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  But really, I don’t know what’s worse. Wearing a suit that isn’t flattering but is still tolerable enough to justify the expenditure of forty to eighty bucks . . . or the trauma of trying on three dozen suits that make me look horrible just to find the one that makes me look merely dumpy and unattractive.

  Actually, I’ve been thinking about the folks who design department store dressing rooms. Obviously these folks are men. I say this because they’re under the misconception that women in department store dressing rooms really want to know what they look like.

  Based on this assumption, these men equip dressing rooms with bright lights and real mirrors (as opposed to candlelight and concave mirrors that take ten pounds off a woman right from the start).

  I’m not saying that the men who design dressing rooms should be deceptive. I’m not saying that they should lie to us.

  In fact, as far as I’m concerned, they can post a disclaimer right there in the dressing room, that says “Objects in mirror are larger than they appear.”

  We won’t care. We already know the truth. We’ll just be grateful not to have to look at every pound of it.

  The truth is, I’d love to love my body.

  I’d love to feel comfortable with the skin I’m in without always comparing my shape to the computer-enhanced, airbrushed curves of supermodels who not only won the gene-pool lottery but are addicted to lettuce and have the financial resources to retain the full-time services of personal trainers with names like Chip and Biff.

  Even more importantly, I’d love to feel more confident about myself, knowing that my worth as a woman doesn’t rise and fall with the numbers on my scale . . . that it’s not diminished because of the circumference of my thighs . . . that it’s not tarnished by a blemish or an age spot, knobby knees, or pear-shaped hips.

  In fact, wouldn’t it be great if I could draw strength and confidence and self-worth from something rock solid? Something finished and complete? Something that doesn’t change from day to day? Something that—unlike my body—will never lose its vitality or bloom?

  Something like that really exists. Except it’s not a something. It’s a Someone. And his name is Jesus. Indeed, according to the Bible . . .

  . . . Jesus is the Eternal Rock.

  . . . He’s the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Author and Finisher of our faith.

  . . . He’s the same yesterday, today, and forever.

  . . . And he’s the Living Vine—he’ll never fade or wilt or die.

  Best yet, he loves me with an everlasting love.

  I think I’m ready to go buy that swimsuit now. And as I look into the dressing-room mirror, I’ll just remind myself that I’m loved with a love that is rock solid, complete, eternal, and alive. And if that’s not enough to make me feel good about myself, I don’t know what is.

  Not even a bust-enhancing water-bra comes close.

  30

  Dogs, Teenagers, and Other Noncompliant Life-Forms

  MY FRIEND BETH HAS A CHIHUAHUA NAMED ANNABEL.

  Beth adores Annabel.

  She says its because Annabel is the only member of her family who actually does what she says. And it’s true. Beth says “sit” and Annabel sits. Beth says “stay” and Annabel stays.

  I have a dog, too. He’s a white German shepherd named Walter. I don’t want to brag or anything, but Walter is just as obedient as Annabel. Honest. I give commands, and Walter obeys. It’s amazing.

  I say “slobber” and Walter slobbers.

  I say “track mud into the house” and Walter tracks mud into the house.

  I say “take the wicker loveseat on the back porch and turn it into a jumbo doggie chew toy” and Walter is only too happy to comply.

  Beth and I just wish our children were as compliant as our dogs.

  The thing I hate most is when I tell my kids to do something and then they stand there and argue with me.

  One day I’d had it up to HERE with arguments spouting from my fourteen-year-old. I finally put my foot down. Shaking my finger at my daughter, I sputtered, “If I hear one more word from you, I’m going to put you on talking restriction!”

  Beth was visiting at the time. She was sitting at my kitchen table as I issued my ultimatum. As soon as Kaitlyn left the room, Beth broke into a broad grin and said, “Now THAT made a lot of sense. Seems to me that if Kaitlyn’s not allowed to say another word, she’s already on talking restriction!”

  Beth had a point.

  Luckily, Kaitlyn never noticed the flaw in my reasoning.

  Actually, she probably noticed but didn’t say anything because she’s so accustomed to my wacky line of thinking. The truth is, I use flawed reasoning to manage my children on a regular basis.

  Like at bedtime.

  Kaitlyn has always been a great negotiator. She also hates to go to bed. When she was four years old, I developed the technique of bedtime bargaining. My initial offer typically went like this:

  “I’ll tell you what, Kaitlyn. I want you to lay in bed real quiet, with your eyes closed, and pretend to be asleep for six hours. You don’t actually have to go to sleep, all you have to do is pretend. If, after six hours, you’re still awake, I’ll let you get up and play the rest of the night.”

  Her eyes would get round as saucers. “Just six hours?”

  “Just six hours.”

  “Six hours is too long. How about one?”

  “Four.”

  “Two?”

  I would give in with a sigh. “Oh, all right. Two hours. But not a minute less!”

  Beaming victoriously, she would close her eyes and quit wiggling and lay completely still. She’d be asleep within minutes.

  Of course, now that Kaitlyn’s fourteen, I have to resort to new techniques to get her to obey. Let me tell you about my latest strategy. It all started when I asked Kaitlyn to take a pair of shoes upstairs, and she responded by telling me all the reasons she should be allowed to leave the shoes in the stairwell until she went upstairs later in the day.

  I said I didn’t want the shoes in the stairwell for half the day.

  She still argued.

  I explained that her job was to obey even if she didn’t understand or agree with my reasons.

  She still argued.

  I finally said, “Take the shoes upstairs NOW. And when you’re done with that job, I have another assignment for you. I want you to go into the living room and march around the coffee table seven times.”

  She stared at me, then began to laugh. “For a minute I thought you were serious.”

  I smiled back. “Actually, I’m very serious.”

  She did it. Shaking her head at her crazy mother, but she did it. Seven times. (As she was marching, my husband quipped, “Oh GREAT. Now all she has to do is blow a horn and the coffee table will collapse.”)

  We’ve had to repeat this exercise a few times since then (tonight I had her do ten jumping jacks in the den). But I think I’m getting my point across. Every time Kaitlyn argues with me or refuses to obey until I give her a reason she happens to like, I dole out a whimsical task that can’t be argued with. I tell her to wash an imaginary elephant, or hop like a frog, or stand on her head in the corner.

  I give her a task to which she can no longer ask, “But why?”

  I give her a task that has one reason and one reason only: Because I said so.

  Which makes me wonder about all the times I’ve argued with God.

  I’m sure there are times he wearies of my backtalk. I’m thinking about the times he’s asked me to do something—forgive someone or tithe consistently or quit gossiping or griping or doubting—and I’ve responded by saying, “But . . .”

  “But WHY?”

  “But you don’t understand . . .”

  “But NOW’S not a good time. Why can’t I do it LATER?”

  As far as I know, the Lord has never made me “practice” blind obedience by asking me to do something frivolous. (I’ve only been asked to wash an imaginary elephant once in
my life, and it wasn’t by God. I was thirteen and we were playing truth or dare, and it was either wash an elephant or admit that I’d let Robert Greilach kiss me in the fellowship hall after youth group.)

  But I guess I’m saying that learning to trust and obey is something my heavenly Father desires for me as much as I desire it for my kids and my dog. Actually, even more so.

  I’m teaching my kids to trust and obey. Maybe I should sign up for a refresher course myself.

  I may not be a straight-A student, but I think I can do at least as well as the next guy.

  Especially if the next guy wears a flea collar and answers to the name of “Walter.”

  31

  Sometimes You Just Gotta Go

  FRIENDS CONDALL AND KATHY CLEGG JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE an hour north of here. They’ve been members of our Sunday school class for a while now, so the class decided to give them a going-away present. We wanted to give them something for their new home. Something that would give them the chance, several times a day, to sit and think about the friends they left behind.

  So we gave them a toilet seat.

  Not just any run-of-the-mill toilet seat.

  It was an AUTOGRAPHED toilet seat, signed by every member of our class.

  You can imagine the possibilities.

  Bernie and Anita wrote, “We are flushed with emotion at your leaving.”

  Steve and Karin wrote, “I hope this does not eliminate us as friends.”

  Larry and Nancy wrote, “To two real crack-ups. We will miss you, butt . . .”

  David and Jeanette wrote, “We aimed to please. You aim, too . . .”

  Despite the humor, it was a sad occasion. Their absence has created a real void. So to speak.

  Not that good-byes aren’t something I’m getting used to. Summer vacation is a logical time for families in transition to pack up and leave. And this summer, the Cleggs aren’t the only folks within my close circle of friends to experience a movement. So to speak.

  Larry and Nancy Rottmeyer are moving to Indiana.

  Jerry and Cherie Spurlock are moving to Colorado Springs.

  If you’ve read many of my books, there’s a good chance you’ve read about some of these folks. Cherie and Nancy, for example, are founding members of the Cracker Barrel Friday Morning Breakfast Club. Together with Darla Talley and Linda Douglas, we’ve met together weekly for breakfast for several years now.

  In other words, I don’t think of any of these couples as acquaintances. I think of them as FAMILY, and here three of them are abandoning me within weeks of each other.

  Which is starting to impact my checking account. Between going-away parties, dinners, and presents, it’s costing me a small fortune. And I’m not even counting the cost of all the therapy I’m going to need when the last moving van pulls out of Dallas.

  Actually, the account that’s really getting overdrawn is located somewhere above my rib cage. I’m having to draw on emotional resources I didn’t know I had as I watch these friends swap information on real estate agents, moving companies, and the proper way to assemble a wardrobe carton.

  The good news is that we’ve never been so wired, as a society and as individuals, for communication. All these friends have home phones, cell phones, fax numbers, and e-mail addresses. Keeping in touch should be as easy as punching a “send” button or logging on-line.

  I suppose if we wanted to, we could even get video software for our computers, which, if you ask me, is a lot safer than getting video technology for our phones. I don’t know about you, but I don’t always WANT to be seen while chatting on the phone. Just yesterday, for example, I negotiated a book contract with my editor while sitting in the only quiet spot in the house. It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “taking care of business.”

  This summer, it’s possible that someone you love is relocating, or perhaps you’re the one doing the moving. I wish I had some good advice for you, but the only thing I can suggest is waterproof mascara.

  How do we manage these kinds of losses in our lives?

  I’m still figuring it out. But it helps to remember that, in the overall scheme of things, God’s in control. I’m in his hands and so are my friends, and I have to think that—tucked securely in the same hands—we can’t get too far apart, no matter how many miles stretch between us.

  Transitions. Bittersweet. They signal endings, but new beginnings, too. And whatever our transitions might look like this summer—relocations, new homes or jobs, a teenager moving out, a five-year-old starting kindergarten, the marriage of a child, friend, or even a parent—it helps to take a deep breath and remember that “this too shall pass.”

  Besides, as stressful as change may be, it often gives birth to good things that could not have come about in any other fashion.

  But in the meantime, I’m sort of sad. I need some consolation. Hey, I’ve got an idea! The Cleggs, at least, are still within driving distance. Maybe I should surprise them by visiting them in their new home. That would make me feel better.

  Besides, I’m sort of curious about something, and a surprise visit would be a great way to find out. I’d love to know if, when it comes to enjoying our gift to them, the Cleggs are fairly regular . . .

  . . . or if the best seat in the house is in the garage.

  32

  Freebie, Schmeebie

  WE JUST SPENT FOUR DAYS IN LAS VEGAS. My husband attended a conference there, and I got to tag along.

  Everybody asks, so I might as well ’fess up.

  Yes, I gambled. The good news is that I only lost a dollar.

  Wanna know my secret? The secret to losing just one dollar is to gamble—you guessed it—just one dollar. I walked up to a slot machine with twenty nickels, pumped them in, and lost every one of them, all in the space of less than a minute.

  Which sort of begs the question, “And this is supposed to be fun beeecaaauuusssse? . . .”

  It was hard to get away from the gambling. There were slot machines in the airport, slot machines in the gas stations, electronic billboards flashing Keno numbers in the restaurants. I asked my husband for a handful of quarters before I visited a public restroom just in case there were slot reels on the stall doors and I was required to line up three matching symbols before being allowed to go on inside.

  Actually, the entire ground floor of our hotel consisted of a full-service casino, which was rather conspicuously positioned between the lobby and the room elevators.

  One day I was walking past the casino, and I just had to stop and stare. There was so much commotion! Bells ringing. Lights flashing. Electronic games beeping and singing and clanging. Folks walking around clutching plastic token cups, roaming from game to game . . .

  And I’m standing there, wondering why all this is looking vaguely familiar, when suddenly I think, “It’s Chuck E. Cheese’s for grown-ups!”

  Really. The only thing missing was a sweaty employee in a mouse costume.

  The other thing I found interesting about Las Vegas is the freebies. Hotels often give discounts on rooms and amenities, hoping you’ll hang around and gamble while you’re there. Complimentary meals are common. Our hotel, for example, offered a frequent-patron program that would have netted me free rooms, meals, and drinks.

  With all that free stuff, I figure the only way they could get any more complimentary was if they also told me I was nice looking.

  You know, I may not put much stock in gambling, but I have to admit that when it comes to the possibility of getting something for nothing, I’m as much of a sucker as the next guy. In fact, I joined a book club once because I could get five free books for a dollar. What I didn’t realize was that I wasn’t allowed to quit the club until I had purchased a number of books equivalent to the inventory of the Library of Congress.

  I guess there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Which is too bad, because most of us would love to get that lucky break, win the lottery, experience a windfall. We’d love to be the one to slide a nickel in the slot machine and
get a thousand dollars in return (better yet, we nongamblers would love to have a FRIEND win the lottery or hit the jackpot and share their winnings with us!)

  Unfortunately, life doesn’t usually work out that way.

  There’s this school of thought, however, that says that life is filled with freebies. You’ve heard the cliché as often as I have. It says, “The best things in life are free.”

  But I have to wonder about that.

  After all, the very best things in life—a strong and passionate marriage, intimate friendships, a vibrant relationship with our Creator—exact a heavy toll. They may be priceless, but they are not without cost.

  They require hard work.

  They require sacrifice.

  They require an investment of heart and soul, time and effort, love and risk.

  Indeed, the best things in life are anything but free. But maybe that’s okay. Because the price we pay is just a token, really, in light of the priceless value we receive in return.

  The Bible offers us a strange economy indeed. If we lose our lives, we’ll find them. If we’re last, we shall be first. If we give with a glad heart, it’ll be given back to us pressed down, shaken together, and running over.

  Over and over the Bible teaches us that, when it comes to following Jesus and loving people around us, yeah, there’s a cost.

  But it’s nothing compared to what we receive in return.

  Which, if you think about it, is a lot better odds than you’ll find anywhere else. Especially in Las Vegas.

  I should know. We got home from Las Vegas Wednesday afternoon, and I immediately headed out to the supermarket to buy a few things for dinner. When the cashier announced my total, I decided to pay with left-over cash from the trip.

  I pulled out my wallet and began counting out bills.

  I was a dollar short.

  33

  Takin’ It to the Street

  IT’S AUGUST, AND I’M ABOUT TO EMBARK ON AN ADVENTURE that is as American as motherhood, apple pie, and Nick-at-Nite. In fact, for many folks, this particular experience epitomizes the spirit of summer vacation like nothing else.