A Paper Bag, a Window, and a Tongue Blade

Note: This somewhat silly post is in response to a group writing project on "Bosses" over at the High Calling Blogs.

I worked in a small OB/GYN practice early in my nursing career.  I "managed" a satellite office, where I "bossed" only myself for four days, and worked at the main office on Fridays.

I met my husband, who was a drug salesman at the time, there--but that's another story already told in another post. I remember Dr. J muttering about the cost of a single place setting of the dishes I'd registered for, but he bought us two sets.

I also remember how the doctors provided free care for the wives of interns and residents--until their husbands went on strike. Come to think of it, I don't remember any female interns or residents coming in for care.

We had an hour and a half for lunch, and sometimes the doctors would give us nurses the key card to their "club," and we'd go out and splurge on a big meal. They were generous, although I do remember Dr. J often talked (worried) about funding his retirement, and he must have been in his 30s at the time.

Anyway, I worked there for 2-1/2 years, and a lot of memories are hazy now. But I remember three clearly.

One day I heard frantic pounding on the private entrance to the satellite office. When I opened the door, I met the eyes of the frightened secretary down the hall. I ran with her to discover one of her coworkers twitching on the floor. I freaked and raced back to our office.

"Dr. B! Dr. B! Come quick! Hurry!"

He was in an exam room with a patient at the time, so he told her he'd be right back, left her up in the stirrups, and sauntered--yes, sauntered--down the hall. He seldom got excited about anything. As in nonchalant.

I listened for the ambulance, but he returned in a matter of minutes.

"What was wrong with her? What'd you do?"

"Oh, she just hyperventilated. I gave her a paper bag."

And he strolled back into the exam room leaving me to calm myself down.

Lessons: Don't worry. Stay calm. Breathe. But carry a paper bag.

"Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life." 

Philippians 4:6-7 (Message)

A disheveled lady burst into the waiting room just as we prepared to lock up for lunch. She jabbered about stuff that didn't make much sense to me. I was new, but the others had seen her before. I don't remember much about that "conversation" or what was wrong or even the final outcome. What I do remember is Dr. B hovering outside her range of vision, not wanting to get involved, with his eye on the exit. He had to walk right past her to get out. So he did the next best thing. He climbed out the workroom window, directly into the parking lot, and left us to deal with her.

Lessons: Avoid futile arguments. Have an escape plan. Look for a window of opportunity.

"But refuse (shut your mind against, have nothing to do with) trifling (ill-informed, unedifying, stupid) controversies over ignorant questionings, for you know that they foster strive and breed quarrels."
2 Timothy 2:23 (Amplified)

Dr. J loved cheesecake. I mean loved it! So one morning I brought one in. Lovingly baked in a store-bought graham cracker crust. Topped with cherries. I set it on the counter in the workroom. The same place where we processed fingerstick blood and urine samples. He grabbed for it. The top fell off. And the whole thing landed upside down on the floor. He stared at it for a moment and then reached for a tongue blade, squatted down, and ate.

Lessons: Don't waste anything. Keep your floors clean. Carry a big spoon.

"Jesus answered, "You've come looking for me not because you saw God in my actions but because I fed you, filled your stomachs--and for free. Don't waste your energy striving for perishable food like that. Work for the food that sticks with you, food that nourishes your lasting life, food the Son of Man provides. He and what He does are guaranteed by the Father to last."
John 6:26-27 (Message)

And here's some extra reading for your Friday Enjoyment. The origin of graham crackers.

Do you have any memorable boss or work experiences?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Shabby Chic

Gracee spends more time at home these days. As a result, Grandma maintains an ever-dwindling supply of clothes.

She slept here several nights this week, though, which presented a school morning challenge.

I usually set out two or three possible outfits for her to choose from.

The other morning, the conversation went something like this.

"I can't wear that butterfly shirt."

"Why not? It's cute."

"It goes with the blue shorts."

"But the shorts are pretty short, maybe too short for school, and it's pretty chilly out. And--wait a minute. You wore this shirt with jeans last week."

"I want to wear the shorts."

"No. How about this outfit?" I point to another pair of jeans and shirt.

"No. I need a different shirt for those jeans, and it's at home."

"Gracee, everything goes with jeans. They are universal pants."

She just looks at me.

"What's wrong with this shirt?" I point to a white shirt pink peppered with the word "Princess."

"Everyone laughed at me the last time I wore it."

"Everyone?"

"Well, Zander did."

"Zander's a boy. What does he know? Anyway, it's a cute shirt."

"No."

"Okay, wear this butterfly shirt with these jeans. You'll look cute, and nobody will laugh."

"No. I already told you. That shirt goes with the blue shorts. I want to wear the blue shorts."

I proceed to give her a lesson in wardrobe planning.

"Look. The fashion police have really good ideas. Pretend this butterfly shirt goes with these jeans, and this princess shirt goes with these jeans. How many outfits do you have?"

"Two."

"Okay. So what if we switch shirts. How many outfits do we have now?"

She just looks at me.

"Four. We have four outfits. Now if we pull out the blue shorts, we have yet another outfit. See? You can wear a shirt with more than one pair of pants or shorts. You have more outfits with fewer clothes."

"I don't want to wear any of those."

I'm exasperated now. "You're not wearing the blue shorts. Choose something quick and come eat. You're going to be late for school."

She came out wearing a short black dress over a pair of jeans.

Good enough.

The next day she brought clothes from home.

A colorful sundress, a pair of gray leggings, a long-sleeved button top (blue and brown that matches a pair of brown leggings--go figure), and battered black Etnies with no socks.

I took a picture and sent it to Abby. She thought she looked "hideous."

I guess that's another way of saying "shabby."

I thought she looked--creative. And cute.

Maybe even chic.

(Don't look at the weeds. I gotta get out there.)

Besides, I have bigger hills to die on.

And she says nobody at school laughed at her.

We worry too much about externals. 

Clothes. Cars. Houses.

We pant after the newest gadgets and updates. 

We think what our kids wear (or not) and have (or not) is a reflection of our love and care (or not.)

We dress them like little celebrities.

Do they look cute? Do we look stylish? Does everything coordinate? 

We suffer from Coachitis and Jordanitis and all other sorts of fashionitis.

I love the Message translation of Jesus' words in Matthew 6:27-29.

"Has anyone by fussing in front of the mirror ever gotten taller by so much as an inch? All this time and money wasted on fashion--do you think it makes that much difference? Instead of looking at the fashions, walk out into the fields and look at the wildflowers. They never primp or shop, but have you ever seen color and design quite like it? The ten best-dressed men and women in the country look shabby alongside them."

See all the colors? I think Gracee is a beautiful as a field of wildflowers.

What did your child wear to school today? 
What are you wearing?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Self-Control: A Limerick

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore, honor God with your body. 

1 Corinthians 6:18-20 (NIV)

 

There once was a writer from Michigan

Whose mirror revealed the shape she was in.

M&M's in a bowl

And with no self-control

She emptied it faster than any man.

The writer then realized her sin.

The temple the Spirit lived in

Had gone all to pot

And healthy was not

Good-by M&M's, hello thin.

Now the writer was bought at a price.

For honor she'll overcome this vice.

She'll pray ev'ry day

M&M's stay away

And chocolate will no longer entice.

Disclaimer: This limerick is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, including the author, is entirely coincidental.

NOTE: This post is part of the Blog Carnival on SELF-CONTROL. For more thoughts, visit One Word at a Time.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

6 Lessons Learned on a Messy Monday

Weekend messes greeted me Monday morning.

No worries. The day stretched before me like a yawning feline.

Lazy day.

Got my hair cut and colored in the morning. Clogged floor drain so I couldn't do laundry. No Tuesday class to prep for because of a planned testimony and potluck.

I figured I could play a little, write a little, play a little.

And I did.

About 3:00, I decided I'd pay some bills, straighten the house, and start a creative dinner.

But then Abby called and asked if I'd meet her at the store and help pick out thank-you notes. Shouldn't take too long.

On my way, Jeremy called. He blew a tire crossing railroad tracks, but he'd called a tow truck to haul him to Wal-Mart. All cool.

Abby and I picked out cards. We both needed to pick up a few groceries. She complained of feeling very tired. Gracee did wheelies with the cart.

Jeremy called again. Wal-Mart didn't have a tire. They put on the spare, and the spare blew on his way to the only tire store in town. He didn't know what to do. Insurance only allows one tow a day. He didn't even know if the tire store had a tire, and he didn't have a number to call, and he didn't want to call information, and he really wanted to get to basketball, and his dad "wouldn't" answer his phone, and "I'm really starting to freak out, and the tire store closes in 20 minutes."

Jeremy has OCD.

Meanwhile, my phone reception in the back of the store was awful. I ran to the front to hear and to pay for my items (still holding the thank-you notes), remembering that I would need to get gas before I could get to Jeremy. I ran my debit card (as a credit--I always do because I never have enough cash, and I hate to waste checks.)

Not authorized.

I forgot! Happened earlier in the day, and I had meant to call the bank. That was on the list of stuff I planned to do "later." So I wrote my second check of the day with my ear to my phone and ran out the door and over to the gas station to pay for $3 worth of gas in change to get to Jeremy before the tire store closed.

Leaving Abby and Gracee to fend for themselves.

While my own frustration mounted.

Jeremy decided he just wanted to take the bad tire to the tire store and get a new one for $135 (all the money he had just withdrawn to buy some work clothes.) We skidded through the door in the nick of time and left with a new tire. The original plan was for me to take him home to change and then to basketball and then he'd have a friend bring him back to the truck where his dad would meet him and help him change the tire. He decided to change it on his own.
 
So we returned to the truck--behind which sat a police car with flashing lights. The officer cancelled his tow truck call, and talked Jeremy through changing the tire and even loaned him a sturdier jack.

Crisis resolved.

Whew!

I stopped at Abby's to drop off the thank-you notes. And she proceeded to tell me about HER afternoon that started downhill when she was late to pick up Gracee from school. Gracee had a wad of dandelions in her hand, and Abby, envisioning "butter and milk" in the car, told her to leave them and realized her mistake as soon as the words left her lips. Gracee threw them on the ground with a "Fine! They were for you." Abby tried to redeem the situation by suggesting to Gracee that perhaps Grandma would help her buy a little flower at the store.

Of course, by the time they got to checkout, Grandma was long gone, which threw Gracee into another tizzy because Abby didn't have the money to buy a flower. In fact, Abby discovered she had NO money and no way to pay for her purchase. At that point, she just wanted to sit down in the aisle and cry. As it turned out, Lee was on his way back from Lansing, so they just waited for him rather than needing my rescue. But at some point, Gracee (yes, sweet Gracee) played the "I just want to die" card, and that turned into an ugly scene--which was resolved by the time I got to their house. Gracee was fine, and Abby had just finished a good cry.

Whew!

When I got home, I picked a few flowers and took back to Gracee to give to mom.

Dennis had managed to call the bank between Jeremy's calls to discover the bank had put a hold on our card because Dennis had used it the day before to pay for some suits--an unusually large purchase for us with an unfamiliar payee.

Whew!

Dennis and I ate leftovers in a messy kitchen that night, and I finally paid bills around 9:00--including a credit card, which I paid off--but since it was after 5 on the due date, I can expect to see a late fee.

Sigh!

What did I (and my children) learn on Messy Monday?

• It never pays to procrastinate.
• It never pays to freak out.
• It never pays to speak before you think.
• It always pays to pray.
• It always pays to laugh.
• And it always pays to be prepared.

Because a day can suddenly turn messy.

And stuff can happen.

Are you a procrastinator? How do you cope when life interrupts your plan?

"Watch therefore [give strict attention and be cautious and active], for you know neither the day nor the hour when the Son of Man will come." Matthew 25:13 (Amplified)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

I Can Do It Myself!

Sooo serious.

I'm talking about the physical therapist. I think he left his smile muscles at home.

"Bend your neck this way. Turn your head that way. Is that the best you can do?"

Uhhh ...yeah! I AM 61 years old today, you know.

"Do it again."

He gets his angle-measuring thingie out. Writes down some numbers.

I sit there cracking my gum, thinking about my Biggby birthday coupon and wondering what I'll "spend" it on and whether I'll buy a chocolate chip scone to go with it.

"Point to the exact spot where it hurts."

There is none. It just aches all over. Sometimes maybe right here. 

"Does it hurt more when I press here? Or here?"

It's kind of like trying to tell the eye doctor if this (click, click) or this (click, click) is most clear.

Okay, it hurts there. Kinda. Not really.

Can I go now?

"What is your pain level at its least? What is it at its most? What exacerbates or relieves the pain? What is your pain level right now?"

Ackkkk!

"Your insurance allows 60 visits. You might need to pay 10%. We'll start with 3 visits a week."

Start with?

"Yes, for 30 minutes each, for 4 weeks. Then we'll reevaluate. Here are some exercises to start at home."

Please, just smile.

I head out to the counter and struggle through trying to set up a series of appointments.

I look at the exercises. Easy. Yep. I remember all those from last time. And if I'd been faithful in the easy things . . .

So in some sense, I deserve this discomfort. A consequence of disobedience to directions.

I head straight to Biggby where they smile. I still can't make up my mind and tell the barista to choose for me. I end up with a skinny mocha raspberry. Yum! I bypass the scone since I already had two in the past week.

Sometimes I have a problem with self-discipline. Not today.

********
I cancelled my appointments. I can't justify the time and money spent to have someone do for me what I can and should do for myself. I can't justify spending money to relieve discomfort when the same money could save a life--like helping send a PT to Haiti, or providing relief packs for at least 10 families for a week through Compassion International, or investing in a passport and updating my own immunizations in the event I can provide hands-on relief.

Sometimes I have a problem with stubbornness.

But I can do it myself. 

And I still refuse to fall apart.

Have you suffered any consequences due to stubbornness or lack of  self-discipline? 

" . . . he who does not use his endeavors to heal himself is brother to him who commits suicide." Proverbs 18:9b (Amplified--from Septuagint)

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

A Trip Down Memory Lane--1971

Dennis and Sandy King married and flew to San Francisco for their honeymoon (12/05-12/13).

The Golden Gate Bridge's lights were out all night due to a power failure (12/14)

Richard Nixon was president and Time's Man of the Year.


The last televised cigarette advertisement aired on the Tonight Show.
One of the earliest appeared in 1949--the year of my birth.


The Soviets manned the first space station for 23 days.
Alan Shepard played golf on the moon (Apollo 14).



Walt Disney World opened.


Most watched TV shows included:

And just a couple of my favorites




Beverly Hillbillies, Mayberry RFD, Hogan's Heroes, Green Acres and Ed Sullivan ended.

Song of the year


Tradition!

Miss America - Phyllis George


The average U.S. taxpayer gave the government $400 for defense, $125 to fight the war in Indochina, $40 to build highways, $30 to explore outer space, and $315 for health activities ($7 for medical research).  

Life expectancy: 71.1 years.
The Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series.
No Pulitzer Prize awarded for a fiction book.

Madge softened hands in Palmolive dishwashing liquid.


Tide and a new Speed Queen washer took care of 3-year-old Bradley's dirty shirt.
Woolite safely soaked pants and other fine washables clean in 3 minutes.
Uphill, the engine of the Datsun 1200 Sports Coupe generated such instant pep, you wouldn't hold up a line of angry cars.
You could take a quiet break with a Ford LTD.
You could get an 8 cents off coupon for Easy Off Oven Cleaner.

The average new house cost $25,200.00
The average income was $10,622.00 per year.
A new car cost $3560.00
A movie ticket cost $1.50.
Gas was 40 cents a gallon.
A stamp cost 8 cents.
Fresh baked bread was 25 cents a loaf.
Eggs were 45 cents a dozen.
Women could buy a 2-piece bonded knit pantsuit for $9.98.
You could get 4 "bright, beautiful" place mats and matching coasters for any 10 Stokely labels.

Sources
The Year That Was 
1971 Remember When

Those were the days!

Copyright © 2009 by Sandra Heska King

Heaven in a Bookstore

I hope heaven houses bookstores.

Because I love bookstores.

If I ran away from home, you could probably find me in a bookstore.

Dennis and I bond in bookstores. Even aisles away from each other. One of my favorite date nights. And he loves a cheap night out. Not so cheap, though. I must carry something away, even if I have to furtively buy it and hide it under my shirt. However, he is not the most observant of hair changes, so I could probably just walk out with a book on my head. He'd never notice.

And I make my lists. I'll be back!

After Bible study yesterday, I zipped into Best Buy for a quick purchase. When I left, I swear I saw, just next door, a beckoning Barnes & Noble angel.

Who can resist the call of an angel?

Besides, I had to go to the bathroom.

Once inside I was overcome with colors and smells. Breathtaking! Of the store itself. Not the bathroom.

First I explored the magazine racks. Shiny. Crisp. Except for a few now dampened with drool drips. I quickly hid those behind their brothers and sisters.

Behold! The angel Barista beckoned me with the aroma of fresh gurgling.

I grabbed three writing magazines. Dry ones.

No, wait. Two writing magazines and a U.S. News & World Report special collector's edition--Mysteries of Faith.

So toting my purse, my bag, and my brew on my left, I drifted up and down and all around.

I looked for familiar names. I admired colors and shapes. I stroked spines, pulled books out, balanced them on the shelf--all with my right hand.

Before long, I sank to my knees and set my baggage on the floor. I hugged tomes and caressed pages. I tasted first sentences, chewed on chapter headings, and gulped whole paragraphs. I lost myself in stories and wished for a million dollar gift card.

But time tugged me back, and reluctantly I rose to my feet.

Called out from another near-death experience. To the reality that I needed to pick up Gracee from school.

Goodbye, dear friends.

I'll be back!

When was your last visit to a bookstore? Did you come out empty handed?

"Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore?"~Henry Ward Beecher

Copyright © 2009 by Sandra Heska King

T Minus One Hour and Counting

In the middle of writing a serious post today, my brain cells screamed for coffee.  As I slid back, my headset caught on my chair and clattered to the floor bringing several pieces of paper fluttering down with it.  As I headed across the room, I slipped on several sheets of paper and bounced off the door frame.  I tiptoed around 4 pairs of shoes lining the stairway and stepped over a pair of Gracee's socks in the living room.  I scowled at the tumbleweed of dog hair in the corner, the crayons and "art work" on the table, dishes and crumbs on the sink.

I rose to my full 5 feet 2 (and a half) inches and growled, "That's all I can stands.  I can't stands no more!"

I rustled in the cupboard for a can of spinach, but the only power food I could find was a few chocolate chips scattered on the shelf.

Commence Big Sweep!

A one-hour countdown to imaginary company.

Also known as Operation Double Booster Declutter (ODBD).

You, too, can institute this procedure at any time of day or night.  Here it is blow by blow, step by step.

More organized clean freaks (OCFs) will probably just want to stop here and move on to prepare some specialty tea in a fragile china cup and enjoy it with some of their homemade biscotti in a sparkling nook.  The one near the window framed by freshly washed curtains swaying in a soft breeze.


CAUTION:  Not necessarily green approved. 

1.  Strip as bare as you dare.  Prepare to sweat (ummm, glisten).

2.  Get a large garbage bag, a laundry basket, 2 bins, and a high-quality feather duster.

3.  Pour a pail of water and mix with your favorite cleaning solution.  Set it on a table so you don't kick it over.  Breathe deeply for energy.

4.  No music.  No TV.  Ignore the phone.  No distractions.  You must focus.  Prayer is okay, but only in grunts and groans.

5.  Set your timer for one hour.  GO!

6.  Grab your laundry basket and whisk up all dirty clothes strewn hither and yon.  It's okay to grab a few clean out-of-place items.

7.  Start a load of laundry.  No matter how small.  Scentsation is all important.

8.  Gather up all clean clothes (you know, the stuff that's been waiting around for a few days to be put away) and deposit them in the appropriate bedrooms.  Deposit only.  You may stack linens in the closet.

9.  Place your bins and garbage bag in a central area.  You will run back and forth and shed a few ounces in the process.

10.  Anything that belongs somewhere else goes in bin #1.

11.  Anything you are not sure of goes in bin #2.

12.  Trash goes in bag.  Duh.

13.  Do not think too hard.  Try to get more stuff in bin #2 and the trash bag.  We are not recycling today.  Well...okay.  Newspapers, magazines, cans and plastic in bin #1.

14.  Run through the house with the feather duster.  Concentrate on visible dust and cobwebs.  Check near the ceiling.

15.  Dance with the vacuum.  Fast.

16.  Put items from bin #1 away.  Hide bin #2.

17.  Transfer clothes to dryer.  Quickly wash any dishes.

18.  Dump some cleaning solution down all sinks and into toilets.  Swish, swish.  Wipe down counters with whatever is closest at hand.  Hang fresh hand towels.

19.  Close bedroom doors.  You'll deal with them tomorrow.  Toss garbage bag.

20.  Take a deep breath.  Look around.  Sigh. smile.  Resume regular programming.

Note to self:  At next power surge, immediately transfer anything still in bin #2 to trash bag or giveaway box.  If you can remember where bin #2 is.

Second note to self:  Vow not to let things get out of control.  Again.


Copyright © 2009 by Sandra Heska King

Of Faith and Feet

Christian comedian Anita Renfroe slipped in basement flooding at the bottom of their stairs last night.  This morning she discovered she has a cracked tibia and will need a cast.  No doubt this episode will be worked into a great sketch.

I fell three years ago. 

The smoke alarm blasted us out of bed in the middle of the night.  I, of course, was on my feet much sooner than hubby and raced down the stairs to save the family.  I heard the crack when I hit the carpeted floor and looked up to see Superman leap over me in his race to shut off the weather radio.  No – there was no fire.  Just a thunderstorm warning.

As I rolled and moaned, Abby flew out of her bedroom to stand over me and gag at the blue balloon inflating on my ankle.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” I whimpered.  I just knew I shattered it.

A consultation ensued above my head as to who would take me to the ER and who would stay home with a sick Gracee.  Abby woke up Jeremy, who was not into being snatched from his slumber.  Together they pulled me up. 

“I think I’m going to faint,” I gasped.

My very sensitive son, who was also taking a health education class at the time, rolled his eyes.  “She’s faking.”

While my husband got dressed – ever so slowly – Jeremy and Abby dragged and carried me down another short flight of steps, across the breezeway, through the garage, and threw me into the van. 

And left me – in the dark – while the thunder cracked and lightning flashed.

I felt the faint coming on again.  Hubby finally strolled out to the van.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

He left me again.  And finally came back with a towel and a pail.  Thanks, honey.

After a tortuous exam and x-rays, the ER doctor pronounced only a sprain.  They twisted and manipulated my ankle into a splint, wrapped it, and sent me home with drugs.  And when we returned to the van and opened the door, the lights came on to reveal the pail my husband had grabbed.  The one he scoops dirty cat litter in to carry out to the field!  I'm so glad I didn’t need to use it.

Later that morning, I went to see my own doctor. 

“So how come it hurts right here?” I asked pointing to a spot on the side of my foot.

He hmmmm’d as only doctors can hmmmmm, and my sister-in-law wheeled me across the parking lot for another x-ray.

Doc’s response when he saw the x-ray?  “Ewwwwww!”

And thus began a round of visits to the orthopedic surgeon who decided he could treat the break without surgery and placed me in a hot pink cast, followed a week later by a big ugly boot because I couldn’t stand the cast.  This adventure lasted about 3 months.

I cleaned house for Jeremy’s birthday a few days later by crawling up and down stairs.  I learned how to pick up clothes from the floor with a crutch and toss them in the washing machine.  I actually lived in the basement, parked on the couch and continued to work on my laptop.  I only fell a couple of times in water Rose Dog drooled on the vinyl after slurping a drink.  I zipped through the Black Friday shopping crowds in a motorized wheelchair.

I didn’t have too many temper tantrums or too many pity parties.  I have a very busy family, and I learned to be very self-sufficient.  I depended mostly on myself.  Didn’t ask for much help.  But did feel a little sorry for myself sometimes when it didn’t come.

I didn’t believe the foot would heal without surgery.  But apparently, the way it broke and then healed made that bone even stronger.

So why do we feel sometimes like we have to go it alone?  When our feet don’t work, shouldn’t we allow someone the opportunity to put feet to their own faith?

Couldn’t have anything to do with pride, could it?  We crave help, but we won’t ask for it or we reject it and then we feel sorry for ourselves.  We get cranky because others can’t read our minds and take care of what we need before we know we need it.

We are such silly people.

Or maybe it’s just me. 

Anyway, I’m so glad there is ONE who knows what I need before I do and stands ready to take care of that need even when I don’t ask.  But sometimes He wants me to ask.  Sometimes Him.  Sometimes those around me.

Because it’s all about relationship and about giving up and about not trying to go it all alone.

I think He knew I needed to learn this lesson.  And my faith grew stronger.

Through brokenness. 

Through a broken foot. 

And He tempered it with laughter.  Because it is one of the funniest sketches in our family history. 

“First pride, then the crash—the bigger the ego, the harder the fall.” (Proverbs 16:19 – the Message)

Have you ever struggled with asking for help?

Copyright © 2009 by Sandra Heska King

Confessions of a Chocoholic

Do you behold God in chocolate? I do. Who else could have created something so heavenly?

Yesterday was a little heavy, so tonight I'm serving up something on the lighter side. I'm going to share something I wrote a couple years ago for Bridging Boundaries, the online publication for OA-AHDI, Online Association of the Association for Healthcare Documentation Integrity. You could gain some pounds on that mouthful!

Snady Chocoholic: I made your muffins. You lied. One was not enough. I ate 2. I wanted 3. So this morning I ate 3. I wanted 4. How many points is that?

Sharon Discipline: Two points each. Four of them would be less points (and FAT) than a big fat chocolate bar. Plus they have fiber. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Snady Chocoholic: That's good. Cuz I ate the 4th. And later the 5th. There is no hope for me. These were not supposed to be mini muffins, were they? Because if so, I'm sunk.

Sharon Discipline: No. I use a regular-sized muffin tin. Nice big muffins for 2 points. Of course, you are only supposed to eat 1 or 2 at a time.

Snady Chocoholic: Well, that's a relief. So I could eat 6 muffins for 12 points and still have about 12 points to spare? Actually, I could eat a whole dozen and a couple of carrot sticks and an apple and call it good.

Sharon Discipline: OR you could eat ONE as a treat and then have a piece of fruit or some yogurt.

Snady Chocoholic: ONE? You've GOT to be kidding! This is your fault, you know. I just bought 2 more boxes of chocolate and 1 of spice and 3 cans of pumpkin.

Sharon Discipline: I take it you haven't tried this with the mini chocolate chips yet? You probably shouldn't. This would be like starting an addict off on the very first hit or something. Add another point per muffin.

Snady Chocoholic: Ummm...no, not the minis. I grabbed the full dose--the big ones--on accident, of course. I'm in big trouble, right?

Sharon Discipline: Back away from the full-size chips, Snady! Back away, ma'am.

Snady Chocoholic: My son's girlfriend confiscated all the cake mixes and cans of pumpkin. I know where to find more. Will you visit me in rehab? Bring muffins!

CHOCOLATE PUMPKIN MUFFINS
1 box chocolate cake mix (dark chocolate with pudding!)
1 16-ounce can pumpkin
Scant cup water
1/2 small bag mini chocolate chips (if desired - HA!)

Mix and pour into lightly-sprayed muffin tins. Bake at 350 for about 20 minutes or until toothpick is clean. (Unless you've used too many chocolate chips - then guess.) Cool on rack. Extra yummy while warm.

VARIATION
Use spice cake mix and golden raisins.

APPROXIMATE POINTS
ONE without chocolate chips or raisins: 3
ONE with chocolate chips or raisins: 2

Recipe developed by Sharon Cline, Service Team Manager, Webmedx, and shared with permission.

Well tested in the kitchen of Snady the Chocolate Lady.

So now I'm off to look up verses on gluttony...