Flying to Phoenix

I absolutely hate flying! I get so stressed out and by the time I'm at the airport, I'm almost in headache mode - by the time the plane is ready to board, I AM in headache mode. One of these days I will learn to take Xanax with me.

I try to plan for these things, I had my friend Becky drive me there so she could take my car to her house to park. I'd just as soon pay her as the parking lot - Plus it's curb service grin emoticon

I'd put my drivers license and boarding pass in my pocket before Ieft, but I changed clothes so many times, the drivers license got left behind. And when did I discover this? Just as I got out of the car and it's too late to drive all the way back to Bolivar. Luckily, my friend Helmut had suggested me taking along my passport. Apparently he knew something I didn't know - I'm a still a serial blunderer.

I finally get through security (was lightly patted down). When she asked me if I had any sore spots, I just told her "not yet." and thankfully she had a sense of humor as we both laughed.

As I sat watching to make sure that no terrorists are getting on the plane with me, I'm trying to figure how to get my laptop bag attached to my carryon. I've had this bag for a year and have always wondered what that strap in the back is for. A year later it dawns on me that it's to slip over the carryon handle.

Then for the wait. The plane was supposed to leave at 12:54, but didn't start boarding until 1:20. After everyone was onboard, we taxied out and sat for another 30 minutes on the tarmac.(By the way, try to NOT take a 15" laptop down an aisle that is only 15 1/2" wide!) There are cross winds and the pilots were recalculating take-off. I figured, "hey! if you guys aren't used to taking off with a cross-wind, take ALL the time you need to figure it out!"

Finally, the dreaded lift-off (the second worst part - the other is landing). Once we're in the air it's easy to figure this isn't quite as unnormal as it seems. I always get a window seat because I never tire of watching the earth go by.

Circles on the ground appear and it's a patchwork of green and brown full circles, half circles and pac man circles for an hour or so. Some circles are huge while others are tiny - four fit in the same area as one large one. The the mountains. I think they're small, it's hard to tell. But all along the way, everytime I looked out the window there were dots of tiny lakes - the earth is pockmarked with them. They'd show up at intervals at an angle to the plane every so often. I thought that was very interesting until i realized it was only when I'd turn and look back out the window that I saw them, and the angle was the reflection of the sun!

Closer to Arizona, we ran into clouds. There'd been little fluffs of cloud along the way, but then we were on top of a white velvety road. Always reminds me of Joni Mitchell's song, "I've seen the clouds from both sides now."

The sun's angle changed and I realized we'd either turned a tad or descended a tad. But now we're deep into a fog - a white-out. At this point, I sincerely hope that they know what they're doing up front. All I can think of is the cartoon where the pilots are going, "hey what's this goat doing up here?"

Occasionally openings in the white bank of cloud appears and then there are glimpses of an ethereal city that is so beautiful it takes your breath away. Spires of clouds within and surrounded by clouds, whispy shades of blue, white and yellow. Then back to total white out.

I hear the wheels descend and think to myself, this wonderful horror will soon be over.

All the while this is going on, I am thankful for the loud drone of the plane as a baby has been crying up front for the whole trip. I am also thankful I'm not sitting up front at this point.

We leave most of the clouds and then as we descend, there are more and more mountains - no trees or grass - all brown, but kind of beautiful in a way.

Highways and houses get larger and finally we're taxiing to the airport.David is glad I sent the itinerary because I'm not at the airport I thought I'd be at. As they announce, welcome to Mesa, I'm wondering "did I get on the right plane? I thought I was going to Phoenix" grin emoticon

I'm just glad to be back on the ground, where ever it is that I am!

Now on to the rest of this Arizona adventure!

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This is what I wanted to post to Facebook for Throwback Thursday today, but was afraid.

34 years ago today I had a baby boy. That saying that one forgets the EXTREMELY intense pain afterwards is a bunch of "bunk." On the way to the delivery room I made the remark that I would never be able to understand why anyone would want to do this again! He was born the day before my 35th birthday. Since I had pre-eclampsia, I had to stay in bed for the last six weeks of my pregnancy. The doctor wanted to hospitalize me, but as we had no insurance at the time, I was allowed to stay home. Now I don’t know about anyone else, but when you feel fine and you’re hungry and there is no one there to get you food, you’re going to get up and get it. After two weeks, I even went over to our new house and walked upstairs to measure for curtains. Luckily, I had a doctor appointment immediately afterwards and my vitals showed full-blown toxemia. I was told to drive immediately to the hospital where I was admitted and further tests showed everything as normal. The vitals at the doctor’s office though qualified us for assistance to women who developed toxemia and we had to pay only 20% of our bill as a normal insured couple. We only had to allow access to my medical records for "study."

As it turned out he came three weeks early - which was fine.

In the hospital, I was weighed every day and after a week, I got on the scales with water running down my legs. I thought "My God I wet myself," and I’m embarrassed and apologizing all over the place. Of course, I’d just woken up and wasn’t quite "with it" yet. The nurses were very kind and did allow me to take a shower while they were changing my bed. As it turned out my water had broken, and I "leaked" all day. And wouldn’t you know it, I had the inside bed and the girl beside me - her husband was there all day long. Since my water had broken, I was only allowed to wear the hospital gown, which as you know, leaves a lot to be covered. I was extremely uncomfortable and embarrassed when I had to walk past this guy who just wouldn’t go home!

That evening, a stranger, a girl who said she lived next door to me (next to the house I was moving into - we hadn’t even moved in yet!) came to visit me. She stayed and stayed and stayed and in the meantime, I’m getting wetter and wetter and wetter. I’m praying, "God, please make her leave!" By the time she left, I had to call the nurses to come and change my bed again and I had to go clean up, again walking past that dumb man sitting in that stupid chair.

About 4:00 the next morning, I began to feel "weird" twinges and they kept up continually. I finally called a nurse who assured me that I had started labor. By 8:00 I had to again talk them into letting me take another shower. They said I could if a nurse stayed at the door with me. I went back to bed and the twinges increased and I was taken to the "labor" room. There I was assigned a male nurse (the indignities never end) who wanted to give me an enema. As my water had broken I wasn’t allowed to use the bathroom like a nice girl, He gave me a bedpan and stood there and waited. Well, nothing happened. And nothing happened - five gallons of water and nothing! He won’t leave me laying on the table because I might fall off. So he waits! And I wait, my bowels refusing to budge! Finally I win, only just a little though. He agrees to leave the room and all is fairly okay with the world again - a little privacy at last! He finally calls in a female nurse for the rest of this ordeal.

Now the labor room was just that - a room where you labored and the more you labored, the worse it hurt! My husband came in and asked did I really want him there, it was just going to take a long time with nothing happening, and he was bored and hungry. I was in no mood for him to be pestering me, so I told him to just leave and I’d be fine. My parents and a couple of friends came soon afterwards. My husband finally came back (by the way, we are now divorced - see above).

Now I don’t remember having "contractions." I remember hell. There was the pain and then there was more pain (I suppose that was the contractions). That pain never let up like I thought it would, the pain just kep coming. From the beginning it took about 8-9 hours to reach 4 centimeters. And then within 30 minutes I was at 10. Then I hit what I suppose is "transition."

All of a sudden there was this urge to push. However, the doctor hadn’t arrived yet, and the nurses are telling me, "no hold it, don’t push!" Yeah! like right!

The nurses see that I’m still pushing (how in the world do you stop?) and are gloving up and finally the doctor comes in and is all nicey nice to my husband, who by this time I hate!

Finally, when the "doctor" is ready, he tells me I can push - whew - what a sweet guy! Two pushes and the baby is here. I’ll never forget when they laid him in my arms, loads and loads of black hair and weird wadded up ears! A total stranger and all of a sudden I realized I had no idea who he was or what he liked or even if he would like me.

Then they told me that they were going to give me a sponge bath and a massage! I thought, ah, how nice - I don’t have to work at anything now, I can rest. I envisioned a nice dimly lit room with people around my bedside attending to my every need and a wonderful bath and massage!

Whoaaa! Reality check!

The sponge bath WAS very nice. But that massage! Was I in for an education. There was no way on earth that I would have believed that some little nurse was going to come in and jump up and plop herself on my stomach four times in the next hour (at least that’s what it felt like, and that’s exactly what she did! Supposedly this is to make sure that the womb is cleared). Luckly by the fourth time, I knew what was coming and it did get a little better. But that first groan (which was more like a scream) I will always remember! I don’t know why they didn’t tell us this stuff! And as I lay there waiting the next 15 minutes for her to make her rounds of unfeeling manipulation, I could hear the groans and screams of the other ladies who had also unknowingly entered this hell.

The next morning, I went down to a special class to learn how to take care of my little baby and I’m in this room with about 40 other women. The room is about 10 by 12 and crowded. I don’t know how the other ladies knew to bring inner tubes along to sit on, but nobody gave me one and it was extremely uncomfortable and HOT! I finally figured out that when I was little I’d played with dolls enough that I could figure out how to change a diaper and asked to go back to my room. I’d barely gotten back when a bunch of friends came into my room for a surprise baby shower. Normally, I would have been so pleased, but I was just tired and guiltily wishing they would all go home which they finally did!

Today, my baby is 34, married and maybe one day his wife will have one, though I hope her experience is different.

How can we protect our children?

This past Wednesday, April 19, little Hailey Owens from Springfield, Missouri, was kidnapped and within a couple of hours was raped and murdered (shot at the base of her skull). All of Springfield and surrounding area are mourning the loss of this beautiful young girl.

We are struggling to make sense of how a 45-year-old man, Craig Michael Wood, a middle-school coach and paraprofessional for in-school suspension, and a local musician, could do such a thing. Questions arose as to why this man was even working for the school system. The school has assured us that an extensive background check had been done and all that was found was a minor drug infraction back in 1990 - 24 years ago - and a minor hunting infraction in 2001, (apparently he hit a deer with his car, but the judge, a wildlife advocate, felt otherwise). He had been working for the Springfield school system for 15 years - with no problems whatsoever! His neighbors described him as quiet, most of the kids seemed to like him - one even said he was the best coach ever!

Of course, new information is just now coming out and I'm sure there will be more. A raid of his house found child pornography in a three-ring binder and several guns. During questioning so far he stated that in his 20s he had black-out spells and he has had a problem with alcohol. We still wonder, though, how did he stay off the radar for so long?

Hailey was sick earlier that day so she didn't go to school. (I need to point out that Craig Wood did NOT work at Hailey's school and they did NOT know each other.) Later after school was out she felt better and walked the two blocks to her best friend's house. It was during that walk that she was abducted. A few people saw Wood grab Hailey and tried to stop it, then tried chasing Wood with their car. When that failed, they called 911 with a description of the truck and license plate number and then went from house to house to try to find her parents. Because of the information police received they found Wood within 3-4 hours, but it was already too late.

This is such a sad and almost unbelievable story and Springfield is "reeling." We just don't know what to make of it. In our efforts to do something, we've set up funds to help Hailey's family with expenses, there will be a candlelight march on the northside of town tonight, a motorcycle ride is planned. And while we know it won't bring Hailey back, we hope it sends a message to her parents that we as a community care.

Almost immediately a Facebook page was set up in memory of Hailey Porch Lights for Hailey Owens. We were asked to turn on our porch light. Within an hour there were over 100,000 people all over the US and across the world turning on their porch lights and sending in pictures. As of this moment there are over 214,000 people around the world committed to turning on their porch lights in memory of Hailey and other children who have been kidnapped and murdered.

I remember when my own son David was that age in 1990. It hadn't been too long since Adam Walsh had been kidnapped and murdered; children's faces were on milk cartons and it was very much on our minds how dangerous the world was. My son was not allowed to leave our yard when he played outside. He went to a small private school so he didn't really know any of the neighborhood children until he was older. However, he did have friends stay over on the weekend - sometimes two, three, or four boys at a time. As silly as even I thought it was, he was still in daycare the summer after he turned 13 (under the guise that he was helping out). When he started public school in his middle school years, he took the bus which was two blocks away. I sat in the car at the bus stop until it arrived. I noticed the house where the bus stopped - a man sat at his window every morning and watched. I don't know if he was interested in keeping the kids safe or not, I wasn't about to find out.

Even as our children get older, we realize the danger is still not over. When David reached driving age, I would leave the newspaper open on the kitchen table when a teen had been involved in a horrific wreck. I wanted him to see what could still happen. He told me later that he saw those pictures and they scared him!

I've always been amazed though how many parents were just not available to their teens after midnight. One night while spending the night with a friend, he called around 2-3 a.m. because their car had broken down. There were four boys and I was the last parent to be called; none of the other parents answered their phone. As I was getting dressed to go out and rescue them, I could not believe that these kids' parents were unavailable at night. I found it even more amazing that one parent actually turned their phone off at night. The reason I know was because David had told me that he "might" spend the night at a friend's house, but he would let me know for sure. When he didn't call and still wasn't home at curfew, I started calling his friend's house an hour later. They did not answer until 8 or 9 in the morning because they turned their phone off at night - and they still had two teenage boys at home!

It seems though that sometimes even when we are extremely cautious there is very little we can do to protect our kids. Our own little town recently suffered several teen losses in only a couple of years. At least nine teens are gone much too soon in only the past three to four years. And from back in 1992 is the still unsolved case of The Springfield Three - two teenage friends Stacie McCall and Suzanne Streeter, and Suzanne's mother Sherrill Levitt who went missing the night after high school graduation.

I know Hailey's mom did nothing wrong - she said she walked her daughter to school every day, and this one day, because it was so nice, she let Hailey go to her friend's house by herself. Hailey and her friend always met half-way, but not that day.

The quilt has been hanging on the rack for at least five years, but the other night I wanted to look at it. There's a pattern I remember from Aunt Betty Lou's funeral. My dress was yellow and black. Aunt Orneda told mom it was too bright for a funeral. I was in third grade.



There's fabric from Mom's dresses and flannel from our pajamas.



Mom would work on the squares and when she ran out of pieces for the square, she would finish it with a similar color. When they were all stitched together, she'd have Dad bring in the "work horses" and stretch the quilt out and "quilt" it. I remember the rolls of batting, so soft and hours and hours of stitching. There are probably 10,000 or more tiny stitches. Our living room was filled with the quilt for several weeks. When it was done, us kids always wanted it - new and soft. Sometimes we'd have up to three quilts on our beds.

On October 17, 2011, at OzarksFirst.com it's written: "The Bolivar School District has now lost eight students in 17 months." That was after the death of three high school girls. Earlier in the year two other students died from cancer and another collapsed while out walking with a friend.

Again, last night, Bolivar lost another teen. This now makes nine in the past two years. Though I didn't know him, this one was a bit closer to home as one of my step-sons was close to his former girlfriend. My step-son wanted to go to the hospital to be of comfort to his friend and when we pulled into the parking lot, I was amazed at the number of teens and their parents outside the Emergency Room.

I first read about the accident on Facebook and at that time, no one knew who was involved or even how many were in the accident. The post said there were two people involved and a search was on for the second victim. I immediately called our two sons to hear their voices and make sure they were all right. It turned out that the Facebook post was wrong and only one person was involved.

I've never been personally affected by a teen's death, but last night, watching the teens cry for their friend and with their friends, I began to appreciate grief counseling at the schools for these kids.

Nine teens seems to be an awfully lot of kids to lose in two years for this very small town.

Lord, help me realize that quality time with my family is so much more important than how their rooms or my house looks.

The Green Thing

Checking out at the supermarket recently, the young cashier suggested I should bring my own bags because plastic bags weren’t good for the environment. I apologized and explained, “We didn’t have this green thing back in my earlier days“.

The clerk responded, “That’s our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment for future generations“.

She was right about one thing–our generation didn’t have the green thing in “Our” day. So what did we have back then? After some reflection and soul-searching on “Our” day, here’s what I remembered we did have….

Back then, we returned milk bottles, pop bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles repeatedly. So they really were recycled.

We walked up stairs, because we didn’t have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn’t climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.

Back then, we washed the baby’s diapers because we didn’t have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 240 volts — wind and solar power really did dry our clothes back in our early days. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house — not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of Wales. In the kitchen, we blended & stirred by hand because we didn’t have electric machines to do everything for us. When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used wadded up old newspapers to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, we didn’t fire up an engine and burn petrol just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn’t need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

We drank from a water fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water. We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

Back then, people took the bus, and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their mums into a 24-hour taxi service. We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn’t need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.

It's sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn’t have the green thing back then.

Dying to Self

DYING TO SELF

by Bill Britton

When you are forgotten, or neglected, or purposely set at naught and you don't sting and hurt with the insult or the oversight; but your heart is happy, counting it worthy to suffer for Christ—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

When your good is evil spoken of, when your wishes are crossed, your opinions ridiculed and you refuse to let anger rise in your heart or even defend yourself-, but take it all in patient loving silence—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

When you lovingly and patiently bear any disorder, any irregularity, any unpunctuality or any annoyance; when you can stand face to face with waste, folly, extravagance, spiritual insensibility and endure it as Jesus endured it—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

When you are content with any food, any offering, any raiment, any cli­mate, any society, any solitude or any interruption by the will of God—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

When you never care to refer to yourself in conversation, or itch after com­mendation, when you can truly love to be unknown—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

When you can see your brother prosper and have his needs met and can honestly rejoice with him in spirit and feel no envy nor question God while your own needs are far greater and in desperate circumstance—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

When you can receive correction and reproof from one of less stature than yourself and can humbly submit inwardly as well as outwardly finding no rebellion or resentment rising up within your heart—THAT IS DYING TO SELF.

Are you dead yet? In these last days the Spirit would bring us to the Cross. "That I may know Him ... being made conformable to his death." Philippians 3:10

For more of this and other messages, write to‑
Church In Action — Bill Britton Ministries — PO Box 707 — Springfield MO 65801

Back in October 1975, I began attending House of Prayer in Springfield, Missouri. I was desperate for something in my life. When I walked in the doors of that building I felt a strange peace - I KNEW without a doubt I'd come home. I didn't know a soul around me, except my Dad and strange as it seems, he and I were never really close.

I'd felt God calling me to return to Him for several months and finally one day I told him, "Okay - but I can't go back to the UPC church I was raised in. Please find me a place with great music, people my age and where life is real - not just rules and regulations." I'd never discussed this with my family; my sister and her husband attended a Baptist church across town that she loved, but it didn't click with me. One day Dad mentioned House of Prayer (He'd met Bro. Bill on the golf course) and thought I might try it. As I said earlier, I walked in and knew I'd found my place.

The main doors of the church opened to the building the "wide" way. Instead of the pulpit being at one of the long ends of the room, it was in the wide end so everyone felt closer to the pulpit. The pulpit was "open." Anyone could speak - even me if I wanted - but I could have never gotten up in front of anyone, ever!

There was another entrance to the building (on one of the short ends) and there in that vestibule (just outside the bathrooms) was a tract stand. The cloak area was just across the hallway. So while waiting for the bathroom or to get a coat, one could peruse the tract stand and this is where I found this wonderful poem written by Bill Britton, the founder of House of Prayer in Springfield, MO.

I used to carry several copies with me - to refer to in my early days of my recommitment to God, but I eventually gave them all away. Thank God for the internet where everything is accessible all over again.

As I re-read the poem, I see the beauty in the words and with even more clarity see how difficult they are to live by. The one who can live by those words is full of grace and beauty - just like Jesus.

Greg X. Volz - I'm Yours [N05]

I remember when Mike and Greg were working on this album and to this day, this is one of my all-time, most favorite Christian songs. Thank you Mike Schmitz and Greg Volz!