Welcome to the Funny Farm Read online

  Unfortunately, I soon discovered that I’m hard-pressed to outrun a speeding toddler much less a speeding bullet. And leaping tall buildings in a single bound isn’t even in the realm of reality—not after I sprained my ankle trying to hop over a sprawling Barbie metropolis my kids erected in my kitchen one rainy afternoon.

  So I’m not Superwoman.

  How can I be so sure?

  Not only would a real Superwoman refrain from sending her child to a birthday party in Barbie pajamas, she also would never be rushing to get ready for an important job interview, nick her leg shaving, and have to walk out the door wearing a Muppet Babies Band-Aid under her hose.

  Furthermore, a real Superwoman would never hang up on her editor while shouting the phrase, “I have to go! The baby’s in the toilet!”, and she CERTAINLY would not be growing eleven different strains of penicillin in her refrigerator.

  I used to want people to think I was perfect.

  Now I’m relieved when they realize I’m not.

  Frequently folks write reviews of my books, and one review in particular made me want to hug the writer when she referred to my tendency to use the smoke alarm interchangeably with the oven timer and then went on to observe: “This woman is a nonthreatening teacher. We are convinced that she needs help, but since we do too, we will accept any pearls she has to offer.”

  Have you ever looked at your life and thought, “I’d love to be a positive influence in someone’s life, but my own life feels too flawed/chaotic/imperfect/unorganized/broken for me to have anything worthwhile to offer”?

  Yeah, me too.

  But I’m wondering if you and I don’t have it all backwards. Maybe our struggles and imperfections don’t disqualify us from reaching out to others after all. Maybe they are, indeed, the very things that give us not just credibility, but compassion as well.

  For example, I have a couple friends who have experienced depression, as I have. When I feel myself slipping back into the abyss that claimed my life for several years, these are the women I turn to. Do they have all the answers? No way. Sometimes they still struggle too!

  But the real reason I turn to these friends isn’t for their solutions. It’s for the passion I see in their faces when they look me in the eyes and say, “I know you’re tired. But please hang on. You can get through this.”

  The truth is, accountability and encouragement coming from someone who appears to have her own life completely “together” can feel stifling and obtrusive.

  But accountability and encouragement coming from a friend who has scars and wounds of her own is both humbling and empowering.

  Am I Superwoman? No way.

  Are you Superwoman? I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here by saying “Fat chance.”

  Isn’t that great? That means you and I have the credentials to encourage, inspire, entertain, educate, mentor, train, teach, laugh with, walk with, and cry with each other all the way through this crazy ride called life.

  Which means we can relax. In fact, wouldn’t it be great to get together some evening, maybe at a favorite restaurant, and linger over coffee and pie as we laugh and talk? We could leave our façades at home and talk about our shortcomings, and how God manages to use us to bless others in spite of ourselves, and how he uses other imperfect folks to bless us.

  In fact, you pick the restaurant and I’ll meet you there. You shouldn’t have any trouble recognizing me.

  I’ll be the one in my pajamas.

  23

  The Sunday Morning Comics (and Other Indispensable Gardening Tools)

  TWO DAYS AGO A WOMAN SAID TO ME, “I’d love to see your garden sometime.”

  Sara has never been to my home, but she read about my gardening efforts in my book Just Hand Over the Chocolate and No One Will Get Hurt.

  In the book I painted vivid pictures of daylilies and hollyhocks, morning glories and hydrangeas. I described hours spent puttering in the dirt with my kids, playing with caterpillars and watering cans.

  I smiled lamely at Sara. “Oh,” I said. “The Garden.”

  My garden was once as beautiful as I described. But if Sara came to my house today she would find one neglected bed of pansies, an overgrown trellis of Lady Banksia roses, and some diehard lamb’s ears.

  Not to mention weeds.

  You see, last summer I was feeling sort of overwhelmed and found myself trying to simplify my life. It was while in this state of mind that I thought about the amount of water it was going to take to keep my garden thriving through the scorching Texas summer. Somehow, I came to the conclusion I could save time and money by letting my garden succumb to the heat and simply purchasing all new plants in the spring.

  So now it’s April, and I’m thinking I should just go down to the bank and take out a second mortgage on my home. Or add Home Depot to the signature card on my checking account. Or sell my children to the gypsies. After all, replenishing all my beds with blooms isn’t going to go easy on my wallet. In fact, I suspect the National Debt will seem quite manageable in comparison.

  Not to mention the labor it’s going to require.

  But when it comes to reclaiming the yard, at least I got a good start yesterday: I made my fourteen-year-old mow the lawn.

  Those of you with teenagers realize this is no small accomplishment. I figure I could have reseeded the lawn, put in a vegetable garden, and built a wooden deck with the amount of energy it took to prod, threaten, and cajole my teen into finishing the task at hand. Which begs the question: Why is it that a teen who can’t hear a mother’s instructions at three paces can hear the ring of the kitchen phone twenty yards away over the drone of one lawnmower and a headset blaring “Collide” by Jars of Clay?

  Of course, my teen is easier to motivate when the riding mower is working (I think she pretends it’s an SUV). But ever since the riding mower conked out and she’s been stuck with the gas-powered push model, getting an hour’s labor out of her requires nothing short of a cattle prod and an act of Congress.

  But the gardening device I’m really anxious to try is my mini-tiller. I bought it last fall and have yet to break ground with it. According to the glowing advertising claims that prompted me to part with an amount of money that could have fed and clothed a third-world country for the better part of a year, this machine not only tills, weeds, aerates, mulches, trims, and edges, it should give me thinner thighs and whiter teeth as well.

  What the company neglected to tell me was that my 400-horsepower weed-busting Garden Genie would be delivered to me, ready-to-be-assembled, in a shoebox.

  I’ve seen head lice larger than the hundreds of parts I’m supposed to be able to assemble into a gasoline-driven workhorse in only 1,047 easy steps.

  Which is why the Garden Genie is still in its shoebox, and last week my daughters and I prepared our first flower bed of the season by throwing layers of newspaper down on the weeds and then covering them up with four bags of potting soil. (The downside is that I’ll have to plant flowers with very shallow root systems, at least until the newspaper finishes killing the weeds and then decomposes. In hindsight, taking the potting soil out of the plastic bags might not have been a bad idea either.)

  You know, gardening can be enjoyable labor.

  Or it can feel frustrating and even futile.

  A lot depends on whether or not you’ve got the right tools.

  Resources like the right mower, a handy tiller, and adequate water can make a world of difference when you’re in the process of nurturing tender growing things.

  Cultivating soil with a weedwacker, for example, is a recipe for disaster. Cutting grass with cuticle scissors is a one-way ticket to the Funny Farm. And planting bulbs with a kitchen spoon not only takes twice as long but can make your coffee taste kind of earthy the next morning.

  I understand these principles when it comes to organic growth (just don’t ask me how I knew about the earthy coffee).

  So why do I forget they apply to spiritual growth as well?

  I
want to grow, thrive, bloom, and bear fruit spiritually. But am I equipping myself with the right tools? Or am I trying to do the job armed with a teaspoon and the Sunday funnies?

  What are the power tools of spiritual growth? This list isn’t definitive, but I’ve got a few ideas: Prayer. Fasting. The Word of God. Praise and worship. Accountability to godly friends. Confession. Bible study. Spending time in the presence of God.

  I don’t know about you, but some days I think my backyard is a tropical paradise compared to my spiritual landscaping.

  Spring is a great time to spruce up the yard. But maybe it’s a good reminder to tend to my soul as well.

  I was going to spend the afternoon potting a few patio plants. But before I head outdoors, I think I’ll spend an hour in my favorite armchair with my Bible and a cup of coffee. It should be a rewarding time.

  Even if my coffee does taste like dirt.

  24

  Easy Does It

  I GOT A MAMMOGRAM YESTERDAY.

  I really liked the technician who conducted the procedure. She was a petite woman with artificial red hair, kind eyes, a smoker’s voice, and a penchant for the truth.

  None of this “this won’t hurt a bit” stuff from this woman.

  As she maneuvered me into position on the slab, she said, “Now this top thing here is going to come down hard and smoosh you flat. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Yeah, it was uncomfortable, but not unbearable, which is kinda surprising considering that for about forty-five seconds my left breast was thinner than two-ply toilet paper and boasted a surface area roughly equivalent to a football field.

  But I’m glad I went. I walked out of that clinic feeling really great. For one thing, certain body parts that are normally pretty sedate were no longer being forced to perform acts of contortion that seem more fitting to a troupe of circus gymnasts. I also felt great because I’d done something good for myself, although I think I had yet to bounce back to my original shape because my bra was fitting kind of funny, sort of like trying to fit a pair of cereal bowls around two Frisbees.

  I was also feeling great because the doctor had said all my X rays looked normal. Not that I’d been worried or anything. In fact, when I first discovered the lump, I was so nonworried that I apparently felt the need to prove it to myself by waiting a full three months to schedule my mammogram.

  Of course, I didn’t REALIZE I was trying to prove something to myself. I THOUGHT I was merely busy. After awhile, however, I began to suspect that I wasn’t rushing to make my appointment because I was attempting to act nonchalant about something that, theoretically, didn’t concern me a bit. It wasn’t until the day of my test that I admitted to myself the reason I was trying so hard to be nonchalant was because I was really pretty scared.

  I don’t want to do that again. By “that” I mean turn something simple (get a mammogram and get it now) into something all complicated and embellished with dark thoughts and borrowed fears.

  I think, when it comes to mammograms, I need to remember to K.I.S.S.—“Keep It Simple, Stupid.”

  In fact, now that I’m forty and am supposed to get a routine mammogram once a year, I think I’ll schedule it each April and start thinking of it as my annual birthday present to myself.

  Here’s another thought: What if we women turned mammograms into a Girlfriend Event, kind of like going shopping or getting our nails done together. We could call each other on the phone and say, “Let’s do something fun together this week. I know—let’s get mammograms!”

  No mind games. No flirting with denial. No putting it off because we’re preoccupied with crossing scary bridges before we come to them. Just taking something good for us and reframing it as a present we give ourselves. Simple.

  There’s something else I’d like to simplify in my life, and it has to do with . . .

  . . . chocolate.

  I’ve decided that the next time you or I have an insatiable craving for chocolate, we should make things simple and just GO FOR IT. In fact, we shouldn’t hesitate a minute! This is because, by my calculations, we will actually SAVE CALORIES if we immediately locate some chocolate and consume it with relish (passionate relish, not pickle relish, which may go well with hot dogs but can really take the enjoyment out of a Hershey’s).

  I say that eating chocolate at the first sign of an insatiable craving will actually help you save calories because it will help you avoid the following scenario.

  One day, in the throes of an insatiable craving, I sat down at my computer in a panic and e-mailed something along the lines of the following sentiments to a friend:

  “Help! I’m feeling stressed and overwhelmed and all I want to do is go to the freezer and eat a chocolate ice cream sandwich. So far, in order to avoid eating this ice cream sandwich, I’ve consumed four bananas, six bagels with lowfat cream cheese, five containers of Yoplait nonfat yogurt, nine sticks of fat-free Mozzarella cheese, and now I’m writing you in a desperate attempt to keep my hands occupied so they don’t lead me to the freezer and feed me, against my will, the ice cream sandwich which is continuing to call my name even as I type.”

  The next morning Chris e-mailed back: “I think you should have eaten the ice cream sandwich.”

  Good advice. If I had eaten the ice cream sandwich and satisfied my craving, I would have actually consumed 3,475 fewer calories than I managed to consume by not eating the ice cream sandwich.

  Sometimes we make things more complicated than we need to, don’t we? We try so hard to manage our emotions and our lives, and sometimes, in the process, we end up complicating everything to no end.

  Like the prayer thing I decided to do.

  I’ve been seeing this really neat Christian counselor, and one day we were talking about how every morning he kneels in his living room and prays. He thinks of it as “getting online” with God, maybe like a DSL line or something that stays logged on all day. In any case, every morning he prays, “Okay Lord, here I am. I’m asking you to live today through me, because, on my own, I’m going to fall short. Be with me today, in me, living the Christian walk through me, because I can’t do it any other way. Amen.”

  I said, “That sounds simple. I’d like to do that. In fact, I’m going to start doing it this very week.”

  Three weeks later I had yet to pray that prayer in the morning. I told John, “Whoops, I’d better write this down, make myself a note or a list or something, to remind myself to pray.”

  He said, “Don’t make a list. Don’t make it so complicated. A list means you’re trying to force yourself to do it on your own. Making a list is religion, not a relationship. Instead, driving home today, say, ‘Lord, remind me this week to talk to you every morning. I really want to do this, but left on my own, well, quite honestly, I’m probably going to forget, just like I’ve been forgetting for the past three weeks. But if you wouldn’t mind reminding me, I’d really like to do this.’”

  That made sense. It really did sound more like, well, a relationship. So I asked him to remind me. And guess what? He’s been doing it. Every morning.

  Am I complicating my faith by relying too much on my own religious efforts? Or can I simplify my walk with Jesus, experiencing it more as a living partnership than a list of daily do’s that falls squarely on my shoulders? It’s a new concept for me. I’ll let you know how it continues to develop.

  In fact, you can help me out. The next time I try to take something simple—like a mammogram, a chocolate craving, or even my walk with Jesus—and turn it into something convoluted and complex, just drop me a note, will you?

  It can say, “Don’t forget to K.I.S.S.”

  25

  In the Company of Critters

  KACIE LOVES CRITTERS.

  In fact she loves animals of all kinds, including invisible ones.

  Case in point: She’s got this imaginary friend named Tito.

  She began talking about Tito a couple years ago. Best we can tell, Tito is a dog. He also has a girlfrie
nd named Marie.

  Sometimes Tito has a bit of a mean streak. Like the time I was driving and looked into my rearview mirror and saw Kacie sitting quietly in her car seat, tears streaming down her face.

  “Kacie! What’s wrong?”

  She blinked. “Tito bit me.”

  All our friends at church know about Tito. One man in particular enjoys teasing Kacie about Tito. Practically every time he sees Kacie, Herschel asks, “How’s Tito?”

  Sometimes Kacie tells him. Increasingly, however, Kacie merely crosses her arms and purses her lips as if to say, “Oh puh-lease, not again.”

  One day another friend overheard Herschel teasing Kacie. His curiosity piqued, Condall just had to ask, “Who in the world is Tito?”

  Herschel told him.

  Condall thought the whole thing was great and figured he’d get in on the fun. Squatting eye-level with Kacie, he grinned and said, “Hey Kacie, how’s Tito?”

  Kacie never even blinked. She eyeballed him back and said levelly, “Tito’s dead.”

  So Herschel and Condall killed Tito. Tito stayed dead for several months until Marie managed to bring him back to life. Kacie explained that Marie did this with some sort of magic stones. I figured Kacie and Marie assumed this was safe to do because Herschel and Condall had finally stopped asking about Tito.

  Tito may have a mean streak, but he seems to appreciate his privacy.

  When Kacie’s not playing with invisible friends, the other critters she loves are garden critters. She’s always begging me to help her find pill bugs, June bugs, crickets, even snakes.

  She really loves the snakes. Little baby garden snakes. She gets this death grip around their little bodies and hangs on tight.

  I always watch her closely when she’s playing with snakes. I’m not worried about her physical safety as much as her psychological health. I don’t think it’s healthy for a child to have to live with the fact that she inadvertently squeezed the life out of a baby snake with her bare hands.