Stephanie Says.. Take a walk inside my head

I’ve been thinking about death lately.

Not horror death. Not like “oh, a new -Scream- is coming out and isn’t that why you hate garages because Rose McGowan got killed by one in one of the earlier movies?” More of a “Really? You’ve got to be kidding me!” kind of way.

See, one of my jobs is to proofread documents and fliers. Part of that is proofreading obituaries. Not the announcements that go in the paper. I don’t have THAT much power. Just the cards and bookmarks that find their way to the funeral home and are given to family and friends after someone dies.

I have decided that we have funerals for different reasons, one of which is to whitewash the deceased. For example, almost every single obituary I read has the line “and loved spending time with family and friends”. Or how about “had a smile for everyone (they) met”?

Yeah, right, okay.

It could be true, I suppose. It is easy to fake manners in public. But these things are (mostly) written by those who knew the honoree best.  Those who saw them at home, at church, in the garden.  And there is No Way someone can be that good all the time.

Well, okay, let me stop here.  We have had to do cards when infants die.  One was only a month old.  That I get.  The sappy poems and “our little angels” totally apply in that case.  I’m not saying that I believe babies to be angels, I’m saying I get it.  What are you supposed to say when your baby dies?  Bring on the flowery language.  Bring on the cute cherubs.  Bring on the references to heaven.  Totally. Understand.

But someone my age?  Someone older?  As much as I’d like to believe it is true, there is NO WAY every person who dies in Campbell County was always good.  Or kind.  Or church going.  Or saved, for that matter.

I want to rewrite the obituaries sometimes.  Or at least tell the writer to Get Real.

But I don’t.  You don’t do that to grieving people who are either

a) realizing that their wounds and biases won’t ever heal and their unkind words will never be taken back

or

b) missing their loved one so much that all the CAN see is the beauty

or

c) both

What I HAVE decided to do is help.

Now Kenny and Jennifer know not to let the song “Amazing Grace” anywhere NEAR my dead body and they know that bagpipes (and now kazoos) are forbidden, but we haven’t talked obituary yet.

(And for those of you literalists out there, no I am not ill.  I plan on living until my eighties.  This is just for fun.  And also a little bit of a reaction to sweet little poems that can be just plain stupid depending on how you are using them.)

So, Kenny, Jennifer and anyone else who might care, I present to you:

My Flaws

(don’t worry, we’ll end on virtues.  This is just to give you some material for a non or at least less sentimental funeral card)

okay, in no particular order, here we go:

1. I get defensive.  Just ACT like you are going to criticize me and I will attack faster than you can say “psychological mechanism”.  I also have a temper.  Over stupid things.  Seriously.  I am frequently mad at my hangers or the washing machine.  THE WASHING MACHINE.

2. Once I have formed an opinion or belief, it’s hard for me to let go.  For example, I don’t CARE if someone debunked the myth of Jesus and Judas in Da Vinci’s “Last Supper” being the same man.  I like the story and I will believe it always.  I also hold on to first impressions.  I once encountered someone in Wal Mart.  I could not remember who she was, but I knew that I somehow knew her.  I also knew I didn’t like her.  But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember why.  True story.

3. I’m a hypocrite. I can find reasons to justify almost anything I do (like missing church or being late to work) but I HATE to be stood up or kept waiting.

4. I’m not a great listener.  I like to talk and most of what I like to talk about concerns ME. (Cue Toby Keith here)  I can be very un empathetic too.  I try and see other people’s point of view, but I’m not very good at it.  Usually I’ll have formed an opinion of what someone should do before they even tell me their problem.  Usually I stick to that opinion AFTER they have told me their problem.

5. I’m depressed. A lot.  A lot a lot. I swear, I think I run a low grade depression just like some people run a low grade fever.  Clouds circle and I give in.  Most of the time, I don’t even TRY to fight.

Got it?  No “Amazing Grace”.  No sappy poems.  And don’t call me a saint or an angel.

If you MUST praise me, here are some virtues to focus on:

1. I love people.  If the clouds aren’t circling, I enjoy talking with people.  I like starting conversations and see where they lead.  I like discovering new connections and learning new things.

2. I can be stubborn.  If I set out to look for a lost hat, for example, then by Jingo, that hat better be good and lost if I can’t eventually find it.  Once I’ve decided to solve some mystery (little ones like crossword puzzles and missing earrings, not big crime cases-I’m not THAT brave), it’s hard for me to quit.  And I usually (eventually) find what I’m looking for.  Or at least a reasonable facsimile of it.

3. I like to help people.  Sometimes this involves more of Kenny’s money than he wants to spend but I generally like giving to charity or watching someone’s face when they get a present.  I also love the mission project parts of the classes I teach.  I love introducing my children to various needs and talking about ways I can meet them.

4. For the most part, people are people to me.  It doesn’t cost anything to wish someone a nice day or to share a smile.  I don’t generally think “Does this customer DESERVE me interrupting my counting out paper to get up and go see what they need?”  They are a customer.  I can help them or at least try.  Now, if a customer is stinky (that is not a figure of speech.  We really do have customers who actually do stink) and I can’t help them, I try to find a cheerful way to get what they need even as I am passing them off to a co worker.  People are people.  Why be mean?

I guess I want to be remembered as real.  Crazy?  Yes.  Asking stupid questions?  Sometimes.  Enjoyed spending time with family and friends?  Yeah, yeah I do.

But I’m also cranky and prone to depression.  I cry for no reason.  I get impatient.  I’m always late (especially for work.)  I take shameless advantage of my husband’s intelligence and ability to fix almost anything and hide behind being “Daddy’s Girl” especially when it comes to pancakes.

I’m judgmental.  I hold grudges. I think things about people that I would never say to their face because I’m a coward and don’t like confrontation.

But I can be kind.  And loving.  And helpful.  I like to sing and cuddle my cats and rock babies.  I read and read and sometimes write.  I like pretty colors and oversized sweaters and People Magazine.  I eat more chocolate than is good for me and I look forward to navel oranges at Christmas.

I adore my nieces and their brothers.  I adore MY brother.  I think my husband is the best thing that every happened to me and I would have no idea what to do if I actually did run into Johnny Depp.
I’m not all that special.  I’m really rather ordinary.

Please don’t canonize me.  You don’t even have to remember me at all, if you don’t want to.

But I swear, if you do and I hear any kind of bagpipe start to play, someone’s  in deep trouble!

 (Thanks to Pastor for introducing me to the following poem.)

“He drew a circle that shut me out

Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout

 But love and I had the wit to win;

We drew a circle that took him in.” -  

 —  Edwin Markham

If you know me at all, you know two basic things about me.  One is that I pretty much carry a book everywhere.  Even if I am in a situation where I’m not going to be reading, I usually have a book with me.  Daddy once had to pull over during a road trip to get a book from the trunk.  I had finished the one I was reading and was not acting very ladylike without something else to read.  Books are pretty much to me what a thumb and blanket are to Linus.  I’m almost never without one.

The other thing about me that is pretty apparant pretty quickly is that I talk.  I don’t just talk, I talk all the time.  Mama says that when I was little, I would babble to myself in my crib.  No one was around but me and the toys, but there I was…talking without real words.

I do that, you know.  Talk.  And because I talk, you may get the impression that I can’t keep secrets.

In that you’d be right.  And in that you’d be wrong.

If I’m told something is a secret, I can keep it.  For example, in February of my junior year of college, Kenny told me that he was going to propose in July but only if I didn’t tell anybody.  It was the longest half year of my life.  That one, I kept.  Generally, though, if I know something, I tell it.  If I’m in a conversation with someone and a third party walks up, I like to recap the conversation so everyone knows what’s going on.  If there is a detail that I have gotten wrong, I’ll often go back and have the conversation again, letting people know what I’ve misquoted or mistaken.

I’ve thought a lot about why I do this.  Other people are fine with keeping the things in their head…in..well their head.  I however, cause my mother to say “If Stephanie doesn’t tell you everything she knows (about a subject), she thinks she is lying.”

Maybe I like attention.  Maybe I like the sound of my own voice.  Maybe I can’t stand for a room to be silent.

I think though, that this…need…to have everyone included, no one left out comes from some of the schools I attended.  I was too…uncoordinated, pale, literature minded, slow at getting inside jokes, something to be a part of much of anything “groupy” or “inside” or “popular”.  So I can’t stand it when I get even a hint of someone being confused or excluded or not knowing what is going on.

This, this “family”, this “circle”, this “group inclusion” is one thing that my Devotion in Motion group does very well.  When Amanda and I started this Creative Ministries class, we weren’t sure how it was going to go.  By the time we got our core group, we found ourselves with kids ages four to seventeen.  *Gulp*  You see, for the most part, four year olds can’t read and between that and the students’various interests in puppets, drama, dance and song, we weren’t sure how we were going to do anything, much less pull together a skit or two.

Well we’ve done a skit or two.  We’ve done a song and a dance and a puppet show.  Er…well, I take that back.  We didn’t do much at all.  Besides a few “don’t turn your back to the audience” and “no you can’t both play the part of the bad guy, one of you is going to have to be the hero” type comments, the kids are doing it themselves.  They are capable of casting themselves, choreographing themselves, directing themselves.  Now Amanda and I aren’t about to turn the class over to them (they aren’t -that- grown up yet), but we’re so proud of the group they are becoming.

They are different ages.  They are different reading levels.  They are different grades.  They go to different schools, wear different clothes, play different sports.  They listen to different music, read different books, come from different backgrounds.  Some of them are even from different generations.

But they love each other.  They support each other.  They are becoming a group.

I hope that they stay together for years to come.

 

This is something I’ve been thinking about for a while.

Years ago, I overheard a conversation in which one church member was discussing another.  The woman under discussion was in the process of divorce and had kind of drifted away from her church “friends” in favor of people outside our Christian community.  “Why” the originator of the conversation wondered. “Wouldn’t she want to go to fellow Christians for advice?”

I wasn’t part of the conversation and wouldn’t have had an answer if I was.  That is, I wouldn’t have had an answer then, but I think I do now.

See, since childhood, I’ve been the posessor of a black hole of…need.  To put it bluntly, I’m caught somewhere between so shy I make Rapunzel in her tower look sociable and…well, an attention whore.  I say things people don’t understand.  I act out.  I sing and pout and whine and cry.  And if that black whole isn’t filled, I act in silly, shameful and, yes, frankly sinful ways.

And during those times, I often don’t talk to fellow church members either.  But it wasn’t until I overheard the conversation mentioned above that I began thinking about the “Why?”  I am, after all, a Christian.  I have been since I was five.  I can quote you all the “required” Bible verses, sing you at least the first lines of many classic hymns and teach little kids “Jesus Loves Me” in sign language (at least the chorus).  I’m so far into the church culture that most of the surrounding world would have a hard time separating me from it.

Yet, with few exceptions, the people I consider my best friends don’t do the “Sunday Morning, Sunday Night, Wednesday Prayer Meeting” thing.  They have Bibles but may go days without reading them.  They believe in God, but don’t always talk to Him.  And I am so much more comfortable getting personal with them than I am the people I’ve sat in the pew with for over a decade now.

So, as I began to think about the why of it all, it hit me.  Non Christians are more likely to admit that they are sinners than Church People are.  Therefore, they are more comfortable with my faults, failings and confessions than the worship crowd is.  Whether my fellow church members know I am a minister’s child or not, they know me as a Sunday School teacher, a choir member and/or Kenny’s wife.  With that comes an expectation of behavior.  All day, all the time behavior.  When I was living at home, I had a friend tell me that she was shocked to find out that I got into fights with my parents.  She didn’t know ministers’ families acted so…real.

Well we do, and I do.  And Church People have a hard time seeing that. 

Once, when I was expressing disapproval over something I had seen on television, someone told me “Stephanie, you can’t expect Non Christians to act like Christians.”  I thought about that and I wonder: Are the expectations of Church People too high?  Do we put so much pressure on CHRISTIANS to act like Christians that we are, in effect, shutting people down, clamming people up and driving people away?  Like I said, my friends, the ones I’m comfortable opening up to, aren’t shocked if I say “damn” or “hell” or wonder what some kind of drink tastes like or expound upon my never ending Johnny Depp crush.  They don’t hit me with a Bible verse if I say “I think I’m in trouble” or “I don’t have anyone to tell this to.”  They’ve been there.  They have been broken.  They know that they are sinners too and no amount of shock or distain or judgement is going to take that stain away.

See, I think that Church People (me included) take the whole “ambassadors of Christ” thing too far.  Advice giving is great, but what hurting people want is someone to listen, someone to care.  Witnessing can be an ego boost.  So can the number of baptisms a church sees in a year or a sucessful Sunday School attendance.  However, when you’re like me and the clouds are circling and there isn’t anyone to turn to and all you get is Romans, Romans, Romans, you don’t care about numbers or FAITH plans or any other cutsy little marketing tool that Church People have been so trained in that they can’t deviate from the script.  You care about real.  You care about really real.  You care about someone who says “I’ve been there” and who isn’t just saying that to elicit some kind of made up intimacy.  You care about someone who really HAS.

But church, outside of high school, may be the most clique filled place on earth.  It’s a curse and a trap and before you know it, you’re in a role and the only way to survive is to push the hurt, the pain, the “I’m falling into sin here” down and to play that role for dear life.  The problem with a role, though, is that it doesn’t allow for deviation.  My role is two fold.  I’m the crazy not quite grown up girl who says things that make sense to -her- but leaves everyone else scratching their heads on the one hand and the happy to be with the little kids classes teacher on the other.

And you know what? I AM happy to be with the little kids classes.  They aren’t Church People yet.  If they are sad, they tell you.  If they are sorry, they apologize and no amount of coaxing is going to make them say “Sorry” if they don’t really mean it.  And you know what?  They love Jesus.  They love Jesus and they haven’t got any veils or mists or clouds yet to obscure the Gospel.  To them, it’s just love, no matter if they deserve it or not.  No matter if they threw tantrums or spilled glue or cut their neighbor’s paper, they know they are loved.

I wish that my friends and I could find that kind of love amongst the Church People, but I’m afraid we can’t.  Not yet anyway.  That’s okay though.  I’ll hang on with the children and the “sinners” and somewhere between the “I’ve been there’s” and the “Jesus Loves the Little Children’s”, I’m sure to find what I’ve been looking for. And there will be no Church People allowed.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been scared of something.  Dogs, thunder, bugs, the dark…there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t encounter something that makes me afraid.

The biggie, however, is heights.  Stairs, elevators, balconies, stepladders-heck, I even get dizzy sometimes standing up to look at a hymnal.

So why am I in love with the theatre?  Why do I go to shows knowing that there will be myriad stairs to confront and no safety bar when I get to my seat?  I can’t answer the first one, but once I am in my seat, I am okay until I have to stand up again.

The problem comes during intermission.  For some reason, I can’t get through a play (or a movie) without having to use the facilities.  For any normal patron of the arts, this would not present a problem.  Most people can get up, brave the line, take care of business and be back in their chair in time to enjoy Act Two.

I’m not normal.  I freaked out once at the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum because there was a walkway overlooking some of the exibits. To get from point A to point B, I had to cross the walkway.  I did…eventually, but not without my muscles locking up and my body refusing to move despite Kenny’s not so patient urgings.

I just about lost my breath at the Biltmore house when we had to go single file up the backstairs for the “Behind the Scenes” tour.

And crossing from car to car on our honeymoon train almost ended our marriage before it began. 

So when September came and my family and I went to see -Wicked-, I knew I was in trouble.  The music was good.  The sets were good.  The show was great.  My fear was out of control.  I made it through Act One without having to rise, but by intermission I knew I had to get up.

This presented a problem.  On “land” I can go to the restroom alone.  Up high, on the very top row, there was no way I was going to be able to make it by myself.

Enter my cousin Emily.  Emily is about ten years younger than I and I remember her as a supremly confident three year old playing Clue with the “older kids”.  She is now a grown up nurse with dark eyes and a pretty smile.  And she became my “bathroom buddy”.  Though she didn’t have to go herself, she let my eyes follow her feet down the narrow aisle and back safely to my seat again.

I’m getting better.  When I was a teenager, my brother used to carry me up stairs.  When I was first dating Kenny, I wouldn’t get near an elevator until his arms were wrapped around me so tightly I couldn’t fall.  And church balconies rarely, if ever, saw my presence.

I’m getting better, but I’m still terrified.  And I’m thankful that for that day, Emily gently took one step and then another, leading me through my fear so that I could enjoy the musical we had both been wanting to see.

This is something Monica put on Facebook.  I still can’t figure out notes and stuff, so I’m putting mine here.

A- Age: 34, 35 in July

B- Bed size: big (it has to be to hold whichever cats are lounging there)

C- Chore you hate: Cleaning the boy’s bathroom at work.  I’ve not been in there in weeks.

D- Dog’s name: Don’t have a dog.

E- Essential start your day item: A shower.  Irish Spring all the way.

F- Favorite color: blue or purple

G- Gold or Silver: gold
H- Height: Ben would say five five.  My license said five six until the computer at the Science Center said five five.
I- Instruments you play: Does the radio count?
J- Job title: Person.  Nah, I don’t have a title.  I’m just here.
K- Kid(s): five fur people:  Annabelle, Allie, Paddy, Jonah, Seth
L- Living arrangements: a house.  It’s got three levels and two bathrooms.  It also has a jungle out back that I would love to get rid of despite it being home to cute bunnies.

M- Mom’s name: Claudia Rose.
N- Nickname’s: Steph, Nicole, Babe, Stephanie Rose, Strawberry Blonde, Hey You, That Girl….and for some reason the customers call me Jennifer.
O- Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Appendix out when I was six and then brain scans when I was a little older.

P- Pet Peeve: Tapping.  People tap on the front counter while they are waiting.  It bothers me.  Also people who don’t shower before leaving the house and people who call me “Steph” before I really get to know them.  It implies a familiarity I don’t feel.
Q- Quote from a movie: Mawwaige.  Mawwiage is what bwings us together today.  Only I can’t remember how he said “Together”
R-Right or Left handed: Right

S-Siblings: My brother, Clay.  He’s like 31.
T-Time you wake up: Depends on the day. Sometimes noon, sometimes six, sometimes two.
U- Ultimate Vacation: All together now: Scotland.  Like, Duh.
V- Vegetable you dislike: Spinach.  I’ll never be Popeye
W- What makes you run late?: daydreaming in the shower.  That and refusing to get out of bed until the last second.

X- Xrays you’ve had: I broke my arm when I was tiny, so I’m assumming my arm.
Y- Yummy food you make:Snort….me?  Cook?

 

Z- Zoo favorites: White tigers with blue eyes.

 

Now, what about you?

I’ve been thinking about men lately. (Get your mind out of the gutter, it’s not that kind of context.)

Off the top of my head, I can think of at least nine guys who are in my regular existance.  There’s my boss who always makes me laugh…and from whom I steal candy.  Mike is cool.  He never worries about anything, even when a customer comes in needing something FIVE MINUTES AGO.  He always knows how to fix things (like the time he spent at least half an hour picking tiny pieces of paper out of the copier when it had jammed) and didn’t yell at me when I was bored one night and organized his desks into categories (this is the pen cup, this is the pencil cup, this is the candy bucket, this is scratch paper…stuff like that). Of course, any time I clean up in his office, it reverts to its “a strong wind blew through here not long ago” natural state soon after, but you gotta love a boss who lets you steal his candy.

Ben’s not in my life as much now that he’s up and moved my best friend to Florida, but he’s still one of my guys.  Ben is always going to be the guy who cut up our bushes and cleared off our vines.  He even pulled up a tree in our yard just to see if he could.  Ben tells jokes that I don’t understand, talks to Kenny for hours about computer stuff (which I also don’t understand) and helped instigate the whole “Stephanie’s getting a swimming pool in her living room” birthday present that still knocks my socks off.  Kenny isn’t like me.  He doesn’t just jump into a situation and start talking to people.  But Ben is different.  He gives my husband a chance to just be a guy, talking to another guy about whatever it is guys talk about.  And for that, I will always be grateful.  I just wish they didn’t have to do it twelve hours apart.

Dr Smoak is my Minister of Music.  He’s not the first Minister of Music I’ve had since Daddy, but if I have to be in someone else’s choir, I’m glad I’m in his.  Dr Smoak and Kenny have this unspoken plan to get me out of my comfort zone and have me sing things that I think are scary and out of my range.  Kenny suggests what I should sing and Dr Smoak suggests how it should be sung.  He was very patient when I was working on “Oh Lord, You’re Beautiful”.  He helped me practice for months (plural) before it was time to “go on”.  He runs a fun and funny choir, making faces at us when it’s time for us to stand and present the special and leading us in an off key “Happy Birthday” when someone is celebrating that particular milestone.

There are other men in my life, of course. Pastor is showing a heretofore undiscovered sense of humor and graciously puts up with me begging for him to sing “I Wonder As I Wander” every Christmas.  Jack works in the back, calls me “Flossie” and opens the garage door for me when a delivery truck comes ’round.  Roger doesn’t mind me piling things onto his clipboard as he stacks up the invoices to be signed while he makes his rounds.  Wayne gets out of his chair even before I have “Wayne will help you” out of my mouth.  Our friend Jeff is very patient as I hand him a script for the Christmas musical and moan “I just don’t know how we’re going to film this scene.  I just don’t think we can do it.”  And, of course, he pulls off a miracle and films everything beautifully.

They are loving and kind and understanding and patient and encouraging.  But the Big Three are my father, my brother and my husband.

Daddy is the person I’m named after. He was the person who gave me my first bath, the man who taught me “Jesus Loves Me”, the tall companion who had to shorten his steps in order for me to keep up.  I literally followed him everywhere, from office to choir room to robing closet to record storage.  It was his “gold tooth” that Clay and I discovered during Mama’s round at “Eye Spy”.  It was his hands that held me when I came home from high school upset because I wasn’t pretty like the cheerleaders.  It was he that surprised me by keeping baby Abigail on weekends so Monica could go to work.  I have his curly hair, his love of music, his name.  I’ve watched him compose songs, lead choirs and even have an album he arranged and recorded.  But he’s changing, this Daddy of mine.  He’s becoming Poppaw to not just his grandchildren, but to our family entire.  Poppaw is the one who reads the Christmas story every Natal Eve.  Poppaw provides the lap that curly headed little girls circle up in and the notes that family reunions come together around.  Poppaw prays over Thanksgiving Dinner, answers questions about Scripture, knows all the tricks in card games.  Poppaw’s hair is white and his shoulders broad.  His profile is that of a Hall and his responsibilities are those of the Halls also.  I was thirteen when my Poppaw died.  I didn’t see it then.  Daddy was still my Daddy.  My cousins and I were just kids.   The reunions for us were still card games and baseballs.  I didn’t see it then.  But I’m starting to see it now.  Sometimes, when he bows his head or pulls out his Bible, I can see it.  My Daddy has become an Elder in our family.  He helps keep the oral traditions.  He knows the notes to the old hymns that we sing.  He can recite the Nativity story by heart.  And we’re very lucky to have a Poppaw like him.

My Bubby’s name is Clay.  He has my father’s profile, as most of the Hall men do, but his stature is pure Estes.  Clayton Estes that is.  If I was our Poppaw’s girl, Clay was our Papa’s boy. The opposite of me, Clay loved being outdoors.  We played Cowboys and Indians sometimes.  I was a settler, sweeping my porch.  Clay and our cousin Andrea were the more adventuresome Indians, climbing trees, turning flips and dreaming of a real horse or two to ride.  Even when we were teenagers, Clay preferred being outside riding his bike, while I would rather stay on my bed with my ankles crossed reading whatever book I could lay my hands on.  Clay jumped.  He climbed.  He played in dirt piles and was never without a soccer ball.  He was fourteen and Monica twelve when they met.  Sixteen years later, Clay is a young father with little girls who snuggle into his lap the way I snuggled into my own father’s.  He puts clothes on Disney Princesses and sings silly songs.  He has a mini me in little Elisabeth, who can’t go long without popping a thumb in her mouth, just like her Daddy did as a baby.  He has a baby son who will be wearing a cowboy costume this year, just as his father did, clonking around in Papa’s “real” boots, too big for him or not.  He’s a loving husband, a respectful son and a good Daddy. He’s thirty now and growing to be more like our father in wisdom, in speech and in love of family.  But to me he’s Cheetah to my Tarzan, knight to my princess, the little brother who held my hand when I was too scared to climb long flights of stairs.  God sure knew what He was doing when He gave me Clay to grow up with.

And He knew what He was doing giving me Kenny.  Baby, Honey, Boo, Kenneth Stephen, Mr Sims.  I’ve called him all of those names during the course of our relationship.  Kenny wasn’t what I wanted.  At all.  He’s ten years older than I am (or eleven, depending on how much I want to exploit the six months in the ten and a half years between us) which means he can remember Hippies and Druggies and Vietnam and Jimmy Carter and all kinds of things that my memory won’t stretch to include.  He’s tall and smart and the first person I call in times of crisis, but he’s not the six foot blonde surfer/doctor/musician that I just KNEW I was destined for.  (Never mind that I can’t surf, can’t tan, don’t live anywhere near a beach and never have and would hate to live with someone keeping on call hours. )  There are so many things that Kenny and I disagree on. He’d rather be anywhere besides watching Ugly Betty, for instance and I don’t see what keeps him listening to the technology podcasts that he collects.  He keeps shirts until they have literally worn out, I would give/donate/sell away more than half our house if given free reign.  He does his part by printing coloring pages and puppet stages for my church classes, I like to actually be around the kids.  We used to fight just to have something to do, or so it seemed.  But something happened in the last couple of years that could only have come from God.  The shop came into our lives.  Litho-Craft may seems like a strange kind of gift for Heaven to be dispensing, but for us, it was a marriage saver.  Suddenly, we had something in common.  The people we talk about aren’t just known to one of us, they are customers that we both serve. We both run copies, edit files, take phone calls. Kenny taught me how to process the checks and go over the end of day totals, which made me feel a part of things.  Working together at the shop helped us work together at church and at home as well.  Kenny washes, I dry.  Kenny helps me get ready for Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings and I tell him how the crafts went over.  He’s learning to read to my nieces and I’m learning to let him work alone in his office when he’s had a hard day.  We disagree on literature.  We disagree on musical styles.  He could care less if I have lipstick on or have put my hair up.  But he’s also the man who heated water on the stove and poured it over me shower style when we had no heat one cold winter.  He’s the man who plays with my hair because he knows I like it.  He took me to St Louis to see my favorite play and to Nashville to eat my favorite sandwich. He works long hours on little sleep and puts his heart into whatever needs to be done.  He’s not what I thought I wanted, but he’s always going to be what I need. I’m just lucky that he loves me too.

 

I’m lucky to have all of them.  I’ve met some men who scare me.  I’ve met some men who make me want to run away.  I’ve met rude men and pushy men and men with egos that are off the charts.  But I’m blessed by “my men”, “my guys”.  They’re a little crazy.  They’re a little mixed up.  And they may not be the smartest or strongest or most popular men in the world.  But they are my blessings.  And I’m thankful for every one of them.