Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Read more Katy at...
LateBoomer.net
Most Recent Posts
- New Math
- International House Of…..Watch Out!
- Have Yourself A Merry Little Colonoscopy!
- Spell Check
- You Are Not Alone
- Don’t Know Much About The Big Three
- Why, Oh Why Didn’t I Take Home Ec?
- Really, Really Fun While It Lasts!
- In Defense Of Good Old-Fashioned Books
- Things I’ve Said That I’m Happy Someone Else Didn’t Say First, One In An Ongoing Series Of Several
- Do Depression Meds Work For This?
- The T-Shirt Off Our Backs
- For The Fallible Record
- Long Time, No Blog
- Droppin’ Gs
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
(No Title)
For the angst-ridden and for those in need of a little comic relief: Alanis Morissette lyric generator!(No Title)
"Are you playing the game?" I asked the young man who was checking my groceries. It was difficult not to notice how efficiently he was bagging. "What game?" "You know, the one where you try to see if you can finish bagging the groceries before the customer finishes writing the check." "I've never heard of that game." "I've never heard of it, either," I explain. "But when I used to check groceries, I played it all the time." "No, I'm not playing it," he said. I ripped off the check and slapped it down on the counter one nano-second before he added the eggs to the top of the bag. Everybody plays the game.(No Title)
I'm a voracious reader and book accumulator. I acquire everything from the lowly mass- market paperback, to the less-homely trade paperback, to first edition clothbound hardcovers, to antique copies of the classics. All books are not created equal. With books intended for the mass-market and trade audience, I edit. Before I open the cover, I've got pen in hand, ready to proofread, mark-up and cast dispersion on the plotline, character development, theme, structure, author and publisher. And, after that, maybe even upon life in general. The benefit of the doubt is usually extended to any book that has the exalted good fortune to make it into hardback. I find myself jotting my own clever musings alongside the author's, yes. But in pencil, rather than in indelible ink, and lightly-and always using a pencil with a good eraser on the other end. It occurs to me with these books that my opinion might be wrong, so I make sure my expression of it is reversible. It occurs to me that these authors have proven value, both in the publishing marketplace and in the marketplace of ideas. It even occurs to me that if my stories were better than theirs, they'd be marking up my books, instead of the other way around. It's the old books, the valuable ones, the classics, which I rarely touch. Some have been in my family for a hundred years or longer, and are brittle with age and handling. I hesitate to move them even to relieve the burden of dust that settles in sorry layers upon the edges. The slightest brush upon such a delicate surface might inflict irreparable damage, so they sit for years, for decades, unread. Surely the writer wanted these books to be read and enjoyed for as long as they endure! Still, I hesitate, I pull back, I miss out on the message out of respect for the package. Sometimes, I wonder if the people in my life aren't sorted in much the same way as the books. And I picture the Publisher sadly shaking His head, and wishing I'd read. Just read.(No Title)
I've been out traipsing and have rediscovered how much I love stepping stones. You may think I'm talking about the kind in the pond at Loose Park in Kansas City, the tall manufactured cylinders small children delight in walking across the water on, but I'm not. Or maybe the ones that arise spontaneously in shallow creeks and bubbling brooks, offering all manner of barefoot creatures the chance for a natural whirlpool footbath. Those aren't my favorites, either. The ones I love are cast from kits by enterprising mothers who then bring them to life with the handprint of a baby or the pawprint of a dog. They are the ones that come pre-sentimentized with words like, "Grow Old With Me, the Best Is Yet To Be, The Last of Life, For Which the First Was Made." Or a design from the Book of Kells. They can even be flat-topped rocks dug up from my own property, and then reset into different soil, used in a new way, as a footpath for a refuge-seeking soul. I don't love these stones at first. At first, when we hollow out the places for them and pound them into the ground, they are contrived, artificial and out-of-place. At first, I won't set foot upon them. But later, seasons later, the most endearing greenery has sprung up around them! Not crabgrass, with its insidious and self-promoting behavior, and certainly not clover, which is pretty in a single unit but obnoxious in the way it overtakes the lawn. No, this is a fragile growth which has as its only observable purpose surrounding, comforting and connecting earth's stepping stones. It appears nowhere else in the landscape, and indeed, wouldn't seem right in another place. It is a plant which has found its reason for living. Do you know the kind of greenery I mean? The kind that speaks of age, and permanence and maybe even of wisdom? Of love and devotion and the passing of years with the people you care for? Then you know why I love the stepping stone path in my own front yard.(No Title)
Six months have passed, they say, and for some of us, it's almost true. But for others, others, the mere passage of time is no longer the marker of a day well-spent or a life fully embraced. Does a month crossed off on the calendar move them any closer to a new ending or any further from a horrible beginning? One young wife and mother, Lauren, spent the first month of these six in a medically induced coma, in order to survive the pain of the rest of her life. Burns cover eighty-six percent of her body. She is missing most of an ear and parts of her hands, and doesn't look like the girl Greg married, unless he's looking deep in her eyes. He looks at all of her, though, loves all of her. Greg read her Robert Burns in those early days, and does still, not so she'll remember, but so she'll believe. "My love is like a red, red rose," he says, as he gazes upon his beloved. With tears streaming down her scarred face, she recites her love back to him wordlessly, breathlessly. She dreamed of her husband and baby boy that first faraway month, longed for them, and decided to live for them. A decision she'd already made every day until Day One, in every place before Ground Zero. How could she change her mind now? Her husband has compiled a book of his email communications with all her many friends over the course of these six months. It is called "Love, Greg and Lauren." Lauren cannot read it yet, may never be able to. All of her strength must be focused on moving forward, or there will be no movement at all. She cannot risk a backward glance. Don't look back, Lauren. Not yet. Six months have passed, they say. And for some of us, it must be true.(No Title)
Something Else I Wish I'd Said (part of an ongoing series): "It's easier to act your way into a new way of feeling than to feel you way into a new way of acting."(No Title)
I was educated by the good Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet for thirteen years and something I must have learned from them--where else would I have gotten it?--was to think not in terms of having a career, but of having a vocation. A calling. Being the excellent student that I remain, I have resisted having a career to this very day. But a vocation! A calling! Now that's an entirely different matter. So imbued has my life been with a sense of destiny, that sometimes it's all I can do to face another sinkful of dirty dishes. In an effort to come closer to the types of "vocational moves" I should be pursuing, those which are consistent with the Divine purpose for me being on this earth (OK, really, your laughter is distracting me!), I've made a couple of helpful lists. The first one, labelled "I Am Not," includes such entries as "I am not a reporter, a researcher, a speaker at weekend women's retreats, a marketing guru, an expert in a field, a head of a ministry, or a compiler of the next Chicken Soup-type series." The second, "I Am," is comprised of items ranging from "I am a diarist, a humorist, a novelist, a commentator, an entertainer, a people-watcher, and an encourager," to the even less lucrative "I am an observor, a seeker, a poet, a lyricist, a storyteller, a slice-of-lifer and a conversationalist." In short, I am called to write personal stuff, and to touch the lives of readers along the way. If you made your own two lists of "I Am" and "I Am Not," how would the good Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet feel about your entries? Do you consider yourself to be "called" to your work? What criteria did you use (or will you use) to choose your educational or career path? Do you devote much--or any--of your thought life to questions about your destiny? Or is it just me?(No Title)
"I just know there's a book inside of me," my grandmother said matter-of-factly, when I was a wee girl. And then we made a fabulous pie from homegrown peaches, which we devoured that night with pan-fried chicken and biscuits and garden-fresh green beans. "There's a book in me, waiting to come out," she insisted, when I was only thirteen, but she was sixty-three. I had to wonder, what's it waiting for? And then she taught me how to sew, and to knit, and to embroider, and to paint with oils and watercolors. But she didn't write a word. "I've got a story," she said one day, when I was all grown at nineteen, with the beginnings of a story of my own. And then she died, never knowing how completely she'd written volumes on the pages of my life. I've got a book in me, just waiting to come out.(No Title)
Only a few can stand Alone Like an island carved in stone. Most of them need gracious friends To smooth the edges, round the ends. In sentences, they take the chance Of overstating happenstance, And paragraphs do seldom seem To aptly state a simple dream. But still, a solitary word, at best, Just stands Aloof From all the rest.(No Title)
"Lord, I need a sign," I hear myself say aloud. The very sound of it shocks me. I can count on one hand the number of times I've asked for a sign in thirty years of following Jesus. You know that prayer, "God, if You're really up there, You're going to have to give me a sign?" I've never prayed that one. And then there's "Father in heaven, if you really love me, You're going to have to show me." That one doesn't fly with me, either. The Scripture contains all the proof I need of His existence and His love. When I pray for a sign, it's direction I'm seeking. Maybe the signs are already in place, with street names and highways clearly marked. Maybe I've even been equipped with a global positioning satellite system in my spirit, so I know where I am. Now, if I only knew where I was going, I'd know which path to take. U2 sings that on this road "believing is seeing." So I revise my prayer. "Lord, help my unbelief."(No Title)
The dozen long-stemmed roses arrived on time, delivered to the door by a man with the distinct air of one who knows he is the bearer of glad tidings. "Have a nice Valentine's Day!" he said, and I smiled and thanked him cheerfully, but wondered later if he caught the hint of sadness in my eyes. For every dozen roses, it seems, there's always one that's IOA-"iffy"-on-arrival. Its bloom, which has not yet fully opened, is already starting to droop at the neck, as if the other eleven have been teasing it on the ride over for being just a tad less than perfect. Receiving a gift of roses is a process for me. The first day, I concentrate on their amazing beauty and on pretending I don't know what's coming next. I wish I could exclaim uninhibited joy and surprise and delight over them, without seeing the end from the beginning, but I can't. Each morning after they arrive, for as many mornings as it takes, I carefully examine those that remain, removing the ones that are irreversibly bent and hanging them upside down by their thorny stems. Most often, the bent ones-if they haven't been offered hope in the water too long-will straighten remarkably while drying. I keep my dozens of dried roses forever-I can't help myself. In most of the bundles, after drying, it's impossible to tell which flower among them had been the last-or the first-to die. Death has become their great equalizer. Every once in a while, though, I happen upon a certain rose in a decades-old bouquet, and I remember just which one it was among the dewy blooms that arrived that long ago morning. It was the one that made me cry.(No Title)
Doug gave me a beautiful collector's doll from Ireland for our 25th anniversary. Her name is Caitlyn, and there will only ever be 2500 made exactly like her. Mine is certified to be number 63 of 2500. What happens after they make 2500 Caitlyns? The mold is broken. The mold must be broken, I know, in order for the doll to hold its value. The fewer there are like her, the more desirable she becomes, both to her creator and to the ones who cherish her. God the Father is the consummate collector. One by one, he carefully crafts human beings in His image, in His likeness, but unique. One by one, he breaks each mold. Sometimes, I think He shatters the mold at the instant of conception, when all the potential for a person's life is fully present and just beginning to multiply. How better to safeguard each creature's value? After all, it's relationship He's after-a unique relationship with each of His children. Sometimes, though, I wonder if the breaking isn't a lifelong process, if the shattering doesn't rather happen in slow motion, fracture by fracture, splinter by splinter. Until, at the end of life, each child stands before Him alone, unique, completely finished and set apart for eternity's purposes. Either way, the mold is broken. It's just that sometimes, I can put my fingers in the cracks.(No Title)
"Nobody really has a five-year plan," said my 23-year-old friend, Christian, who ought to know. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief. "They might tell you they do, and they might tell you the next step they intend to take, and how it'll move them closer to their goals, but don't believe them. They don't know what's going to happen next any more than you do." I am what the local junior college's adult re-entry program used to call a "displaced homemaker." How's that for a label? A "displaced homemaker" is a woman who has just finished giving the youngest years of her life to the noble occupation of raising her own children. Unfortunately, the title of displaced homemaker has such a chronic sound to it, kind of like a dislocated hip or a disturbing hernia, that it doesn't seem to hold out much hope for a cure. And, until now, with the children almost grown and mostly gone, I've never felt displaced. Or in need of a cure. Now, though, there are decisions to make, directions to take. They are simple decisions, really, the kind that a girl half my age would make without a lot of soul-searching-unless she, too, becomes waylaid by a couple decades worth of displaced homemaking. So I'm trying to recall how I used to take advantage of the freedom of youth to plot my course unafraid, and see if maybe the same tactics might apply to the freedom of middle-age. Is every new direction a firm decision, leading almost effortlessly nearer to the center of God's purpose? Or am I, by choosing one path, deciding to slam the gate on many others? Any one of which might be the best one, after all? Try as I might, I just can't remember how this part goes. They say wisdom comes with age, but don't believe them. Unless the age is 23.(No Title)
I bought a fabulous navy blue two-piece dress for my 25th anniversary party, and the skirt had to be shortened. Normally, I would handle such a project myself, but this is a very special occasion. So I made an appointment with a special-occasions gown shop, which does alterations, and spent a half-hour twirling around for a little Russian lady while she measured and pinned. At first blush, when she asked me if I was a bridesmaid, I felt like a young girl. Then she started pinning the skirt up to the length she presumed I wanted, a length which would have entirely covered my very cute shoes. "Don't look down!" she instructed me, every time I tried to look down. Evidently, when I bent slightly from the waist to try to ascertain exactly what she was doing down there, it threw off her measurements, which, of course, were off to begin with, since I didn't want my skirt to be grazing the floor. "I want it shorter," I said. "I want my shoes to show. And my ankles, too." "Shorter?" she repeated. "You want your shoes to show? Your shoes are black. We will need to dye your shoes to match. We can do it here. I don't like black shoes with your blue dress." "I do," I answered. "I like my black shoes to show with my blue dress." "You know what you want," she said. "That is unusual. Most of the girls who come in here say, 'I don't know…what do you think?' and 'Do you like this one? Oh, dear, I'm just not sure…' But you, you know what you want. You are right. You should only please yourself. What does it matter what anyone else thinks? You know what you want. You are not like the young girls…" So what if she only made me feel like a young girl for a few, fleeting moments? For the rest of my life, I get to know what I want.(No Title)
If there is such a place as purgatory, I think I know how it feels. You know that interminable length of time-or is it eternity?-that elapses after you undergo a crucial diagnostic medical test, and before you find out the results? You know how you go into the test feeling pretty well, thank you very much, pretty confident that the thing they're looking for won't be found? It's amazing how that confidence dwindles into a pathetic puddle of quivering insecurities until you finally see the Doctor's smiling-or somber-face. You might even have come down with a few dreadful or deadly symptoms during the wait for results that, if you're lucky, will all disappear with one word from his lips. Every day, I sense the Great Physician smiling upon me, and I can see in His eyes that I get to live eternally with Him, after all. He never put me through a battery of painful and fearsome tests. He only asked that I believe He's already passed every test on my behalf. Even so, purgatory sometimes seems real here on earth, and I think I know just how it would feel.
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