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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri

Katy is represented by
Greg Johnson at
WordServe Literary

Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net

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Recent Posts

• Try
• Becoming Brenda Starr
• Off Beat
• Scattered
• That’s It
• So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What?
• The Spoon
• Sciatica
• Sweetheart
• A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose
• However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time
• After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices.
• As with everything in life, balance is key.
• Slow down, you move too fast…
• Yeah, I know. I have issues.

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Distinctions (#245)

Maybe my senses are just heightened, I don't know. That happens when I go places I've never been before. Colors attempt to outshine one another to win my approval, tastes fight each other for distinction, and breezes play upon my hair with more abandon than they do in my own town.

Still, I'm not sure that completely explains the cookie and the french fries.

The fries came with the Greek platter Doug and I shared at the Union Station in DC last night. We wouldn't have been at the station if it hadn't been for the fact that we'd walked many miles already and I couldn't make it back to the hotel without catching a cab and the cabs were all on strike until midnight and the only hope of getting one would be to stand in a one-hour long line of travelers who all had the same crummy need at the very same time.

To postpone the agony of de feet in the long line, we ate dinner. And I ate a grand total of two of the best french fries I'd ever laid lips on. Sprinkled with paprika and fried to the most sublime golden shimmer on the outside, and soft and white and almost the consistency of mashed on the inside.

I started to wonder if those french fries weren't a kind of microcosm of DC itself. Wild divergences of opinion, belief, standard of living, politics, and cultures, all bent on somehow--somehow!--working together to make the dish of life as delicious as humanly possible.

I'd almost recovered from the effort it took to resist the entire plateful of fries, when today's lunch arrived. Darned if the giant chocolate chip cookie Doug got wasn't just as tempting, inside and out, as those french fries. The same gold-crisped outside, the same pale and gooey delectability inside.

Artistically scrumptious, this study in contrasts.

I don't even eat sugar, but some things you just know.

---

If You Could Take Some Of It With You (#246)

OK, so here's a question: What does it take to make you, you? You know what I mean?

Can you name, let's say, two categories of stuff that define you as a person, the stuff that's made you who you are today, and which you'd likely continue to need to become the person you're becoming?

My stuff would have to be reading material and writing material, which may be composed of any combination of books, newspapers, magazines, pens, paper, and computer.

Other people's necessary stuff might be sports equipment, musical instruments, movies, photographic gear, CDs, craft and art supplies, woodworking tools, exercise gear, gourmet cooking items, or gardening tools.

What about you? It you downsized to only two categories of posessions--the ones directly related to the essence of who you are--what would they be?

Please don't say dollars and cents or stock and bonds unless you're a banker or a stock broker!

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Suite Deal (#247)

We've been living in a one-bedroom motel suite in DC since Sunday night. The kind with the tiny, though completely functional, kitchen. Plus wi-fi, and a TV in both the living room and the bedroom.

Every time I'm in one of these places, I ask myself if I could live for the long term on a small-sized scale. Could I divest myself of so many posessions that what's left (for the two of us) would fit into one closet, a couple of drawers, and four kitchen cabinets?

And almost every time I go through this mental exercise, I come to the same conclusion. If I added a number of bookcases and some under-the-bed Rubbermaid containers to the arrangement, it would be terrific.

Am I just kidding myself? When I get back to my nice, big house, won't I be relieved to get away from a spot so small it forces me to be someone uniquely distinct from my huge amount of belongings?

How quickly will I forget how few material posessions it takes to live a satisfying life?

May I remember longer this time, Lord. A little longer each time, please.

---

Do I Detect A Pattern Emerging? (#248)

You know you've been blogging a long time when the column called "Archives" on the left starts to look like mine...kind of pretty, huh?

---

Slow to Leap (#249)

Election season is over, and I really don't mean to wax Republican here, but there's a phrase I haven't been able to get off my mind these past few days.

Maybe it happened because of meeting Will and Lisa Samson, and seeing firsthand how God is leading them to not just talk, but to do. To not just write about it, but to live it. To not just give lip service to social justice, but to do something real to ease the burden of another human being.

"Faith-based initiative." That's what I'm talking about. Only not just as an alternative to government programs to assist the less fortunate, but rather as a personal calling.

The Scripture says that without faith, no one can please God, but what about after faith? Is faith all there is?

"Faith without works is dead."

My faith should be all the initiative I need to do the "good works that God has prepared beforehand, that I should walk in them," but there's a weird sense in which I've let it become more of an insulator than an activator.

So. This may seem a little abrupt coming from a chick who's only been a follower of Jesus for a mere 35 years, but I think I'm about to leap onto a couple of faith-based initiative bandwagons.

I'm not overly coordinated. Wish me luck.

---

Stuff Happens (#250)

We'd only been in this hotel room on Sunday night long enough to unpack and pile into our jammies when Doug crawled into bed with stiffer breath than usual.

"I can't believe we got here without our toothpaste," he said. "But I made it work."

I kept my mouth shut, both because I hadn't brushed my own teeth and because I had a sorry suspicion about what had just happened to his.

"I dipped my brush in that little container that says 'Mouthwash.'" he said. "It worked great."

It's too bad that before he dipped and brushed, I had dumped and flushed. Instead of mouthwash, the plastic bottle now contained hair spritz.

So now my hair's all fuzzy, but at least his teeth are held firmly in place.

They're all his own, too.

---

On the Avenue, Pennsylvania Avenue… (#251)

OK, I've never been to DC before, and I have to admit walking along the newly-reopened-to-pedestrians Pennsylvania Avenue, and seeing the White House up close and personal, was pretty darned thrilling.

I'm glad we went over the lunch hour, though. A couple hours later, things got pretty hectic over there. First, a guy yelling "Allah, Allah, Allah!" set himself on fire right where we'd been walking, and then a second man jumped the fence onto the White House lawn.

We didn't see the Secret Service guys, but they were sure there, huh?

---

Celebrate New Friends, Come On! (#252)

When you survive brain surgery, you instinctively know there must be a reason why. Because really, truly, you don't exactly expect to survive.

But today I celebrate my five-year anniversary of not only surviving and remaining tumor-free, but also embarking upon a life I had only imagined until that time. A life of improved health, renewed youth, and a greater urgency to fulfill God's purposes for my life than I'd ever known before.

Imagine how great it was last night to celebrate my anniversary in style--by meeting up with fellow bloggers Lisa and Will Samson in Baltimore and spending a great afternoon and evening with them! Doug and I came away inspired both by their passion for God and for all those who need Him so much--even down to a couple they'd never met before, us.

Then today, while Doug was at a training seminar, I read an entire Lisa Samson novel, Tiger Lillie. I knew, knew, knew Doug would walk in from his long day right when I got to the climax, and I'd feel really bad about having to say, "Oh, honey, can you wait just a couple mins to talk? I'm dying here! You can't believe what is happening in this book....." and sure enough, that's what happened!

But Doug knows me well. He gave me the two minutes it took to finish the book, and the five minutes it took to recover from having finished the book, and then we went to dinner and I told him all about it. But I'm not telling you! You need to read the book and become a Lisa Samson devotee in your own right. I know I'm one!

Thanks, Will and Lisa. We love you guys.

---

Checkmark, Please! (#253)

I'm about to get to the part in the book "Getting Things Done" where David Allen tells me how to, well, get things done.

In the meantime, I'm resorting to my lifelong habit of making lists with no apparent actionable steps attached to any of the items listed.

Each day, at several junctures, I scan my yellow legal pad for items I can get done quickly and with only a modicum of effort, since I love little better than the lefthanded (read: backwards) checkmarks I am then able to tally up in the lefthand column.

Never mind that there are ridiculous items like "Write My Next Book!" which has to be the dumbest thing a writer ever wrote anywhere, to-do list notwithstanding.

I keep separate lists for home improvement projects, relationship stuff (like who to send thank-you notes to, and who to invite to lunch), and business matters. Usually, of course, even if I don't have a clue how to accomplish an item, I can at least read my own writing, and even that gives a boomer chick some small gratification.

Today, I reached for my financial to-do list, eager to check off "Call life insurance guy to up coverage." There, included with perfectly decipherable and understandable items like "Set up automatic bill pay" and "Switch credit cards," I found this:

"Capture lost dinly money!!!"

Yeah. You read it right. Dinly!!!

I've been staring at this random accumulation of consonants and vowel for the better part of an hour, struggling to imagine what kind of money dinly is, where I've misplaced it, how much I've lost, and how on earth I'll ever capture it in this lifetime. Not to mention how much more of it is being flushed down the proverbial financial toilet with every passing moment.

If you can help me out here, I'd appreciate it. The sooner I capture my lost dinly money, the closer I'll come to actually "Getting Things Done."

---

Soul Train (#254)

Ninety-three years ago tonight, King Pattengale sat down at his makeshift desk and by coach lamp penned a penny postcard to his six-year-old son, Carl.

Carl had a collection of these postcards from his daddy, who worked on the railroad and had to be away from home more than Carl liked. He kept them in a wooden box, tied together with a piece of twine, and took them out whenever he missed his pa. But the one that was written on this date was his favorite for his whole life long.

"Do you see the date on this card?" read the cursive script. "11/11/11. Carl, that date won't happen again for one hundred years! Imagine that..."

Carl did imagine. And he showed me the postcard only once, nearly 35 years ago. He was no young man by then, and his father, of course, was long dead. He read the card aloud to me and his eyes twinkled like they must have when he was a lad, mesmerized again by the magical thought of the one hundred years--slow moving in his youth but speeding by in old age-- between 1911 and 2011.

"I won't be alive when that date comes around the next time," he said. "But you will."

Years still moved slowly for me back then, but now I know, from personal experience, that it couldn't have been true for him. What seemed like an eternity to me seemed to him like nothing more than the blink of an eye--and yet he knew he wouldn't see the day that was so quickly approaching.

So I smiled an I-believe-in-magic smile and took the postcard from his open hand. I held it to my face and inhaled the lingering fragrance of the sleeper train and the rail yard and even, I think, my great-grandfather himself. And the scent of the little boy who became the man sitting next to me, my grandfather.

And I promised myself right then that on some distant 11/11/11 that I couldn't imagine ever actually arriving, I would gather my grandfather's people around me and celebrate his good life, his kind love, and the magic of passing it on.

I still have his postcard. When the long-imagined day arrives, seven short years from now, I will sit down and pen my own cards, perhaps to a grandchild or two or maybe three. I'll tell them this date won't come again for a hundred years, but I won't have to tell them to believe in magic.

They'll see it twinkling in my eyes.

---

Right of Refusal? (#255)

"Wait a minute. Doesn't your religion teach redemption?"

OK, those weren't Dr. Laura's exact words. I was driving while listening, and trying out stubby pencils and sun-dried pens at every stop light so I could get down the gist of it. So this is a paraphrase, and a pretty darned good one, I'm thinking.

The man had called in to say he was having trouble committing to a woman, though he really wanted to.

"Never mind what you say you want. Why aren't you committing?"

The guy explained that when he was eleven, a fifteen-year-old boy sexually abused him. More than once. And that he'd never told his parents or anyone, and he wasn't sure why he'd kept the secret. At any rate, the memories made him feel terrible about himself, so bad in fact that it was keeping him from a healthy relationship with a woman.

"You were old enough to know what was happening wasn't right?"

"Yes."

"But you also knew that the older boy had the power in the situation."

"Yes."

"But you also knew that you should have told your parents, and for whatever reason, you didn't."

"That's right."

"You know what? It's against your religion to refuse redemption. All that stuff is in the past. You're a man now. It's over. For you to hold onto things that happened in the past is to turn away from the very redemption you claim to believe in."

I know this is weird, but I'd never thought of it like that. I'm the type that holds myself personally responsible for everyone and their mother's papercuts, not to mention my actual sins of omission and commission, which are legion.

"Hey, wait a minute. Isn't it against your religion to refuse redemption?"

Yeah. As a matter of fact, I think it is...

---

Rare Form (#256)

So Doug's out of the shower, dressed, and shaving. I round the bend into the bathroom, studying my crummy-looking nails as I go. When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I let out a small scream.

"I look awful!" I say. "My nails, my face, my hair, my body..."

He pulls me in for a hug.

"Stop," he says. "I love your face, your hair, your body..."

"What about my...?"

"I don't think so much about your nails."

We're having a really good day.

---

Good Start (#257)

The alarm went off a little late this morning, but we both groaned anyway.

"7:10," he said.

"KCMO on your radio dial," I answered.

"North James Street," he said.

"That's not where the radio station is..."

"The house where I grew up in Rome, New York," he said. "710 North James Street."

Then we laughed and hugged, and reveled in how little it takes these days to impress each other.

Be patient, my good friends. After 28 years of marriage, you too may have the joy of starting your day like this.

---

Eh! (#258)

I've heard that Jane Pauley has battled depression and now I think I know why.

Doug's sitting here flipping channels and I look up from my iBook in time to see Jane look over at a young blonde woman and say, "OK. Let's talk about scarves."

Instantly, I know this segue can't bode well for the rest of the segment.

"OK. Scarves are kind of timeless," the blonde chick says, and by now I'm groaning. And then the clincher. "They make great gifts for moms."

Women shouldn't talk like this in front of God and everybody unless their names are Romy and Michelle.

---

Coffee Break (#259)

Maybe you wouldn't call this a moral dilemma, but there are mugs in my kitchen cabinet that I wouldn't be caught dead swigging coffee from. And there are others that are my favorites. Even if they're too small or too large to be practical for my particular java-consuming habits, I like the message on them. Or the people who gave them to me. Either way.

The problem with a favorite mug is that every time you use it, you risk breaking it, after which time you will never use it again. This is what happened with a recent fave of mine which read: "Chocolate. The fifth major food group." It's minus its handle now, but can I part with it? No, I cannot.

My current favorite is one my mother gave me for a red-letter birthday. It says, in brown letters, "40. Thank you for not laughing." Seeing as how I'm nearly 51, no one is laughing now...

The mug I will not use under any circumstances, even if it means I must remain coffeeless, has no slogan. Instead it bears a photograph of a pair of dice. I don't know why the dice affect me like they do. Maybe it's that they remind me so much of plush dice hanging from a rearview mirror. And plush reminds me of fur, which reminds me of hair, which I don't like to find mixed up with my coffee.

I've thought about throwing the perfectly good, handle-intensive but dicey mug into the trash, and no one in the house would give me a bit of trouble if I did. But I would feel guilty about the waste, I'm thinking.

And then I really would have a moral dilemma.

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