running.

I am not a runner.

The fact that I'm writing this a few days after running my first 10K road race is slightly ironic, but let me get to where I'm going! When I say that I'm not a runner -- I mean that I am not a natural runner. After a bout of pneumonia at the age of 12 I'm pretty sure my lungs are even less inclined to participate in running activities. It is not in my natural inclination to run. I do not like to play soccer because it involves running. I hate running fast because the rhythm just isn't there and believe me, if there is no rhythm when a 6'2" human is trying to run fast, there is a tangle of limbs and fantastically epic crashes with the ground!

But I like to run slow. I like to run and still be able to breathe. And the thing that happens when you keep doing this running thing is that you slowly get faster and better and suddenly you are not really so terribly slow anymore, even if you don't have those special endorphiney thingies in your genetic code!! Eureka!! Training WORKS!

Everyone seems to have a reason for starting to run, and I am no different. I was a member of the cross country team in my elementary school years if for no reason than it seemed to be something that I could accomplish with at least partial success (athletics were never my forte). After failing to make the team in grade eight (think tremendously fantastic meltdown mid-course), I didn't think much more about running for almost a decade.

Then my dad had a seizure on our family camping trip and I wanted nothing less than to sit around in an empty house while he was stuck in the Georgian Bay General Hospital getting tests done and so perhaps irrationally I figured that I should probably go for a run.

Then I kept running.

I ran slowly and not very far, but just enough to be doing something so that when it felt like life was roadblocked by a greyish sort of future, completely mired in grief and memories of funerals and phone calls with coroners I would still be going somewhere, even if it was just to the stoplights and back.

And that's where the inspirational "how running saved my life" story ends -- it didn't even really begin, actually. Running didn't save or change my life. It didn't push me through my grief -- the Holy Spirit did. Running was one of many things that helped give me focus and a goal when it would have been really easy to become lifeless and sorrowful and the proud owner of a massive chip on my shoulder. So that's that. I kept running even after the grief ebbed away because I kind of liked it and it really is good exercise. 

One of my big goals while in Scotland was to spend ample time running. We were in Edinburgh -- how could I not take the opportunity to do a wee 5K joggle around an ancient castle? My days were my own and I had made room in my suitcase for my Sauconys -- I was set.

Well, I wasn't quite ready for all the dang hills. You want good hill training? Try running in Edinburgh. You can't escape the hills! But nothing -- absolutely nothing -- beats the views! I developed a variety of different routes over the summer -- but my absolutely fave was a route all the way around Arthur's Seat, a massive old volcano plonked right in the middle of the city. 

Well, not all of it was great. The first half of it involved getting up the volcano... which has a fairly steep incline. Which I finally ran up without stopping on the last run of the summer!! Congratulations, me. 

 While toiling up the hill of death I would distract myself by looking to the side at the above view and think, how enjoyable this is! What lovely views! This is just as pleasant as laying on the beach and not moving! 

Running is mostly psychological, people. 

 Once up to the crest of the hill of horrible awful steep grade, I would look over my shoulder and see THIS! I do love a good view of Edinburgh. 

 But at this point I wasn't even halfway done the route -- so -- onward! Once around this corner, you could see...

 THIS! I love this. That's a golf course down there, and a bird sanctuary. And some really beautiful lawn lines. Way to go, mower!!

 Pushing further forward with much gasping and hatred of this hobby, I would reach the midpoint of the run -- Dunsapie Loch, a tiny bit of water at the top of the volcano. Was always filled with ducks and surrounded by many tourists and small children who would probably wonder if the crazy red-faced girl was going to make it home okay. 

 I would also like to say that whoever thinks they invented the infinity pool -- didn't. The claimant of that prize goes to whoever dug this lake here. Lake to ocean -- phenomenal. Made me smile every time. Well... more of a smile-grimace. 

 All downhill from there, baby! Plus an ancient chapel to look at helps distract from the leg cramps. 

And then St. Margaret's Loch and swans! After that the hardest part was dodging the picnickers and clusters of tourists with their cameras and the police cars around Holyrood Palace when Charles and Camilla were in town. Which was only once. Which was pretty crazy. I hobnob with royalty in my sweaty leggings, oh yes. 

Anyway, we returned to Michigan and whilst running along the familiar suburban streets of our dear old smoggy city and missing the charming old church bell-ringing steeples of cathedrals from my old Edinburgh routes,  I thought that I ought to channel my running energy into an actual race so attacked my training schedule with a vengeance -- but only for a little while because to be honest I really don't enjoy training. You have to eat at certain times and not eat at other times and just use up so much time doing tiring things when you'd rather be using your time doing other things. In short: training blows. 

Was a bit wild and signed up for a 10K. My thought process was: I can run a 5K no problem! So I'll challenge myself and run 10! Easy as pie! Just doubling it, that's all! 

Sigh. 

Fortunately all went well and the experience was not at all as traumatic as the last race I ran in -- a grade 6 cross country meet back in 1998. In that case, after the starting gun went off all I can remember was a mad scramble of adolescent girls, a whole lot of dust, and a poor girl moaning on the ground who succumbed to the chaos of tangled pre-teen legs and found herself being trampled. It was awful -- I remember thinking that I just wanted to get out of there but there was no other option but to run or be run upon. 

Nope, far less drama at my 10K. Just a whole lotta running and then massive amounts of free food at the end. Let's be honest, I was only there for the free food. It pays to run, my friends! I'll run 10K any day if it means I get some Greek yogurt after the finish line!! 

                 

the other side.

This past Monday marked a really huge milestone in my life -- a milestone I'd never really anticipated. It wasn't even on my radar.

Wayne was gone to Men's Bible Study. I was home alone, my hands held half a green pepper stuffed with leftover couscous (dinner of champions!), and my eyes were reflecting the soft glow of the computer screen. We don't own a television, so we depend on the internet for all our entertainment needs. Tonight? The Toronto Blue Jays were playing ball.

At first I thought, "Oh, I'll just have it on while I'm eating my dinner." Then a few innings went by. Couscous devoured, I made myself some toast. Watched some more innings. Did a little happy dance when DeRosa hit a three-run homer. Watched the whole game. Kept the website tuned into the FAN590 so I could laugh into the dish soap as Mike Wilner sliced up moronic callers on the Jays Talk post-game show. Suddenly, I realized something serious had happened.

I had turned into a baseball fan.

Okay, I get it, this doesn't sound like that big a deal, and in the grand scheme of things, it isn't, really. Weirder stuff is going on out there in blogland. But if you knew what sort of environment I was raised in... think hockey-hockey-hockey, hockey all the time. We didn't have an option. Saturday night was Hockey Night in Canada with Don Cherry and Ron McLean. Don't even THINK about watching a Disney movie, kids. We were taught to skate as soon as we could walk, and though none of us ever played in an official hockey league, we thought we were pros when it came to pond hockey (which presents its own challenges -- uneven ice and pressure cracks can really blow your breakaway, as can getting a frozen tree branch in the eye). Somewhere around the age of 12, I morphed from a compulsory Maple Leafs fan into a full-fledged all-consumed hockey devotee. 

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I lived and breathed the Leafs. Those were the days when you could tell how Pat Quinn was feeling based on the way he chewed his gum and when Mats Sundin still had a full head of blonde hair. I spent the weeks during the playoffs on edge, nails chewed, both dreading and anticipating that 7 o'clock puck drop. Goals scored against us were taken personally, even more so when it resulted in playoff elimination.  We would furiously proclaim our undying abhorrence to teams that got in our way -- I still feel a little grudge against New Jersey thanks to the 2000 and 2001 playoff seasons. 

But baseball? First of all, I was (and still am) terrible at playing baseball. And the Jays? Who are they? Why would anyone pay attention to them? Bunch of old guys who stand around in a field chewing tobacco and swinging at balls -- and losing. Boring. 

University arrived. Now consumed with endless schoolwork and projects, Bob Cole and the Leafs had to take a backseat. I'd occasionally watch a weekend game, but when at Wayne's house -- it was the Blue Jays. Wayne loved baseball. Yes, I'd found myself a man from the other side. 

I didn't mind much. If you were going to fall asleep on the couch on a Sunday afternoon, you might as well fall asleep to a Jays game, right? Right. It was kind of nice, actually. Alan Ashby had a pretty soothing voice. 

Throughout our dating years and into marriage, Wayne has devoted himself to teaching me every single possible thing there is to know about baseball. I listened politely at first, then with slight interest, now with unabashed fascination. I really, really, really like baseball. I like its rich history and its calculated, silent strategy. I like its etiquette and its unwritten rules and player codes. I like its lingo -- backdoor slider, moonshot, uncle Charlie, snow cone catch. I like watching the interaction between opponents, whether it's a head nod acknowledging a good (i.e. filthy) pitch, or a solid plunking to let the batter know what everyone thinks of him. 

And now I don't even know the name of the Leafs' head coach. I'm so incredibly fickle. 

Wayne came home from his Bible Study and asked if I knew how the game went.

S: They won! I watched the whole game!
W: You watched the whole game??! Alone?!?!! 
S: ...Yes.

He was pretty proud of me. Then when I told him I'd listened to Jays Talk alone as well, he just started laughing. Disbelief, I think. 

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Anyway, the game is starting soon. Jerry Howarth, how I've missed your voice!

the wedding pt. 8: flowers.

Flowers at weddings are odd things. When else in your life do you ever hold a bunch of flowers in an awkward-yet-queenly sort of way for an entire day? At any other time in your life this would be considered abnormal behaviour. But no -- today, on this momentous day of days, you are allowed to hold a bunch of flowers for hours on end. All your friends get to hold them, too. And the boys! The boys get to wear them! Not at any other time (at least in this century) will they consent to pin pink gerberas to their shirts, but today -- oh yes. Today this sort of accessorizing is the pinnacle of masculinity. 

I wasn't very good at the whole flower thing. I was not nearly as prepared as I should have been. Smart girls have Pinterest boards packed with bouquet ideas from the age of 13. The go to flower shows. They do serious research. I googled "pretty wedding flowers for July", pasted some images into a document, and never referred to them again. This is rather too bad, especially in the wake of how my wedding flowers actually turned out. There was nothing wrong with them -- they looked beautiful and smelled nice. They just didn't really... match. 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

This is all my fault. My florists were brilliant. They did exactly what I asked them to do -- and that's why it's my fault. I can even recall them asking if that was exactly what I wanted, and offering other brief suggestions, but I declined and popped out of there as soon as I could because we were late for a family wedding (where the flowers matched beautifully, I might add). Also, it had been pouring rain outside and being doused in mid-June showers resulted in all my creative sense washing away. No, this has not been scientifically proven. Yes, I'm still going to use it as an excuse. 

You may recall that our girls were dressed in various shades of blue, and the boys in black and white. To stay safe (and inexpensive) I decided to go for crisp and clean with a white and green bouquet. This was to be my theme throughout -- for the guys, girls, moms, etc. Keep it simple and pretty. Princess Kate's bouquet from earlier in the year may or may not have played a role in helping me make this decision. 

The day of the wedding -- surprise! My bouquet was a pinky cream with purple here and there. Not white. Not green. My mouth got a little dry when I had a flashback to that day in the back room at the flower shop -- yes -- I distinctly remember saying cream would look nice. And purple, too. What?! Why?!?!  I still have no idea what possessed me to think that this would look all matched and proper. I wish I could say that the purple was for some sort of sentimental reason... that it had some sort of secret meaning. Alas, all it means is that Suzanne doesn't always pay very good attention to things. 

{Darryl Schipper Photography}

Not that it really matters. We rocked our bouquets, and those flowers have now gone back to where they came from... composted and rotted back into the earth, helping other plants grow! Makes one consider their mortality and all that serious stuff. Matrimony. Mismatched flowers. Mortality. I don't think I have blog categories for all of these important things. 

 {Darryl Schipper Photography}

a boring-ish update.

Annnnnd.... she's back!

Not that I was ever gone. I'd log into this website thinger and sadly look at the last date posted and hope that some magic blog fairy would have posted something witty and charming to appease the blog-reading mobs. I suppose I should just get on with it and stop imagining earth-shattering entries into existence. I'd be content with something that was at least a touch comprehensible. 

Congrats to all you long-suffering readers out there, though... my blogging dashboard tells me that people are still regularly checking this insignificant page with hope in their hearts. Well -- I can't confirm the hope in hearts, I just imagine that. 

Life update, since you all care so very much: May was nice. Daffodils bloomed, then the nasty bunnies ate all my poor little tulips before they had a chance to burst open -- made me rather vindictive towards bunnies for awhile. We have very friendly neighbours whose little children can now spend time outside in the pleasant weather... they come and press their faces up against our sliding door, providing much entertainment and leaving some oddly shaped slobber marks on the glass. Work-wise, I surpassed even my own expectations in defeating the insurance billing monster conundrum. Our office lost its insurance biller. Guess who took on the job? Yes. Turns out people actually go to school for this for a reason. BUT -- as I said -- it was defeated (through much trial and error, but we don't need to talk about that). 

My ever-present friend of almost six years took a turn for the worse and had to be admitted to a rehab centre -- fare thee well, 2007 macbook. Her light went out and using a flashlight to see the screen isn't the most effective way to check one's email. Being without a functioning computer may have also aided in my absence from the blogosphere -- I used Wayne's old and limping laptop for awhile but trying to blog on a computer whose functionality depends solely on its mood isn't the best for creativity's flow. Oh, you'd like to turn off now? Alright. Go ahead and do that. We'll try again tomorrow. Fortunately I  know some people with connections. Thank you, people, for letting me know you and lending me a tool that will aid in my trades. Have you tried digitally editing illustrations without photoshop OR a computer? It's quite impossible. 

The Grand Rapids weather has been ever-constant -- and by this I mean completely all over the place. Cold and rainy and miserable to steamy and unbearably humid all within a few hours. I didn't think any weather could be more moody and unpredictable than southern Ontario, but west Michigan takes the cake, I think. Merci beaucoup, Lake Michigan and surrounding bodies of water. 

Before I bore you all with more lengthy weather descriptions, I think I'll put a stop to this entry. Now. I'll be back with more substance later. Also, the below photo is amazing. 

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it's here.

"It always amazes me to look at the little wrinkled brown seeds and think of the rainbows in 'em."

           - Anne's House of Dreams

I would like to take this moment to say how ridiculously delighted I am by this time of year. 

In general I'm not very good at dealing with change, but when it comes to the changing of the seasons, particularly the transition from winter to spring, I am perfectly fine with change. It's not that I hate winter -- I'm just annually struck by the wonder of spring and by how quickly the waves of green take over the brown and grey.

I go outside every morning to check on the status of the garden. It's like a weird twitch... but a happy twitch.

Welcome, spring. 

my husband is more fashionable than me.

I'm not joking. He is. I don't know when this happened, but it did. He knows what cuffs go with what cuff links and what collars you should wear to which occasions. He has a travel case for his ties. He's been lurking around thrift stores trying to find a navy blue blazer and finally succeeded -- it's now altered and dry-cleaned and while wearing it he looks like Prince Harry. He irons his dress shirts.

I have not yet used our iron.

I don't really know how to use our iron.

But yes, with the combined efforts of training via The Art of Manliness, Neal Caffrey, and an abundance of really excellent thrift stores in this city, Wayne has become a man of style. Now, if only I could find a nice pea coat with sleeves long enough for my arms. You can't get away with 3/4 length sleeves all the time, my friends. I've tried. Although, on the upside, I've really formed quite a strong relationship with my forearms over the years. We know each other well.

Speaking of weird relationships, this is something Wayne said yesterday:

W: "Alright coffee, it's time that you and I locked lips. Some people say I have an inappropriate relationship with coffee... I just say we're friends with benefits."

S: [Confused silence]. 

You've got it -- it's that time of year again, folks! Midterms and all the confused and hazy brain slush that comes with 'em! Turns out not only is Wayne fashionable, he's also really funny when he's sleep deprived.

Well, that's all. No pictures today. Sad face.

extreme makeover - blogger edition!

No, my hair is not that fabulously wavy, nor is it a warm shade of maple blonde. I don't have a polka-dotted shirt, my eyes aren't nearly that blue, and the face? Doesn't resemble me a bit.

There have to be at least some perks to being right-brained, and if drawing freakishly attractive though completely inaccurate self-portraits is one of them, I'll take it. Let's face it -- we're called starving artists for a reason. Let us at least make ourselves feel better by allowing us to turn ourselves into supermodels.

Yup -- this blog got a good old-fashioned facelift on the weekend. I figured that since I'd stuck around internet-land this long (no one is more surprised than me), I could do my blog the honour of rebranding it. But don't get all excited -- I'll still be posting with the regular irregularity of the past year. The new banner certainly does not mean more posts. All it means is that I had a burst of creativity for a few hours yesterday and actually did something with it instead of thinking about it and then watching the birds outside and then folding laundry and then taking a nap.

Thanks for sticking with me! If you're lucky next time I might do something crazy and change the font. Or figure out how to make these dang posts stay centred. Bah.

how to make someone feel like a doormat.

I was in a pretty good mood when I walked into the office. The answering machine was full of messages and there was a mug of coffee calling my name -- I was ready to roll into the workday with enthusiasm.

Then I heard your message. There was nothing rude about it -- you simply had a question to ask, and requested that we call back. But there was something in your tone -- an inhibited kind of sarcasm -- that made me leave phoning you back until the very last item on my callback list. I had a history of your account up on the screen and files laid out in front of me like a row of defense weapons, ready to respond in case of enemy fire.

I'll bet you didn't think a desk job could be so wild.

I was wary when I dialled your number, and it turns out that my gut instinct was more in tune with reality than I ever thought possible.

Maybe you had a bad morning. Maybe your kids were driving you crazy. Maybe your wife was nagging you. But whatever was going on, the ear of the receptionist at your local chiropractor's office was apparently the most convenient place to let loose your fury of rage.

I get that you didn't like how much the bill was for. No one likes having to pay bills, especially when they're more than we expect. But screaming at the girl who does the invoicing won't change the fact that your family received services and as a result, must pay for those services.

You should know that you've set a personal record for me. I'm a person who avoids conflict like the plague, and as such have never experienced being called so many different things in the span of a ten minute verbal tirade before. Yeah, you kept it PG, but there's still something demeaning about being called idiotic, quacky, insane, and a thief -- and so much more that I really can't even remember.

You didn't really want to talk to me. You didn't really have any questions. You just wanted to throw a tantrum and make sure that I knew that you were severely unhappy. I wanted to hang up on you. Thinking back, I probably should have. No one should have to be forced to listen to what you said to me. And let's be honest, you were far beyond the point of being rude.

You probably didn't know that you had wrecked my day. You probably didn't know that when you finally hung up on me, it took all I had to not collapse into a pathetic mess of frustrated and ashamed tears. You probably didn't know that I spent the rest of the day trying desperately to hold onto the shadows of personal dignity that I still somehow possessed; searching wildly for an ounce of confidence that you hadn't completely stolen from me. You probably didn't know that you had that much power over somebody you'd never met before.

I didn't think anyone did, either.

Being a receptionist requires some seriously thick skin. I didn't know that when I started, but I'm getting there. I'm getting better at letting things bounce right off me, at moving along and forgetting the scalding looks I get. Now that I'm almost a year into the receptionist gig, I have a great deal more respect for those people who sit behind the counter, telling you where to go and what to do.

Next time you step up to a desk behind which sits a receptionist, ask them a question. Give them a smile. They'll appreciate it. There's a pile of charts that have to be filed, a long list of angry people to call, jumbled accounts that need major spring cleaning, and fingers full of paper cuts that need some serious love and care.

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Be nice to your receptionists. They're just doing their jobs. 

where have all the men gone?

My husband and I really like our church here in Michigan. Excellent worship, community, preaching... and a nice breakfast for college kids every Sunday morning before the service. I'm not a college student, but I still manage to sneak in for a meal. If we keep up with the latest slang people don't notice that we're actually five years older than everyone else at the table.

Our city is packed with universities and colleges -- particularly Christian ones. There are thousands of young Christian students in this city from across the country with dozens of church options to choose from. Our church really likes students, and they try and make it easier to come by providing transportation from a nearby college campus, offering free meals and rides back home, etc. Basically, all you have to do is get up in the morning and someone will make sure you get to church and get fed -- spiritually and otherwise. Every Sunday there are several rows filled with college students who really change the dynamic of our church community -- we think it's pretty cool.

But here's the strange thing -- about 80% of those college kids are female.

We haven't done any in-depth research or asked around if this is a trend in all the churches in the area, so it could be that there's a church a few blocks away that's packed with a bunch of college guys, but for some reason we find that highly unlikely. So -- where have all the men gone?

It's a challenge for Wayne and I not to be hard on the nameless guys who don't show up. Our church makes it painfully easy to come to church. You don't even have to walk anywhere or figure out a bus schedule. There's free cinnamon rolls!!! Honestly. Not to mention the fact that there's dozens of beautiful Christian college girls sitting around the table. Buddy, you'd have zero competition.

Okay, okay, I get it, the point of going to church is not to find a spouse. But let's be honest, that's definitely one of the perks of getting involved in a fantastic Christian community if getting married is on your bucket list.

I don't really know where I'm going with this post, other than that I'm confused by the lack of young men at church when I know that the nearby college campus is almost a 50/50 split of guys and girls. Basically: College guys, quit playing video games at a decent hour so that you can get up on time and get yourself to church. Man up a little.

That's all.

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the real friday night lights.

A confession -- I still don't understand how football works. I know the basics: the scoring system, the end zone, touchdowns, tackles. But in terms of critiquing good plays, smart strategies and dumb moves... I'm lost.

I blame this on my Canadian upbringing. Football was that American sport where large men piled on top of each other and the ball didn't move much. My boredom with the sport may also have had something to do with growing up in a hockey family -- hockey is fast-paced, the puck moves around a lot more than the pigskin, and there are less lines to deal with -- only five! Plus they're colour-coded. Nice.

Also, the whole high school football thing doesn't really exist in Canada. Sure, Canadian high schools have football teams... probably... somewhere. Maybe. But the jocks that all the girls want to date in Canadian high schools are the right wing forwards or the libero on the volleyball team. QB? What's a QB? A... quesedilla burrito? Sounds okay. I prefer fajitas.

We've been in Michigan for over a year now and have almost reached the end of another high school football season. When we moved here we were stunned at the size of high school football stadiums -- stadiums that dwarfed my alma mater's stadium, stadiums with enormous lights blazing onto astroturf, stadiums right next to glimmering lakes that reflect the waving of the giant American flag standing guard. Our interest piqued, we decided to go to a Friday night football game.

The strange phenomenon of the high school football culture has completely blown our minds.

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If you've ever wondered why Hollywood is flooded with so many high school football-themed movies (Friday Night Lights, Remember the Titans and The Blind Side, to name a few), I can assuredly say that the reason for this lies in the complete hothouse of drama and chaos that takes place during a Friday night football game.

First of all, the football players themselves. These guys are just pulsing with adrenaline and so focussed on the game that they don't notice the late October temperatures or the cute water girls who poke into their huddles to pass around gatorade and winks. Okay, maybe not winks. But that's somewhere in the back of their minds, I'm sure. Then there are the coaches who just about lose their minds screaming at either their players or the refs. They march out on the field, faces red, shoulders hunched, only to have a yellow penalty flag thrown at their feet (resulting in more anger).

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Then, the fans: I had never realized this before, but there's a Students Only section of the stands. This area houses hundreds of raucous high school students who scream and pound the bleachers and coat their faces with layers of warpaint. Beside them is where the Marching Band sits when they're not dancing around the field. These kids, dressed in their super goofy (yet somehow impressive) marching band outfits, spend the game sporadically bursting into pump-up music then put on a real show during halftime... usually an attempt at a current Lady GaGa hit. Yikes.

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The rest of the crowd consists of parents and siblings and next door neighbours. All of these people are wearing The North Face coats. I kid you not. Not sure if they're the official sponsor of high school football or something, but Wayne and I enjoyed counting how many of these jackets walked past us. Around us parents are discussing how to housetrain a golden retriever, how the swim team will do this season, and how they think the vote will go this year. More recent high school grads, back for homecoming, reminisce about games that happened back in the day. Snarky middle school girls parade back and forth along the stands, anticipating the day when they can sit in the hallowed student-only section. One of the girls calls to another in the stands, "Wow, I can't believe it, you actually came to a game..." The girl sitting in the bleachers stiffens and calls back "What do you mean? I'm always at the games!" The first girl laughs carelessly and walks on, a posse of diet Pepsi-toting friends following behind her.

So incredibly glad not to be that age anymore.

Another group of girls walks by -- high school girls coming back from the concession stand with hot chocolate in their hands, undoubtedly to help them warm up since their outfits consists of thin leggings and trendy cardigans in the 45 degree F weather. We're hit with a cloud of teenage perfume, a smell that brings me right back to the hallways of my own high school.

Amidst all this teenage drama is pure chaotic fun being had by an innumerable amount of little kids -- kids who have been set completely free (within the bounds of the stadium) to run and run and run and run and spend sweaty little handfuls of dimes on sweaty little handfuls of candy. By the beginning of the second quarter these tots have hit an all-time sugar high and with perma-wide eyes are providing a constant flow of commentary to their parents about the happenings around the field.

The halftime show courtesy of the marching band brings enthusiastic cheering from parents, and Wayne and I laugh into our mittens when the homecoming king and queen parade down a red carpet into the centre of the field to be crowned while sitting in plastic chairs-turned-to-thrones. We think it's completely absurd, but I'm sure that everyone around us would disagree. "I love this part of homecoming," says one middle-aged man. "It's just so fun for the kids." You're entitled to your own opinion, sir.

By the fourth quarter, the sugar-hyped kids have completely and fully crashed. They lean into their parents' shoulders, whining about how cold they are and how annoying their brother is and "When are we going to go hoooooommmmmmme?" The underdressed high school girls have surrendered fashion to warmth and have somehow produced North Face jackets to fight the cold. The football players know they've got the game under control, and we've decided that they don't need us there to help them finish up. We sneak out early to avoid the post-game traffic jams and are quite alright with missing the end of the game if it means warming up. Those metal bleachers are cold.

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It's a whole different world, that stadium. We enjoy going to the games, but we're perfectly okay with the fact that we missed out on our own high school football experience. It's a rather chilly hobby, and I don't know that I could afford a North Face jacket.

what not to say when someone dies.

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It's been three years today since my Dad died. Ugh, that still sounds so terribly blunt. To be perfectly honest, I have a hard time believing that three years have already passed by. I can go right back to that moment in my basement the morning after we learned of his death, sitting beside my now-husband saying "I don't think I can do this -- I could barely get through last night. How am I supposed to get through the next week -- the next year -- the rest of my life -- with him just gone?"

This thought was running through all of our heads -- just this unbearable weight of grief that we didn't know what to do with or how to hold properly. And yet, three years have gone by and somehow we're all still here. Changed, yes, but here.

Through my experience with grief and death and funerals and freezers full of strange lasagna, I've learned a couple of things. Not many things -- but at least three things, which I'll share today. So, without further ado -- what not to say when someone dies and you're standing in line at the wake waiting to talk to the family and thinking about how terribly sad and awkward this is.

1) "Your life will be so different now."

I'll just say this right away -- it's going to take a great deal of self-discipline to not be sarcastic in this post. But come on. Do you really think I haven't realized that my life has been utterly and completely changed with the loss of one of the most important men in my life? I'm perfectly aware that this death has thrown my life onto a totally different track than the one I had anticipated for myself, but thanks for the clarification.

(Sorry. Couldn't quite avoid the sarcasm.)

2) "You're going to have a completely different group of friends now." 

Definitely something my mother did not need to hear while standing beside my dad's casket. Not only had she just lost her spouse, but someone felt it necessary to inform her that all her friendships with other couples would fall apart and her only option would be to hang out with other widows.

For the record, this hasn't happened.

3) "Oh, this is just so sad. But I know this couple who lost all four of their parents, one of their siblings, and their infant twins all within 2 months... and now they both have cancer."

No one actually said this exact thing to us, but you get my point. I know that there are people with worse stories than mine. I'm quite aware that my situation is like a Florida vacation compared to what others are struggling through. I'm genuinely sorry for those people, and hope dearly that they'll be able to get through their own dark valleys. But right now, at this moment, I'm standing across from my dad's lifeless body and being indirectly told to "suck it up" is not what I need to hear. Is this selfish? I'm not sure. But it's how I felt, and how I'm sure most people would feel were they in the same situation.

"Okay Suzanne," you're saying. "You've sassed us long enough. You must think you're pretty funeral-savvy. What are we supposed to say in the awkward sad lineup at the wake?"

Two words:

I'm sorry. 

That's it. That's all you need to say. It's that simple. Sure, there are other appropriate things to say and do (like give a bear hug! Mmm), but this is the easiest, most basic approach. There's a long line behind you. The family is exhausted emotionally and physically. A long conversation or an offer to help with something is best saved for another time and place. Going to the visitation is a quiet, simple way to show the grieving family that you love them and are hurting for them and want to support them. And that's it.

I'll be honest, though -- despite my funeral expertise, I still dread going to wakes and funerals because here's the thing -- I still sometimes can't think of what to say. This is why I can't hold bitterness in my heart towards the people who spoke thoughtlessly. It doesn't matter what you've been through, death is still hard, and it's still a challenge to know what to say and how to act. It's hard to know how to deal with it. It's hard to know how to get down to the level of grief that someone else is experiencing and find the right level of compassion and sympathy, even if you're someone who has been in that same place.

With this in mind, I swept the thoughtless comments aside and just kept the wisdom gained through those experiences for use when necessary. In short -- we're humans and we're terrible at loving each other well. Fortunately God sent Someone who could completely identify with our sorrow and grief and pain... because without Jesus I may have had a little less patience in that lineup. Thanks be to God for another year of His love, provision, and grace.

fridays.

On Fridays I like to blast music like this. Sorry, neighbours. 

Sometimes I even dance to the above music like I'm a real hip hop star, as the kids say these days. I'm pretty sure I look this intense when I dance:

But Wayne would probably tell you otherwise. Mostly I look like a white girl in her 20s pretending to dance well to reformed hip hop. 

In any case, go dance a little. It'll make you feel happy. 

september.

Reasons why September has been nice thus far:

1. The heat is gone. GONE! VANISHED! DISSIPATED! I love summer with all my heart but the endless 100+ degree days this year was just too much for me. My crippled garden still depresses me. I sound like I'm 93. Anyway. These sunny cool days and chilly nights have me dancing the rumba.

2. Somewhat related to above, but I can use my oven again and not melt in a gross Indiana Jones puddle on the floor!

3. Soup for dinner!

4. I, along with a team of champs, painted and cut out a 30 foot tall tree for a sermon series at our church. Nothing more therapeutic than painting a 30 foot tall tree out of cardboard.

5. I learned how to cut garlic properly. I love garlic. I put it in everything. However, the dicing of garlic made me sad, because it was such a pain to do. Silly me. There's a proper way to do it that saves everyone time and sanity. And probably fingertips, too.

{our tree}

Reasons why September hasn't been entirely nice thus far:

1. I burned my arm on steam from our kettle. Big burn. As in cover the children's eyes Burn. It's absolutely going to leave a scar the size of Newark. STEAM WILL BURN YOU. If you ever doubted that... come see my arm. On the upside, when I burned myself, I didn't even swear! yay!

2. Wayne is back in school. Don't get me wrong, this is good! This is why we are where we are! But getting back into the school groove is always a challenge after a summer of lounge-y laziness. Okay, only a little bit of laziness. Summer was still pretty darn busy.

3. All the trappings of Halloween are out in full force. Gah. So tacky. Don't get me wrong... I love a nice evening of pumpkin carving. But in what other part of the world is it cute to hang a warty old hag on the front door and coat your porch in spider webs? I'm trying to keep the spider webs OFF, thank you very much. Also, to whom it may concern, do yourself a favour and please don't dress up as a skanked out nurse this year. It's not hygienic at all. 

...And that's pretty much it. S out. 

 {source}

baseball brain.

Growing up, my parents had all six of their children signed up for some form of softball at one point or another. I remember going to watch my three older siblings play softball and thinking it was great -- although I don't remember much of the games. I was more interested in playing in the piles of field line chalk. Weird kid.

My turn came. I was willingly signed up for a local little league team that consisted of a bunch of distracted 8-year-olds. I don't remember much of this time in my life -- but think Brian Regan. Most of the memories I do have involve my coach telling me to pay attention because I'd be standing in the outfield doing this:

{source}

I was not destined to be a great ball player. About halfway through elementary school, however, my parents coerced me onto another team for a summer. I was not happy. I don't blame them, though -- I'd do the same if one of my kids spent the majority of the summer with her nose in a book and hating birthday parties.

Like I said, weird kid. 

That summer confirmed the fact that I was never to achieve greatness in softball. I dreaded Wednesday nights because a softball game meant:

a) Experiencing emotional trauma by continually striking out, or 

b) Getting a walk, then having to run around the dang bases with my clumsy pre-adolescent giraffe legs  while avoiding being attacked with the ball by psycho infielders, 

c) Watching the just-as-psycho outfielders close in on me when I stepped up to bat,

d) Standing in right field trying to force myself to pay attention,

d) Having to communicate with other people I barely knew. coughintrovertcough. 

I got through that summer determined to never play baseball again. Then I married Wayne.

Wayne loves baseball. He loves it with all his heart. It makes his eyes light up and his face glows... GLOWS when he gets near a diamond with his bag full of cleats and gloves and baseballs and water bottles. When he has a little bit of free time he'll come up to me with a face like this:

{source}

And ask if we can please please please play catch. I do like playing catch -- in fact, I've got a mean curveball goin' on. But to actually play a game of baseball -- well... that's, as they say, a whole different ballgame. 

Wayne's been on a city rec league all summer and has signed up for the fall league as well. I go every week and cheer noisily. That's an easy job. No running involved (though no longer pre-adolescent, the legs are still reminiscent of a giraffe's). 

There are weeks, however, where not enough women show up. Each team needs a certain number of women or else they forfeit. You'll be glad to know that despite my fear of organized team sports, during these not-enough-women occasions, I step up to the plate. 

Get it? Haha!

Okay. 

My summer experiences on the field have again confirmed that I am not a baseball star. Wayne and I have determined, though, that it is not because of insufficient athletic capabilities (though there's a lot of that lacking as well). It's mostly because I don't have a baseball brain. 

On our drive home from the diamond this week, Wayne asked what was going through my brain while standing at second base during the last play of the game from just before the pitch onward.

Suzanne's brain: Okay. Focus. Focus. One more out... what did I have to do yet tonight? I think I have to write that email to my mom for those recipes. I wish I had worn my sunglasses out here, I can't see much. Although they fall off a lot and that's just as annoying. I wonder if I can fix them? Hm. FOCUS. Argh. Focusfocusfocus. Okay. If the ball comes to me... um... whatever. It probably won't. My feet are hot. NO. Focus. Hocus Pocus Focus. Foooooocus. What a weird word. There's a runner coming to second if the ball's hit. Get him out. Probably. Somehow. Then throw it to first? There's the pitch. I hope that squeaking the car's making isn't the brakes. GAH! NO! NOT TO ME! NOT TO ME! heyIcaughtit!!! PUMMEL RUNNER COMING TO SECOND IN THE STOMACH WITH GLOVE! What the. I just ended the game! Hurrah! I'm not useless! Man I feel gritty. Shower? Yes please! 

Wayne at shortstop: Suzanne, you could have just touched the base, it was a force out. 

Suzanne: Oh.

Wayne says that when he's in a ball game, his mind is on overdrive, planning strategies and orders in which to throw the ball and figuring out what to do in the hundreds of different scenarios that could take place when that bat hits the ball. My mind... is not. I'll just stick to making baseball-themed birthday cakes.

bonhoeffer. so intense.

Oh my! It's Dietrich Bonhoeffer! In my basement!

No it's not. Don't be silly.

I'm nearly done reading this book. It's a biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, and biographies are the best types of books, because they're real life and everything in them actually happened. Thrills, man. Thrills.

Now if you're reading a biography that happens to be terribly boring, I'm very sorry. Biographies should not be boring. Give it up and go read this one instead.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a pastor in Germany during World War II. He was determined to preach the gospel despite the dangers and threats posed by the Third Reich during Hitler's maniacal reign. This book, skillfully woven together by the brilliant Eric Metaxas, follows Bonhoeffer as he figures out his role in the awful war that ravaged not only Dietrich's beloved home country of Germany, but the entire world.

This guy becomes a spy. When one becomes a spy, generally no one save certain VIPs are aware that said person is a spy. When Bonhoeffer got his spy on in order to help further the plots to assassinate Hitler, he gave up his reputation, certain relationships, and safety.

You're needing inspiration? Read this. It's like getting a karate chop to your soul.

Weird analogy. Apologies. Now I'm going to go make a cake.

the kumquat kid.

When I feel overwhelmed and over-busy and overtired I take a break by watching youtube movies of parents torturing their children with citrus fruits. Makes me feel better every time.

on forgetting my birthday.

{source}

You know how when you're in your 20s suddenly it's not socially acceptable to go up to strangers and declare 

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY. 

It's just not really kosher.

Keeping this rule of social acceptance in mind, I did not inform my boss and coworker that my birthday was happening when it was. Maybe it would have been different had I been working at my job for longer than 1.5 months, but at the time, it was still in that "I'm new and can't remember half of what you tell me" phase so to go around like a hyped-up 8-year-old on a bakery frosting diet shouting to the nations that it was the anniversary of my birth was not something I was itching to do. 

This Monday: The boss (Dr. L) asks how my weekend was. I go through the somewhat exciting events of the weekend, then joyously inform her that Wayne finally found a long-sought birthday present for me (a fantastic croquet set) and we played croquet like mad for hours on Sunday evening... cue conversation in which Suzanne says silly things:

Suzanne: GAH! I can't believe I just said that! Now she's gonna know it was my birthday recently and that I didn't tell them!
Dr. L: Hey... Was it your birthday recently and you didn't tell us!? When was your birthday?!
Suzanne: (Trying to play it cool but mostly just appearing like she doesn't know when her own birthday is) Oh, um... like... uh...I think in May. Yeah. May. (Really? I think?)
Dr. L: Oh you!! What day?
Suzanne: Uhhh... the 2nd?? Yeah. The 2nd.

So apparently my natural instinct is to try and make the Dr. feel better about not knowing when my birthday was by pretending that I have no idea when my own birthday is. Don't worry about it, Dr. L, my birthday's a sneaky one, it changes all the time -- might be in September next year! Catches me off guard, too. I'm actually not even sure if my name is Suzanne. That's also a big fat unknown. Life can be tricky.

{source}

Lesson learned. Just be the hyped-up 8-year-old and proclaim your birthday loud and clear. Probably more fun that way, too.

pop! whiz! bang!

Fireworks give me warm memory fuzzies.

Not sure what warm memory fuzzies are. I'll get back to you on that.

{source}

In other words, I have fond memories of going out with family as a kid to see the local fireworks displays on Victoria Day and Canada Day. It was a huge event -- took all afternoon to get six hyperactively excited children packed into the family van with lawn chairs and blankets and layers of clothes for the evening chills and juice boxes and cherry and licorice twizzlers.

Then the chaos of getting to the park and trying to keep all six hyperactively excited children corralled began -- picture a local park in the dark with hundreds of kids hyped up on a school-free day of sun, probably too much coke and other assorted sugary holiday food items being absorbed into their blood streams, and then you'll just about get what it was like for our parents to keep things under control.

Okay, we weren't that bad. But it probably wasn't as pleasant an experience for my parents as it was for us kids.

Once we got older we'd stay home and have our own little fireworks display in the backyard -- not nearly as dramatic as the city show but a lot more up close and personal -- diving to avoid rogue firecrackers, that sort of riotously dangerous fun.

Over time we even halted the backyard pyrotechnics and we took to clambering up on the roof of our house to watch the fireworks going off in town. Gave our mother heart palpitations, I'm sure, but you're invincible at 16, everyone knows that.

Now we're all older and far too mature and wise to hike to the top of a two-storey house (right guys?). My last Victoria Day in Canada was spent with some family members who shall remain nameless in the church parking lot next door setting off a couple subpar firecrackers like a bunch of teenage hooligans.

But we're not teenage hooligans, despite what this picture may look like. We're responsible adults with jobs and car insurance. Remember that.

And now I'm in Michigan, where the sale and use of stronger and louder residential firecrackers has been legalized -- and our neighbourhood is putting their rights to really good use. Excessively good use. 

In Ontario, you're only allowed to set off firecrackers on the actual designated holiday, along with the two days before, and the two days after. Here in good old Michigan, there have been firecrackers going off behind our house every night for the last three weeks. Three. Weeks.

I fear my warm firecracker memory fuzzies are fading... and fading fast. I'm going to bed with earplugs tonight.