeing the pastor.
On the floor.
Laughing.
Not even trying to hide it.
There was one moment where I turned around, away from the audience. I was really trying to pull myself together! Then my dad grabbed my arm and spun me back around (that makes it sound super graceful and beautiful and like a lovely father-daughter moment. It really wasn't. It was a pretty violent, unsettling, angry spin.) which made me laugh EVEN HARDER.
My dad finished the song and we all ran for the pew. Yes, ran. All our dignity was long gone.
We still look at each other and holler, "SING!" every now and then. That will never get old. Thank you, Heidi!
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Cinnamon and Hot Chocolate
One winter night in Kansas City, my sister and I decided to make hot chocolate. And the best way to make hot chocolate, of course, is by putting peppermint ice cream in it! We didn't have any though, so we made it the second best way: with a dollop of whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top.
SO ADEQUATE.
(I'm sorry, but after you've tried it with peppermint ice cream, everything else is bland.)
We were dancing around the kitchen, making up songs, performing slapstick comedy, and engaging in other forms of tomfoolery like the dorks that we were (are) while we waited for the water to boil. (Yes, water. I know. We didn't really know better at that time.)
After it finished and we while we waited for it to cool off so we wouldn't melt our tongues off, we did more of the same dorking around.
At one point that night, I came up with The Best Idea Ever.
Me: "Heidi! Stand on that rug and I'll pull it out from underneath you. You won't fall, I promise! (I really thought she wouldn't. I truly believed everything would work out perfectly.)"
Heidi: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Of course I'm sure. Would I ask you to do something that would hurt you? (I would...because, again, in my head, it all works out perfectly.) Trust me!"
Now...I really can't say why she chose to trust me. I'm the prankster. The sibling who always, always, always came up with the most-likely-to-fail ideas. Nothing I tried ended well, ever. I loved trying things, though, and more often than not, Heidi ended up being involved somehow.
Bless her heart.
So there she stood, right in the middle of the rug with the container of cinnamon in her hand (don't ask...I don't know), looking at me with trusting eyes, and waiting for me prove that I knew exactly what I was doing.
I got down on my knees, grabbed the rug firmly in my hands, and gave it one HUGE pull.
She.
Flew.
Really, I only have one image in my head from that grand experiment: Heidi, floating in the air perfectly. It was as if she had been in a lounge chair and randomly the bottom of it fell out, but she stayed in that same position. It was PERFECT. I can't emphasize that enough.
Then she fell.
Hard.
With the cinnamon in her hand.
The container of cinnamon hit the ground the exact moment she did, exploded, and we were both surrounded by a cloud of it. That stuff is strong. And it just goes everywhere. Not fun to clean up, let me tell you!
When my mom came home later, we very casually told her we needed another container of cinnamon.
Oddly enough, she didn't question it. (The reason that's so odd is because it was a brand new container.)
But then, we also didn't tell her what all had happened until a couple years later.
As I've said before when it comes to my stories: she wasn't surprised.
SO ADEQUATE.
(I'm sorry, but after you've tried it with peppermint ice cream, everything else is bland.)
We were dancing around the kitchen, making up songs, performing slapstick comedy, and engaging in other forms of tomfoolery like the dorks that we were (are) while we waited for the water to boil. (Yes, water. I know. We didn't really know better at that time.)
After it finished and we while we waited for it to cool off so we wouldn't melt our tongues off, we did more of the same dorking around.
At one point that night, I came up with The Best Idea Ever.
Me: "Heidi! Stand on that rug and I'll pull it out from underneath you. You won't fall, I promise! (I really thought she wouldn't. I truly believed everything would work out perfectly.)"
Heidi: "Are you sure?"
Me: "Of course I'm sure. Would I ask you to do something that would hurt you? (I would...because, again, in my head, it all works out perfectly.) Trust me!"
Now...I really can't say why she chose to trust me. I'm the prankster. The sibling who always, always, always came up with the most-likely-to-fail ideas. Nothing I tried ended well, ever. I loved trying things, though, and more often than not, Heidi ended up being involved somehow.
Bless her heart.
So there she stood, right in the middle of the rug with the container of cinnamon in her hand (don't ask...I don't know), looking at me with trusting eyes, and waiting for me prove that I knew exactly what I was doing.
I got down on my knees, grabbed the rug firmly in my hands, and gave it one HUGE pull.
She.
Flew.
Really, I only have one image in my head from that grand experiment: Heidi, floating in the air perfectly. It was as if she had been in a lounge chair and randomly the bottom of it fell out, but she stayed in that same position. It was PERFECT. I can't emphasize that enough.
Then she fell.
Hard.
With the cinnamon in her hand.
The container of cinnamon hit the ground the exact moment she did, exploded, and we were both surrounded by a cloud of it. That stuff is strong. And it just goes everywhere. Not fun to clean up, let me tell you!
When my mom came home later, we very casually told her we needed another container of cinnamon.
Oddly enough, she didn't question it. (The reason that's so odd is because it was a brand new container.)
But then, we also didn't tell her what all had happened until a couple years later.
As I've said before when it comes to my stories: she wasn't surprised.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
Squirrel!
At one point when I was a teenager, we lived in a super nice house in Minneapolis. It was just gorgeous with TONS of space, which was perfect since there were so many of us...plus extras that came home with my brother on weekends. During the time of living there, we were trying to raise support so we could move to Kansas City, which meant that we visited a different church every weekend. Not my favorite thing, but I survived.
One Sunday night, we came home to find our living room had been absolutely trashed. It didn't look like anything had been taken, but vases had been knocked over, little glass figurines were smashed, piano music had been ruined by the water from vases, everything on the mantle was on the ground, and other random decorations were scattered across the floor.
Immediately, we panicked big time and assumed youths had been behind it, but that didn't really make sense. That was when we noticed tiny footprints on the wall. Animal prints. Hmmm...
It all made sense quickly when we saw the squirrel frantically running across the fireplace. My dad sprang into action by shoving me and my two younger sisters into the office! Wait, what? My mom and older sister stayed out in the living room to help my dad. By standing on the couch, holding a box in front of them to protect themselves from the squirrel. Screaming.
Yes, I disobeyed a direct command by leaving the office to help my dad, but he couldn't trap a baby squirrel by himself! (Yes, it was a baby. So adorable, I know. I guess it would've been cuter in a different situation.) I grabbed the box out of my mom's hands and chased that dumb squirrel from one direction while my dad came at it from the other way with a broom.
Success. We got it!
But in our excitement, we definitely didn't have a lid. The squirrel tasted freedom once again. Curses!
There was a large amount of time in between the last sentence and the next sentence. If it were a movie, it'd be a montage. It was a lot of shouting, screaming, jumping, grabbing, missing, swatting, throwing, and hoping, for a good half hour. Trust me, I'm sparing you by not writing down all the details.
There was a large amount of time in between the last sentence and the next sentence. If it were a movie, it'd be a montage. It was a lot of shouting, screaming, jumping, grabbing, missing, swatting, throwing, and hoping, for a good half hour. Trust me, I'm sparing you by not writing down all the details.
Then, FINALLY, we got him again. I'm telling you, that was an insanely proud moment for me: SO much success!
The squirrel was released out into the wild, never to be seen by us again. I think. I don't know, all squirrels look the exact same to me.
The next morning before school, my younger sister heard a weird noise by the tv stand. She walked over to check it out, leaned in way close to get a good look...and another squirrel we didn't know about (that was 2 shelves up) pushed a video tape out.
It hit her on the head.
She screamed.
We then had the excitement of catching another squirrel to release into the wild.
Not a bad weekend.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Jelly Shoes
When I was a kid, jelly shoes were a BIG THING. You were respected and admired if you had them. Somehow, whether as a hand-me-down or because it had been my birthday, I ended up with a pair of my own. Let me tell you, as a 6 year old, that is the absolute best thing that could've possibly happened to me!
The town we lived in at that time, Woodville, WI, was fairly small. It was the perfect place to grow up though, because we totally owned it! There wasn't a rock or crevice that hadn't been explored by my brother, sister, and I. Life was good! Plus, I was the pastor's kid, so I led a super privileged life. (Hahaha, totally kidding. Don't get me wrong, life was, as I mentioned, good...but jelly shoes were the most exciting thing to happen to my wardrobe and my life at that time.)
Anyway, one day, the three of us decided to do some more exploring. I got super dressed up for the occasion in some extravagant black and purple dress and my purple jellies (slang for jelly shoes. Keep up.), because why wouldn't I?
We headed up the street to the middle school so we could explore the creek (crick) some more. The creek (crick) ran all the way through town. It was super huge, like the ocean. As we were walking up and down the length of the creek (crick), we saw a log that had fallen across the water.
Perfect! A bridge!
With my brother in front, me in the middle, and my sister holding everything together at the back, we headed across.
It.
Was.
Awesome.
Keep in mind, I lived in landlocked Wisconsin. This was, at the time, the biggest body of water I could remember ever seeing. And we were walking OVER it at the deep part! We were so daring!
Now, it might have rained recently, or maybe it's just that the tree wasn't wide enough. Whatever the reason, my sister started to slip...
And obviously, she shoved me in so she could save her own life. And of course I fell right in, because jellies have absolutely ZERO grip or support.
I went down and under, my life flashed across my eyes quickly (because I was six, so there wasn't much to see), and then I came up, screaming bloody murder. I must've blocked out parts of the story because it was so traumatizing, but somehow I ended up back on dry land.
Minus one shoe.
We made it home after many tears had been shed, and I'm sure there was much limping, stumbling, and forgetting how to walk because I'm dramatic. I changed out of my gross, soggy clothes, and immediately forced/guilted my brother and sister to go back and help me find my beautiful, wonderful, lonely jelly.
No luck. I went back every day for about a week after, but no. It was gone forever.
Gone, but not forgotten.
The town we lived in at that time, Woodville, WI, was fairly small. It was the perfect place to grow up though, because we totally owned it! There wasn't a rock or crevice that hadn't been explored by my brother, sister, and I. Life was good! Plus, I was the pastor's kid, so I led a super privileged life. (Hahaha, totally kidding. Don't get me wrong, life was, as I mentioned, good...but jelly shoes were the most exciting thing to happen to my wardrobe and my life at that time.)
Anyway, one day, the three of us decided to do some more exploring. I got super dressed up for the occasion in some extravagant black and purple dress and my purple jellies (slang for jelly shoes. Keep up.), because why wouldn't I?
We headed up the street to the middle school so we could explore the creek (crick) some more. The creek (crick) ran all the way through town. It was super huge, like the ocean. As we were walking up and down the length of the creek (crick), we saw a log that had fallen across the water.
Perfect! A bridge!
With my brother in front, me in the middle, and my sister holding everything together at the back, we headed across.
It.
Was.
Awesome.
Keep in mind, I lived in landlocked Wisconsin. This was, at the time, the biggest body of water I could remember ever seeing. And we were walking OVER it at the deep part! We were so daring!
Now, it might have rained recently, or maybe it's just that the tree wasn't wide enough. Whatever the reason, my sister started to slip...
And obviously, she shoved me in so she could save her own life. And of course I fell right in, because jellies have absolutely ZERO grip or support.
I went down and under, my life flashed across my eyes quickly (because I was six, so there wasn't much to see), and then I came up, screaming bloody murder. I must've blocked out parts of the story because it was so traumatizing, but somehow I ended up back on dry land.
Minus one shoe.
We made it home after many tears had been shed, and I'm sure there was much limping, stumbling, and forgetting how to walk because I'm dramatic. I changed out of my gross, soggy clothes, and immediately forced/guilted my brother and sister to go back and help me find my beautiful, wonderful, lonely jelly.
No luck. I went back every day for about a week after, but no. It was gone forever.
Gone, but not forgotten.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Dumb Frogs
I realize I haven't posted anything in a LONG time. My apologies! I've decided to make up for it by posting a couple of short stories from my past.
Dumb Frogs
When I was a little girl, maybe 5, I was BIG on taking purses to church. I'm not even joking about this. There was one specific Sunday that I couldn't choose which purse to take...so I filled up 3 of them with an uncomfortable amount of trinkets and toys, just in case there was a lull in the service and I was called on for entertainment. I guess.
One Sunday night before church, I was playing outside with some of my friends, which is when I really noticed the tiny little frogs that would jump up against the building.
Where did they think they were going?
Didn't they know they were literally going nowhere?
Dumb frogs.
I don't know if I was trying to help them out or punish them, but I started catching as many as I could. I'm not trying to brag, but I caught probably more frogs than has ever been caught in the history of 5 year old girls dressed in church clothes catching frogs. They were all put in my purse, naturally.
Then it was time for the service to start.
I went in, sat down in the second row from the front (that's the designated row for the pastor's family. Did I mention my dad was the pastor? He totally was.), spread my dress out gracefully like the lady that I was, and sang along with the rest of the church. At one point during the service, I noticed my brand new pets weren't seeming to enjoy their new home and were trying to escape.
Dumb frogs.
Being a 5 year old, I didn't quite understand the fragility that comes with being a tiny frog and may have been just a little (a lot) rough while I was trying to put them back in their home.
Somehow, miracle of miracles, my mom didn't notice all the commotion going on at my end of the pew, which is truly extraordinary, because I was frantically smashing, grabbing, and chasing all those frogs so I could put them back where they belonged. What started off as an awesome idea and what could've been some cool pets quickly turned into a massacre.
Dumb frogs.
They were more trouble than they were worth, that's for sure!
After the service ended, I walked out, dumped the carcasses onto the ground, and didn't tell my mom anything about it for several years.
She wasn't surprised.
Dumb Frogs
When I was a little girl, maybe 5, I was BIG on taking purses to church. I'm not even joking about this. There was one specific Sunday that I couldn't choose which purse to take...so I filled up 3 of them with an uncomfortable amount of trinkets and toys, just in case there was a lull in the service and I was called on for entertainment. I guess.
One Sunday night before church, I was playing outside with some of my friends, which is when I really noticed the tiny little frogs that would jump up against the building.
Where did they think they were going?
Didn't they know they were literally going nowhere?
Dumb frogs.
I don't know if I was trying to help them out or punish them, but I started catching as many as I could. I'm not trying to brag, but I caught probably more frogs than has ever been caught in the history of 5 year old girls dressed in church clothes catching frogs. They were all put in my purse, naturally.
Then it was time for the service to start.
I went in, sat down in the second row from the front (that's the designated row for the pastor's family. Did I mention my dad was the pastor? He totally was.), spread my dress out gracefully like the lady that I was, and sang along with the rest of the church. At one point during the service, I noticed my brand new pets weren't seeming to enjoy their new home and were trying to escape.
Dumb frogs.
Being a 5 year old, I didn't quite understand the fragility that comes with being a tiny frog and may have been just a little (a lot) rough while I was trying to put them back in their home.
Somehow, miracle of miracles, my mom didn't notice all the commotion going on at my end of the pew, which is truly extraordinary, because I was frantically smashing, grabbing, and chasing all those frogs so I could put them back where they belonged. What started off as an awesome idea and what could've been some cool pets quickly turned into a massacre.
Dumb frogs.
They were more trouble than they were worth, that's for sure!
After the service ended, I walked out, dumped the carcasses onto the ground, and didn't tell my mom anything about it for several years.
She wasn't surprised.
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