And since I Blogged about Christmas, Might as Well Blog about the New Year...

I can remember being in elementary school, watching the teacher at the front of the room remove the “1989,” carefully printed in large block letters in black marker on green construction paper.  That piece of paper fluttered into the wastebasket as my teacher replaced it with “1990.”  She’d also exchanged the name of the month, swapping out “December” for “January.”  She didn’t toss away the name of the month, though.

“The months come again,” she explained, I guess filing “December” away for next year.  “But the years never do.”

I was seven at the time, and as I stared at the trashcan where 1989 had been deposited, I can still remember the sense of sadness I felt as I realized that the year was over, and unlike the passing month, it would never return.  It was gone and finished, never to be displayed in our classroom again.

It was a profound realization.  We don’t get the years back.

I’m not sure what kind of a weird kid I was, that I let that image of the final year of the eighties in the trashcan stay with me all of this time.  On that day, I actually mourned the passing of a year in a way that could be considered similar to that with which adults and older children might grapple with death (a circumstance that fortunately had not yet touched my young life).

But it seems to me now that my fixation on what was lost and over back then has stayed with me all these years later, reminding me that time only moves forward, that it stops for none of us, that you can look back, but never go back.

And while I still think there is a certain sadness in that, I choose to spend more of my time these days being grateful for the months that I know will come round again, rather than dwelling on the years in the past.

True, I won’t be here for all of them—the future summers that I love to spend lying on the beach, the impending winters that bring the excitement of possible snow fall, the springs that promise beauty in blooms and new beginnings.

But the times will keep coming, even after I’m gone.  There is a season for everything.  Ecclesiastes 3:1 reads, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven.”  3:4-7 continue, “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak.”

May the coming year bring you more laughter than weeping, more dancing than mourning, more searching, mending, and embracing than their alternatives.  But if the new year contains more of the less desirable aspects of life for you and yours, may God grant you wisdom and understanding as you go through whatever seasons 2019 holds for you.

Charles Dickens began one of his great works with, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”  While this is one of the most renowned beginnings in all of literature, my response has always been:  Well, yeah.  But when wasn’t it?

While there are very real highs and lows likely waiting around the corner for you and me, many of them beyond our control, we also hold a great responsibility in our own lives to choose how we respond to the good and the bad, the thrilling and the devastating, the little moments, both precious and mundane.

Nearly three thousand years ago, the author of Ecclesiastes, most likely King Solomon, came to a similar realization.  In Chapter Five, the book reads, “it is good and proper for a man to eat and drink, and to find satisfaction in his toilsome labor under the sun during the few days of life God has given him—for this is his lot.  Moreover, when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work—this is a gift of God” (18-19).

So while your labor may be toilsome or some of your days tedious, whatever your struggles, I pray that you find satisfaction in all that you have been given in the coming year.   Our days may seem like many, but the older we get, the faster they come.  Too often, in the end, it seems we were given too few.  So I pray that you make the ones you were given count, that you find satisfaction in the small stuff, that you choose to be thankful even when your natural inclination might lead you to feel otherwise.  I hope you find joy in all your blessings, big and small in 2019, and I hope you find more reasons to smile than to cry.

Love from my family to yours.

If God allows, we'll celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary this summer.  We've been privileged to experience some of life's greatest joys during these last few years, and we've also made our way through some really low valleys.  I don't know what 2019 has in store for us, but when I close my eyes and remember this moment, I am reminded that God has been so, so good to us, and that the same God who gave us each other was there through the dark times, too.

Christmas Wishes

I am where traditions come to die.

My mother, like her mother before her, hand-stitched beautiful, painstakingly created Halloween costumes every year.  We have been elaborate mermaids and He-Men, pirates and princesses.  Once, my brother Johnny was a giant, well-designed hot dog.

Me?  I buy some overpriced, pre-packaged costume the week or day before it is needed.

My mother bought us unique Christmas ornaments every year, envisioning that we would eventually take them all with us and put them on our own trees when we were grown.

While a few of mine have survived, and some have even made their way onto the tree, I’m ashamed to say that the vast majority of them probably now live in a box in the garage, the result of several moves to different apartments and houses through my early and late twenties.  I’ve not had it together enough as an adult to start a similar tradition for my own children, though they do each have a “Baby’s 1^st” ornament.  I can’t even claim credit for buying those—my oldest child’s was a gift from my sister-in-law, and my younger daughter, who happens to have two, received one because her father picked one out of the gift shop in the hospital, as she was born in December, and the other came from (you guessed it) my mother.

And speaking of Christmases and trees, ours comes out of a box.  Well, a series of boxes, and because it’s so old—a hand-me-down—the colored labels that tell us which hole to insert which branch are all peeling off, making putting this tree together a special treat.  I wonder if my father is ever rolling in his grave at the notion of his daughter putting up an artificial tree.  He’d probably roll his eyes even more at our inept struggle to put the long branches near the bottom and the shorter one near the top, in spite of my grumbling that the color coding system is broken. 

My father would never have found himself in a situation such as this.  He had to go find the biggest tree on the lot for his family, every single year—perhaps like his father before him?  One Christmas I swear our tree had to have been twelve feet tall (our house, the same one I grew up in, is not big by any standard, but we do have vaulted ceilings in the living room—and I vaguely remember this tallest of trees touching the highest peak of the ceiling, the uppermost part of it bowed beneath the peak of the house, not exactly allowing for artful placement of a star).

It's not that I don’t try.  I want to be one of those moms who makes cookies for Santa and reads about Jesus’ birth on Christmas Eve.  It’s just that I also happen to be the kind of person who thinks that Christmas Eve is a pretty good time to, you know, start wrapping presents.

I’ve been a procrastinator most of my adult life, I guess.  I don’t mean to be.  There are aspects of my time I manage particularly well—at work, for example, where if I didn’t get things done in a timely manner, I probably wouldn’t have a job.  I faithfully serve at church each week, offering a smile and a handshake to church members, visitors, strangers.  I’m always on time and ready to do what is asked of me.

But when it comes to momming, I’m never going to be room mom or hold office in the PTO.  I’m probably not even going to make it to story time at the library, even though I think that’s a great idea in theory.

I’m just not wired that way.

But here is what I can promise my children, each and every Christmas:

As long as I’m alive, there will never be a day that I won’t want to hug you.

I pray for you as often as I think of you.

They won’t always make it to the table for Santa, but my chocolate chip cookies will be the best you’ve ever tasted, and I will teach you how to make them.

I will teach you to be kind.  I will do my best to model selfless living, and show you what it looks like to treat others the way that Jesus would.

We will value laughter in our house.  I believe how often we laugh is a much more accurate measure of our wealth than the numbers on the bank statements.

You will grow up in a house where the number one rule is “God first.”  Our other rules include “Don’t let anyone win”—I did inherit my competitive nature from my father, I suppose—and “Do things that make sense.”

It goes without saying that we will love each other in this house.

I will not be the kind of mother who protects you from ever feeling a consequence.  I will not argue with your teachers over grades or make excuses for you if you are in the wrong.  Instead, I will love you through any sort of disappointment you face, whether it is one you created yourself because of your own choices, or one that you must face simply because of unfair circumstances.

I will be the first to admit that life is not always fair.  I will do my best to teach you how to let this realization make you better, not bitter.

I will teach you that being more selfish is never the answer.

I will teach you that sour cream and onion potato chips are clearly the most superb amongst all flavors, and if you refuse to learn this lesson, good.  That means there will be more for me.

I will teach you the true meaning of Christmas—all about love, grace, forgiveness, faith, and joy.  Each of these, which are the secret to living a life well-lived regardless of the season, are demonstrated through Jesus' birth, and I will make sure to explain as best I can how I know this to be true.  Some years, there will be many presents under our tree.  Other years, they might not be abundant.  I will try to teach you how to experience joy, no matter what is wrapped up and waiting for you Christmas morning.

My greatest joys in life are being your mother, being your father’s wife, and being a daughter of God.  I will try to show you how to love your parents and grandparents by loving my own mother and grandmother.  It is one of my greatest regrets that you never got to watch me love your grandfather, and that even if you had been old enough to experience that time, I might have shown him more obviously how much I loved him, so that neither you nor he could have doubted it.

I will love my husband and try to put his needs above my wants, as I believe he does the same for me.  I pray you find this kind of love, and when you find it, you don’t give up on it.  I will do everything in my power to show you how a real marriage is a partnership, that love is a feeling but also a choice.  That you must choose love day after day.

So, my dear children, choose love.  Whether you grow up to be the bake sale queen or the scattered artist, the mom who does all organic or baby yoga or still has a girls’ night complete with wine or all or none of the above—love your kids as best you can, in the way that is natural to you.  Listen to all of the people God has put in your path to guide you, but at the end of the day, make your decisions about how to live your life for an audience of one—what do you think is best in this situation, and what would God say about it?

Above all, choose love. 

PS--As I write this, there's a freaking squirrel in the fireplace.  Your father tried to force it to evacuate Chevy Chase style, enlisting one of you--the elder--to "SHOO it, SHOO it."  I'm not sure exactly how that worked out, but due to the scratching I can still hear directly behind me in the chimney in back of the recliner, I'm thinking:  Wildly Unsuccessfully.  There's always been a little bit of National Lampoon in our family--Chevy Chase was one of my dad's favorites.  Don't be ashamed of the everyday crazy.  Embrace it.

Thoughts on Writing... I'm Done!

So, a few months ago, I had started a series of posts exploring my Thoughts On Writing, and I had ambitiously decided to come up with thirty-six reflections on my relationship with writing in celebration of my thirty-sixth birthday.

That was a stupid idea.

Well, maybe the idea was okay.  And if I really wanted to, I could probably continue pushing myself to come up with tidbits to share... but the problem is, as it usually is, that my intentions are good, but my commitment to my execution?  Not so much.

Maybe that should be something I learn about writing:  Follow through!

But the truth is, when it matters, I do.

I finished my dissertation--on time, even!

I've finished a draft of my latest book-length project--a memoir.

I finish short stories.  I finish essays.  Sometimes I even finish poems, though I rarely share those.

But just as often, I do leave things unfinished.  Maybe this is the life of the writer--abandon some projects in favor of others.  Know when to save it for later, or perhaps, call time of death.

I'm calling time of death on Thoughts on Writing.  Writing about writing is fun and all, and the thirty-six ways were a challenge to help me keep my commitment to post more regularly.

(You see how well that worked out).

But they've served their purpose--I got a few posts out of the project (three to be exact, for a grand total of EIGHTEEN THOUGHTS ON WRITING!), and as usually happens this time of the year, no matter what my intentions, blogging is now taking a backseat.

To grading and planning and meetings.

To school:  Both my own work (it is a nice change of pace to not be a student, for once in the last eight semesters!) as well as each of my daughters' schools (Yes, Shay goes to SCHOOL now--can you believe it?).

To searching for crock pot recipes.  To preparing crock pot recipes.

To losing the never ending war that is trying to clean my house.

To rooting for the Ravens and dealing with the jubilee and despair my fandom brings me.

To scheduling time with Rashieme and Kaliah and Shay--whereas lazy summer days allow us to spend time together--or not--as we see fit, I have to be more intentional about allocating time for and to my family when the chaos of the academic semester starts revving up.

To writing other stuff--for work, for me, for church.

So yeah, my thoughts on writing?  I've thought enough about it.  Lol.

I'd rather spend the time I would have dedicated to writing about writing to writing something else--because at the end of the day, our time is limited.  I've written enough about being a writer.

I want to write about living.

And as the great Henry David Throeau once said, "How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live."

Thoughts on Writing Part III... (The Potty Training Edition)

Potty training is on my mind today.

I wrote a funny piece about it, the process of potty training our youngest, and, actually, I am super excited to announce that its publication will be forthcoming in a hilarious collection of humorous literature online called Defenestration.  But in thinking about writing that piece (and dealing with the daily victories, frustrations, setbacks, and learning that is potty training), I’ve been thinking about how much of what I’ve learned about writing is similar.

So, for today’s reflections, here are six lessons learned about writing that also apply to potty training.

13.  Celebrate the small successes.  Joy hath no depth greater than that of a toddler telling her daddy she pee-peed on the potty.  We’d all be wise to celebrate accomplishments that, much like peeing on the potty, have gotten a bit routine over the years.  For writers, celebrate success however you can--share the good news with other writers, friends, your family--whoever will be excited for you.  

14.  Realize you’re going to get messy.  I won’t get into the details of the analogy to potty training here, as it’s both graphic and obvious.  But writing is the same way, whether you’re seeking publication or not.  Writing about painful memories is messy.  Getting rejected is a crappy feeling. Be prepared for it, and know it is perfectly normal.

15.  Reward yourself.  With Shay, we award her with a song and dance routine that reflects our joyous celebration of her successful use of the toilet.  And, often, we also give her a cookie.  Figure out what your goals as a writer are, and when possible, reward yourself for meeting goals, for sticking to your schedule, for landing a "no" that wasn’t a flat out form rejection.  Have a cookie.  A glass of wine.  A night out with friends, a pair of new shoes.  Heck, hang a favorite sentence on your fridge, and then reward yourself with something yummy inside of it.

16.  Speaking of sentences on the fridge:  Be your own validation.  My two-and-a-half-year-old, Shay, often exclaims, “Big girl!”  It’s both lovely and admirable, the sheer confidence she has in herself, the truth she feels in that statement, as she declares herself to be a big girl.  I mean, she’s wearing the panties!  Who am I to argue with her?  We struggling writers should remind ourselves:  “We’re writers!” No publisher, agent, teacher, or critic can tell us that we’re not, even if we’re not yet as successful as we long to be.

17.  Deny yourself.  (I know, exactly the opposite of number 15).  But with Shay on the potty, we don’t always allow her everything she wants—we sometimes hold out.  I’ll tell her she can’t have more juice until she uses the potty.  As writers, what can we deny or delay until we’ve reached our goals?  For me, in the summer, maybe I'll forgo a morning at the beach to finish revising a draft. (And then I can have an afternoon at the beach!)

18.  And about that—set some goals!  Maybe they’re obvious and you don’t need to write them down.  For example, I don’t need to write down that my hope for Shay is that her underwear stay clean all day, just like I don’t need to put it in print that I’m going to write five pages each day—I wake up knowing that is my goal!  But perhaps it will be helpful to write down an objective or two: Write a story that makes my kid laugh.  Be published in a particular publication.  Write a novel in x amount of time.  In other areas of my life, I’ve written down a goal and pinned it above my desk where I’ll see it every day.  That might be helpful for some aspiring writers, and you know what?  Maybe I’ll take my own advice, set some new writing goals, and tack them up above my desk or tape them to my mirror.  Just like I love crossing items off a to-do list, I am all about looking at bigger "to dos" and realizing that they have become "Done."

So while I'm thinking about my next steps, and what big To Dos I'm going to be brave enough to write down.... In the meantime, I’m going to try to keep my big girl dry in her big girl panties!  Stay well everyone—keep writing, mom-ing, and whatever else it is you are doing.

Shaylin acting modest... she's a VERY big girl!

Thoughts On Writing, Part II

As promised, I return this week with several more reflections on writing.  I began conceiving 36 Reflections on Writing last Thursday, two days after my 36th birthday.  I must admit that the number 36 is completely arbitrary, and that, like much of my writing, I began not knowing how I would end.  Of course I picked 36 as my number of suggestions in an effort to celebrate my 36 years... but I suppose time will tell whether or not we'll make it to the end.  That brings me to my first thought for today...

7.  It's okay to not know where you're going.  I hear that there are lots of authors out there who map out, in great detail, exactly where they are headed.  I must confess that I almost never work that way.  I start with an idea to follow it and see where it takes me.  Sure, there are some dead ends (and lots of u-turns), but for the most part, I almost never know where I'm going.  I personally think it's okay to write without knowing how I'll end something.  In fact, I prefer working this way.  This brings me to my next reflection.

8.  Just get started.  As mentioned above, not knowing how everything will shake out is no reason to delay a beginning.  I know some writers who talk themselves into writer's block because they don't have it all together in their head.  Whether I'm writing for academics or my personal life, the first step for me is always to start somewhere.  I'm not big into pre-writing, either (sorry, English teachers!).  I just need to start typing.  If it doesn't turn out, that's what the backspace key is for.

9.  Sometimes you find a gem in the junk.  I've written more than my fair share of garbage over the years.  I've never let that stop me from pursuing writing, but I've also learned that even in the worst writing exercises I've attempted, there's almost always something to be admired somewhere in there.  Sometimes you have to write a bunch of crap before you know what you want to say, and even after you know what you want to write, sometimes you have to write your way into it.  Thus, a lot of my most boring sentence structures, most trite descriptions, and lackluster language usage have paved the way for the kind of sentences I want to hang on my refrigerator.  (Relax, I'm not that big of a nerd.  The fridge has a ladybug made by Shay hanging on it now, as well as Kaliah's report card).

10.  Parenthetical casualties can save a chapter.  I learned this one while revising and editing my dissertation.  Having always been too fond of the Faulknerian sentence, it was difficult for me to balance the need to write clearly and concisely with my desire to vividly craft eloquent sentences.  I've probably always relied way too much on dashes, parentheticals, and other tricks that allow me to continue stringing words together when my poor reader is desperately seeking a period.  In the back and forth commenting my chair and I engaged in as I submitted draft after draft of my writing, I remember typing "another parenthetical casualty," with just a bit of resentment, as I'd removed yet another parenthetical phrase at her request.  "Yes, but you saved the chapter," she wrote back.  As I read my earlier versions of the work, I had to admit that she was right.  That leads me to number eleven.

11.  Get yourself a friendly critical reader.  You need them because they're going to give you a perspective that you can't find on your own.  When you're too close to your writing, you aren't going to notice all the ways it can be improved.  Notice I also said friendly, here--because, really, who wants an unfriendly critic?  You need someone who can be honest about both the good and bad.

And the last one for today...

12.  Picture your Ideal Reader.  Maybe you're not ready to share with a real reader yet.  Maybe time doesn't allow for this.  Maybe your readers are TOO friendly, and won't be honest.  When I was a senior in college, Rashieme came to my senior reading.  His resting facial expression isn't all that inviting, I suppose--my creative writing professor noticed him, and was, unbeknownst to me, watching him throughout the event.  Now, I didn't notice this, because I was reading--but apparently, as Rashieme got into the writing I was sharing, his expression changed.  He leaned forward in his seat.  He nodded along to parts of the writing that moved him.  "Did you see that guy?" My professor asked me, later.  Not knowing he was my boyfriend, my prof went on to describe how Rashieme arrived looking bored but became animated halfway through my reading.  "Write like you're trying to hook that guy with the first sentence!" Dr. Horner instructed.  Stephen King has called that person that you write for your "Ideal Reader."  Whether real or imagined, it might be helpful to envision how your writing will be perceived by someone else.

That's all for today, folks!  Speaking of ideal readers, I'm thankful for all of you.  Hopefully those of you who write found something useful here today, but even if that's not the case, thanks, as always, for dropping by!

36 Reflections on Writing for my 36th Birthday... Part 1.

Well, it's come and it's gone:  My 36th Birthday.

36 has an interesting vibe to it.  I'm still young in the general scheme of things, but I'm also on the other side of "middle life," if you figure we get approximately seventy years on the planet.  As I'm thinking about my time on the third rock from the sun, I am mostly reflecting on how blessed I am.  I have an amazing husband, beautiful daughters, a caring and supportive extended family, a teaching career that I love... Plus, I live at the beach.

Who could want for more?  Jesus already solved the biggest problem I'll ever have.  I enjoy great health, good food, a fun family.

The area of my life that is furthest from where I wish it was?  My writing life.  In a way, I've accomplished more in writing than I ever thought I would.  I've written a dissertation.  My writing has unlocked the door for me to be called doctor.  I've been published in a scholarly journal, and I've traveled to Illinois, Western Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, and even London to discuss my academic writing.

On the creative side of things, I connect with hundreds of readers instantly when I click publish on this page, a phenomenon that I never would have imagined possible when I was growing up and writing in spiral notebooks.  I've written three novel-length works to date.  That's sort of impressive, too, even if they aren't enjoyed by the masses.  I'm such a procrastinator, my entire house has never been fully cleaned within the same month, but somehow, little old me wrote three books?

Killing it.

But still, the little girl in 4th grade who wrote "The Christmas Tree Mystery," a lyrical poem that was my first actual publication, courtesy of our local paper, The Wave, still dreams of being a published novelist.  The girl who sat in creative non-fiction class fifteen years ago and read "I expect to see your name in print someday" written on the bottom of her final paper?

That girl wants validation.

Thus, even as I continue to seek traditional publication, I stop and reflect on lessons learned so far from my writing life.  I'm not where I want to be, yet, but I've also accomplished so much I never considered possible.  So in honor of my 36th birthday, here are the first of 36 Thoughts on Writing.  Hopefully they'll encourage some other writers out there.

1.  You are a writer.  This was the point that was always driven home to me by The Eastern Shore Writing Project, and I am so thankful to have heard it again and again in that context.  It's good advice for anyone who wants to be a writer.  If you are writing, you are a writer.  Simple as that.  Your publication status, the opinions of others, and even your own doubts have nothing to do with it.  You are a writer.

2.  Writing while mom-ing is hard work.  This one probably sounds like a duh.  But I can remember listening to one novelist who explained that she began writing when her son was born and her traditional career was put on hold.  She was at home everyday, and she began writing while he napped. Oh, how I wish it worked that way for me!  I was never the mom who naps when the baby naps, but I also don't accomplish anything else while my children are asleep.  I take a few moments to just be, and that's ok, too.  For me, admitting it's not easy to do much else while being a mother is helpful.  Motherhood is the most important job I'll ever do, and lofty literary aspirations have to take a back seat.  They just do.

3.  Writing dreams can sit in the backseat.  But they need a seat somewhere.  Having said that writing while mom-ing is hard work, don't kick writing out of your life altogether! (Whether for you, the challenge is mom-ing, or working, or dad-ing, or schooling, or wife-ing, or whatever!)  I write because I love it, because I need to, because I'm a better me for doing it.  When I don't write (which does happen), sometimes the world doesn't turn upside down.  But, I miss it.  So for me, it's about making time.  In the summer, my schedule is pretty relaxed, but I still try to beat my family up every day and write a few pages.  When I was working on my last book, and I had to finish it?  I set an alarm at 5 a.m. everyday and wrote five pages.  Doesn't matter where you get it in, just get it in.

4.  Querytracker.net is a great website.  That's it!  But if you're a writer who didn't know it existed, now you do.  You're welcome.  :)  It's a fantastic resource for writers who want to connect with agents and/or publishers.

5.  Revision is your friend.  I have a love/hate relationship with revising.  There are times when I've hated being forced to go back through a draft.  There have been lucky moments when I've written some truly strong first drafts, and haven't really needed to revise.  These moments inflated my already-too-big-ego and made me think that I'm a better writer than I really am... and what I've learned through the dissertation process is that revision really does lead to stronger writing, regardless of who you are and how good your first draft was.

6.  Rejection does not define you.  I've been rejected from agents more times than I can remember (although if I really wanted to depress myself, I could pull up my old excel spreadsheets as well as my current ones and give you a number).  But, I am not a poor writer.  My manuscripts were not necessarily even poor manuscripts.  They just weren't right for those particular agents at the particular times I pitched them.  It took the Chicago Cubs 108 years to win a World Series.  I've already spent about ten years trying to get published, so, I figure if I keep at it... only 98 more years to go!

But seriously... agented or not, published or not, see number 1.  I am a writer.

For more lessons on writing and life (from an unpublished, unagented author who stubbornly refuses to give up), look for the sequel to this blog post coming soon!


The writing starter kit:  Location you love.  Coffee.  Laptop.  Plethora of papers (notes, printed copies of earlier drafts, what have you).  Optional:  Hot Mama Boots.

A Sort-Of-Venting-Post About Recipes on the Wild, Wild Web...

Confession time:  I am a mediocre cook at best.

Having said that, I will also profess that I actually LIKE cooking... when I'm not too pressed for time, and when I found a recipe that I think is worth trying.  I'm always excited to attempt the execution.  There's something really satisfying to me about fixing a meal that my family loves.  This may come as a surprise, because I'm really not a very traditional housewife in pretty much any other way.  I'm lousy at cleaning.  I've never attempted anything off Pinterest. I flat out hate crafting.

Since I've really begun cooking for myself, shortly after college (at which point I knew how to make three things: 1.  Kraft macaroni and cheese 2.  Tacos--with the aid of a pre-packaged kit and 3. Hamburger helper), the internet has been, almost exclusively, my resource for recipes.  I've noticed a trend though, in my searching for culinary greatness over the years, and I'm probably about to offend the entire food blogging world with this complaint.

So let me start by saying I'm sorry, and I get it.

BUT, here's my issue:  In the past couple years of googling, what I tend to get when I search for a particular dinner idea, usually googling "low-carb" (because, sigh, I love carbs but they don't love me) plus "easy" plus "whatever main ingredient I have on hand" is this:

A compilation of pages upon pages of blog entries every bit as long and longer than this one, with every blessed one of them interrupted by photos detailing any and all of the following:  Before shots of the ingredients.  Photos of crock pots, skillets, and blenders.  Photos of steps along the way (none of them actually showing you HOW to do something, mind you, just random shots of eggs in a pan or ingredients in a bowl).  Fourteen thousand pictures of the finished product.

Plus, a long-winded story of how the recipe came to be.  What sentimental value it has for the cook.  How the author's husband, children, third cousin, in-laws, and dog all love it.

And there, finally, at the bottom of the page?

All I was looking for.

The list of ingredients.

And step-by-step directions.

Sooo....

Like I said, I'm sorry, and I get it.  I'm long-winded and wordy myself.  Just ask my dissertation committee.  Or browse through old entries on this blog!

Food is life.  And life is writing, and trying to capture all those special moments.  Cooking and eating are some of our most sacred ways of connecting with each other.  And of course all these foodies should continue to blog and share their art.

I just have one teensy suggestion:

Put the recipe first!

I'm sorry, but Jenny the I-have-to-get-to-work-on-time-Mom who has to throw something in the crock pot before I get out the door doesn't appreciate reading the story of your life as it pertains to chicken and sausage as I try to beat the clock and the morning traffic.

I just want to know how to make the chicken and sausage.

Rant over.  And before every gourmet cook in the world attacks me, let me just say that I am mostly kidding.

(Except I'm kinda serious--because while it used to be one out of ten recipes that presented the information in this format, now it's like fifteen out of ten.  And by the time I scroll to the bottom to get to the actual recipe and realize I don't have all the ingredients, and then I have to go to another recipe in the same format, and go through the same cycle... that scrolling adds up!!)

So please, for the sake of busy moms--

At least put the ingredient list before the Days-Of-Your-Life text and photos?  I won't mind scrolling for the how-to part if I at least know I have what I need in the cabinets.

Heck, maybe I'll even read the blog.

:)

The Things We Wait For...

In May, my grandmother, Margaret Parker, turned 90.

Since finishing my doctoral studies, I've been making more of an effort to dedicate time to my creative writing.  As part of my focused writing time, I recently finished a draft of a short story, one that details the events of the evening we surprised Mommom for her 90th birthday.

Turns out--and I didn't know this when I decided we should throw her a surprise party--turns out she waited 90 years for a real birthday party.




Now before you get too upset at this injustice--make no mistake, my family celebrated Mommom's birthday every year.

But it was always a low-key, immediate family only, cake and ice cream routine.

Had I known Mommom had never had a real birthday party, I would have suggested to my mother that we throw her a big one years ago.

But I didn't know.  And so I found out that night, a couple days before her actual birthday, when she gave a speech thanking us all for coming, and noting that she'd never had a real birthday party.

I found myself tearing up during her speech, and now, coming back to that moment, I think about the other things we spend our lives waiting for, maybe without even realizing we're missing out.

Are you waiting to be celebrated?

To be loved and accepted for who you are?

To come to Jesus?

Are you waiting to forgive someone?  To exercise grace in your own life?

Maybe you're waiting for the next big thing around the corner, without stopping to be in this moment, to give thanks for all you've currently got?

I don't know what you're waiting for--courage to take your next step, whatever that might be?

A big, life-changing event?  One that will inspire you to finally do everything you always thought you would?  Those things that have faded into the background, those things that maybe you'll get to someday?

We won't all get 90 years.  I pray that you will, if longevity is a goal of yours.

But I'm guessing that if you think about it, there's something you're waiting for, somebody you're waiting on, or some experience you're missing out on, maybe without even realizing what you've been missing.

Suggestion of the day:  Don't wait.