Seeing beyond the teen and finding love

If I were forced to categorize myself, I’d say I’m a Little Kid Person. Teenagers have always kind of confused me, even though I seem to relate to them rather well. I’ve just found myself more adept at handling the wee ones, opting for a tenacious toddler over a smart-aleck teenager any day of the week.

But as I adjust to being the mother of a teenager, I am beginning to think my previous view of teenagers is based merely on what I’ve been used to up until this point. I’ve only been the mother of a teenager for about three months, so I’d say my skewed image isn’t a reality, but more in line with the “I just don’t know any better” realm.

So lately, I’ve been keeping an open mind, opting not to just chalk those years up to a lost, stinky cause that we’ll have to trudge through until we reach the light at the end of the tunnel. Instead, I’ve been sitting back, listening and enjoying the newfound world that’s slowly encompassing a portion of my life.

First, I enjoy the independence my teenager possesses. He’s no longer afraid to stay home alone, and actually prefers to stay at the house and watch TV. Let’s just say loading three wiggling children into my SUV only to run to town to drop one off at basketball or football practice is enough of a task without having the oldest one thrown in the mix to instigate.

Speaking of instigating, teenagers are smart enough to do that. Experience has taught them precisely what button to push when in order to instantly send the remaining siblings into a screaming tailspin that leaves parents breathless and begging for mercy. Why? Oh, just because they’re bored.

Well, that is, if we see him. Suddenly the door to his bedroom started closing. It seemed instant. One day, he welcomed visitors to view his world, and the next day, we were barred from entrance. He doesn’t have a lock on his door, so I enter whenever I darn well please, but still, I’ve had to grow used to seeing a paneled barrier where once I would see a little boy sitting among a pile of Lincoln Logs.

And although I do seem to be adjusting to most changes, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to The Glare. You know the look we get when we make them do something they really don’t want to do. Silence almost always accompanies The Glare. The eyelids turn into little slits while fire spews from the millimeter left open. He’s still a boy though so The Glare is usually short-lived.

But the most amazing part of having a teenager has been seeing glimpses of maturity peek through the ashes of childhood.

He understands situations that I’m still unaccustomed to discussing with him, so it surprises me. He sees truth, the way most children unabashedly do, but he understands the truth now. In one recent conversation, I told him of an upcoming happening. He smiled at the excitement of it, but after a few seconds of thought, he saw through the disguise and realized the root of the situation. And without hesitation, he expressed his disdain toward the injustice. I just smiled at him and said, “We don’t have to like what they do, but we’re called to love them. Just remember that.” He nodded with understanding, and we moved on to another conversation.

And the conversations are grand. He pulls me aside now to discuss situations in adult language. And even asked his youth minister about some pretty deep faith-based questions, which shows he not only trusts the adults in his family, but he is being resourceful and candid to others who’ve earned his trust.

It’s a new world for me. And I rather like it. Sure, it’s different, but underneath the surface, there’s still a little boy who captured my heart the instant I met him all those years ago. And that sort of love never changes — it just grows deeper.

A Dream Come True: Building our marriage

I’ve got to admit that before Beloved Hubby and I started building our new home, I was more than a little worried about the endeavor.

We’re both stubborn folks, and when everyone looks at you and says, “If your marriage can survive building a house, you’re good for life,” then your nervous meter begins working overtime.

Who wants to get a divorce over a house? What if building a house puts a tremendous strain on your marriage? Is it worth it?

But I’m here to tell you I am now convinced that’s one of those old sayings people who’ve never built a house together make up as an excuse as to why they’ve never built a house together.

BH and I are the direct opposite of that old adage.

Building a house together has strengthened our marriage. Like the steep foundation our house stands upon, our marriage has never been more rock solid.

BH mentioned as much to me last night.

I told him I agreed, but I can’t pinpoint why it has strengthened our marriage. I could only surmise that building this house has given each of us more respect for each other’s talents.

You see, in our house-building endeavor, BH is the head contractor, building extraordinaire and expert on all things construction. I question nothing when it comes to how that house stands. He’s a very talented builder who always does things the right way. I worry about nothing. I know he’s building us the best house possible.

But because BH is the CEO of our construction project that means he’s not home a lot. He spends many days and most nights at the construction site. He’s missed more church services than he’s attended this year, and it’s not unusual for us to not see his smiling face until 9 o’clock at night.

I don’t help much at the construction site. I make required decisions, on his sage advice, but I’m not picking up a single paintbrush or hammer.

Instead, while he’s CEO of the new house, I’m CEO of the old house. I’m the one fixing dinner, doing homework, giving baths, making lunches, making 12 trips a night into town to pick up kids and organizing our very scheduled lives.

And it’s OK with BH that I’m fulfilling a different role and not lifting a finger to help at the new house. And it’s equally OK with me he’s not at home right now because I know he’s building our home.

He respects the work I do at home, and tells me as much. He’s constantly amazed I work a full-time job, and still manage all I do at home, without his help. He doesn’t understand how I do it. Truth is, I don’t understand how he looked at a blueprint and built a house from the ground up just by looking at those pieces of paper.

And I think the endeavor has surprised us both beyond measure. He thought, before construction began, I would be upset because he wasn’t home much. I figured he’d be more restrictive in the overall design of our house, and we’d be arguing over siding colors and flooring materials. Truth is, there’s been none of it.

Instead, we’re more thankful of our time together. When he arrives home, he quickly wraps me in his arms and I welcome the break from the insanity – even if it’s only for a moment.

I tell him constantly how talented he is, and how much respect I have for him and all he does for our family. I urge him to take breaks, when I sense he needs it, and I no longer mind if he spends a few hours on Sunday afternoon immobile on his recliner.

And he reciprocates by offering to scrub a toilet when I seem overwhelmed with housework, or jumps at the chance to give the little boys a bath and wrap them in cozy pajamas when the opportunity arises.

So when people ask me when the house will be completed, I just shrug and smile. Who cares, I think to myself. It has proved so enjoyable I’m in no hurry for the project to end.

Truth is, the results are far more valuable than a concrete and lumber building. In building our house, we’ve constructed a marriage that can withstand the elements for a lifetime.

Off to work ...

I love this picture. I loved it the minute I snapped it. Little man thought he was "working" around our new home site. Daddy was around the corner doing the actual work. Mamma was following Little Man and his brothers, snapping pictures for the scrapbook. Little Man ventured up the hill, shovel in tow. I saw the picture before I could even raise my camera. It was there; I just had to capture it. Those are the best pictures. Not posed. Just life. I try to imagine what was going through his mind at this moment. Can you just picture him thinking, "A man's work is never done," as he trudged up that hill? I've already blown up this picture, and it'll hang in Daddy's office for us to smile at forever.

Parenting manual needs camp chapter

When the first-ever, all-inclusive parenting manual is published, it should include a chapter offering advice for parents sending their sons to summer camp.

I’m even volunteering to write it.

Chapter 99: Church camp.

Men, listen up. This advice will help you not only through sending your son to church camp, but to realize exactly what little boys are all about. Oh, you were a little boy once? Well, then, hug your mother and tell her she’s the most fantastic individual on earth.
 
Walking into the dorm to pick up my second son’s belongings after his first stay at church camp, I immediately noticed the blue towel sopping wet and soaking my quilt was not one of ours.

Lesson No. 1: Mothers know their towels. Even if we have 50, one in every color, we still know which ones are ours. I sent an old steel blue towel, not periwinkle. I don’t own a periwinkle towel. (Yes, periwinkle is a color — one word that men will never use. Ever.) With two fingers, I picked it up with disgust and moved it off the quilt. That’s when a man, a few years older than myself, said, “You here to get Lucas’ stuff?”

I nodded, and he replied, “Well, there’s a bunch of stuff in the shower room. You might want to go in there and see if anything belongs to him.”

With great trepidation, I walked into the shower room with my 6-year-old who had to use the rest room. He walked toward the stalls, while the man — obviously a camp volunteer — followed me into the shower area. There, to my dismay, was a pile of wet, nasty clothing — inside-out socks, swimming trunks, beach towels and underwear.

My gasp must have been audible, or the man sensed my anguish. “Worst group we’ve ever had as far as clothes. They just dropped them wherever they took them off.”

I thought, “Little boys dropping their clothes wherever they landed, then taking off and forgetting about them? Who would’ve thought.”

Looking through the mess, trying not to touch, I realized quickly the towel I sent was not among the debris. It’s why I send an old towel, old washcloth and cheap clothes. I learned long ago those things rarely make it home from camp.

Nearly running from the shower room to escape the clothing massacre, I happened upon my 6-year-old who was zipping his pants.

That’s when the man said, “This group was bad about clothes, but at least they seemed to know how to flush.” He then walked over and flushed after my 6-year-old.

Whoops. Another lesson: Not only do little boys leave clothing strewn about, they find it hard to flush, aim or put the seat up.

Apparently this, too, was news to the counselor. (He obviously raised girls and hasn’t spoken to his mom about his own long-abandoned habits.)

Later, after arriving home, my son’s bag was dropped in front of the washing machine. Emptying it directly into the washer, I noted several pairs of the underwear I sent were still folded as I placed them. Yep. This is a church camp lesson, too: Changing undies is optional when mom’s not looking.
And the bar of soap I issued was unopened, as was the bottle of shampoo.

“Did you take a shower while you were at camp?” I asked my little guy.

“They wouldn’t let me,” he replied.

Lying after church camp? Nope. Not hardly. The translation that can only be interpreted by mom: “I asked to take a shower 30 seconds before dinner, or in the middle of our Bible lesson.” Every chapter in the manual should end with, “Whatever they say shall not be taken literally.”

And whether or not little boys ever shed that quality can be argued later in life with their wives, long after we moms give up. Soap will go unopened, and undies may not get changed. The washing machine may revolt, and we’ll lose a few towels along the way. But in the end, we just shrug, laugh and know boys will be boys — especially at church camp.

It's not the walls, but what's inside them

It required careful planning. It required a lot of saving. It involved worry, scheduling and in-depth conversations about want vs. need.

We didn’t know if our dream would come true in the timeframe we selected. We had no idea what financing would be possible, and to be honest, we had no idea if that dream of a new home would ever really happen.

It was, after all, just a dream.

We just knew that six people, including four very active little boys, were quickly outgrowing our 1,200-square-foot abode. That was becoming painfully obvious on rainy days, friend overnights and through winter storms.

Hubby would just look at me and say, “Boy, we need a bigger house.” I’d reply, “What did you say? I can’t hear you over the wrestling grunts, truck sounds and your football game!”

Our little home doesn’t bother me. It’s my sanctuary. It is where I belong, and surrounded by quiet woods, most days there is no place I’d rather be living. But our home was increasing wearing on hubby, who desired something larger – built with his own hands – that he could be proud to call his.

So here we are. Land purchased, developed and now featuring a long drive and a giant hole. There’s not quite much there to see these days, but we see our dream coming alive.

On Saturday, we signed the construction loan paperwork for the biggest loan amount either of us have been responsible for, and the first time we secured financing together during our marriage.

And at some point this week, likely by Friday, we’ll have a concrete basement, patio and front porch slab where that big hole now stands.

Come September, hubby will begin driving in nails and securing screws, building our home from the ground up.

What that means to me is imaginable. To think of living in this house, one I could only dream of, with the love of my life and the most precious pieces of my heart, watching them grow with love and respect within the walls that I watched go up, is amazing.

People say building a house is the most stressful thing a couple can experience. They talk about layout, colors, space, light fixtures and cabinets.

I’ve never lived in a home I designed, so I know nothing of the sorts. I only know that as long as I share that space with the five guys who make my heart sing I’m going to be happy.

Sure, the house is nice, but I’ve always known that what lies within those walls is truly what’s important.

Finding escape through my faith, family

“What comes into our minds when we think about God is the most important thing about us.”

-- A.W. Tozer

A friend came over late the other night. She needed to talk, and I was still awake. We perched on my back deck, my little place away from the world, and her question came:

“How do you manage to have such a public life, yet still be yourself?”

I don’t think about that question much, but the answer came easily.

“I escape to this,” as I waved my arm around encompassing all that surrounded us that night. “Henry and the boys are my solace. I escape to them, and our life here. This is who I am, and this is where I can be myself. I hide out here, and that life, the public life, it’s not who I am. I drop that before I get here.”

She thought for a minute. She doesn’t have kids, and she’s not married. Her whole life is her job, for the most part. She hasn’t found her escape. But she will.

It’s no secret that my public life has hurt me. It picked me up, spit me out and left me crumpled in a pile on the floor. When you’re hurt to that extreme, you retreat.

But because of that pain, I no longer let my public life dictate who I am. I am a very  private person these days, and it no longer matters to me what I’m involved in, or whom accepts me, outside of my family and God.

And, you see, that’s the lesson here.

She’s not the first friend who has came to me, worried about what others in the community may think, and she won’t be the last. And I see it on Facebook, too. Friends ranting because someone is talking about them, or how their children aren’t included with others, or how they feel they are being excluded or judged by their adult peers.

I have friends, good friends. I won’t judge you or anyone else. There’s one judge, and we’ll all face Him sooner or later. I accept people against pretenses, and therefore, I have friends of all shapes and sizes, from all backgrounds, popular or not. I’m not a part of any social clique, sorority or organization that would put me above or below anyone else. I do what I want to do these days, and that means almost every available minute is spent with my husband and kids in our world. And our world focuses on faith and family.

For the first time in my life, I’ve accepted myself for who I am. For far too long, I chased the public persona, trying to force myself into that role, the role everyone else thought I should be. It got me nowhere but hurt.

Every town is full of cliques, vengeful people and those out to hurt others, just to make themselves feel superior. But they’re also full of wonderful, God-loving, caring individuals who make life better just by being themselves. You can concentrate on the first, or you can be a part of the latter.

Take this advice from someone who has been there and who may always be branded with the Scarlett Letter of Exclusion. You can carry the letter and let it dictate who you are, or you can drop it and focus on what really matters.

Since I’m currently studying the book of Genesis and God’s creation, it seems only appropriate to leave you with this: “So God created man in his own image … And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.”

He made each and every one of us, and we’re good – no matter what. The world may have you believe that you’re only a speck of dust among millions and you don’t matter, but know that God not only made each of us special and unique, but he knows every single one of us personally.

Embracing that truth with your heart and soul can be your escape, too.

So this is what I know

I don't know much. I'm not sure of a lot of things. So this is what I know ...
My husband is the center of my universe, the calm in my storm. He's the person who makes me a better person. Without him, I'm not whole. Without him, our family isn't complete.
What I know is that I love him unconditionally.
Driving to Bloomington Hospital Tuesday afternoon, tears streaming down my face, I tried to explain this to God, as if he didn't already know. After diligently making necessary phone calls to work through my husband's workplace accident, I spent the rest of the drive praying.
I have a lot of questions about faith, religion and God. I've been told this is normal, so I seek for His answers and try to work toward increased faith. It's a journey.
But what I also know is that on Tuesday, just before leaving Bedford to follow the ambulance to Bloomington, I asked for prayers via Facebook. Not my usual practice, but I sought solace.
And on my drive to Bloomington, I prayed fast and furiously, asking for God to place his loving, comforting arms around my hurt hubby.
And when I arrived in Bloomington and found my soulmate in the emergency room, he was noticeably better.
Coincidence?
Unbelievers may think so.
But I believe differently.
I know that he was one sick, disoriented man when he left Bedford. Many prayers were lifted up for his healing. Thirty minutes later, he was much better.
That's no coincidence. I do know that much.

In weakness, I seek grace

God made us in his likeness, but didn’t make us exactly like him. Obviously, not even the most devote Christians among us are perfect. We have our flaws, very distinct flaws, and it’s through him that we’re forgiven and made clean of those flaws.

Sometimes I think that he gave each of us our own weaknesses. It’s almost like he thought, “This is going to be Krystal, and her flaws are going to be numerous because I think if she needs to work harder to overcome them, she’ll have a greater faith in me. But her greatest weakness, the one she’ll work hardest to overcome, will be grudges, bitterness and forgiveness.”

Alas, here I am.

Many questions, many struggles, many weaknesses and the greatest of these is the anger I feel toward those who’ve wronged me or the ones I love.

How many times does he tell us through the Bible that he wants us to love others?

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” – John 13:34-35

“And now these three remain: Faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” – 1 Corinthians 13

“Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.” – 1 John 4:7-8

He never says, “Dear child, you don’t have to love the people who are mean to you.”

And therein lies my greatest challenge.

You see, I tend to like most people. I hate no one. But when I feel wronged or distrustful of another person, I’m the clam who initiates her force field. I don’t speak to you. I don’t look at you. It’s like you’ve disappeared from the face of this earth.

It is then I must pray, seek forgiveness and the strength to let go of that anger and embrace love. Easier said than done, but since I have done it, I know I can do it again.

Right now, I find myself angry at people very near and dear to my heart. I feel wronged, unloved and a lot of bitterness. I can’t seem to rid my mind of the pain or the anger. There are few people, upon hearing the story, who wouldn’t say, “You have every right to feel this way.” The problem is that I know God wouldn’t say that.

In fact, as it is written in Galatians 5:14, “The entire law is summed up in a single command: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”

It doesn’t get any clearer than that now does it?

But among those weaknesses God gave me, he threw in a little bit of saving grace. Anger brews, yes, but not for long. I can’t hold a grudge.

He knew that too for Psalm 30:5 says, “For his anger lasts only a moment, but his favor lasts a lifetime; weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”

I’m still a work in progress, and God has his work cut out for him. But so do I for that matter. I’m trying to obey him, follow his commandments and strengthen my faith. I’ve got a lot to work on, and I pray for his continued guidance in this journey. He’s given me the manual. I know what I must do, but it’s not easy.

I must seek his grace for as Paul recounted in 2 Corinthians 12:9: “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.”

I’m weak. He’s strong. Even in pain, I can overcome with his almighty grace, forgiveness and love.

Come on, America

I saw the picture on a search engine. It was some triple grease burger that had to contain thousands of calories and hundreds of fat grams.
Are you kidding me?
Come on, America ...
What are we thinking?
On the same news page, there was an inspirational story about a busy mom who dropped 103 pounds after topping 200 pounds. She used a simple formula: Diet and exercise.
Her story could be my story.
At my first doctor's appointment after learning I was pregnant for Master Em, aka Little Man, I weighed in at a whopping 200 pounds. I'm a short gal. Every pound showed. I knew what I was facing in the future, but it became painfully clear when gestational diabetes hit. Pricking my fingers four times a day, living off chicken and apples and recording numbers constantly was NOT how I wanted to live.
Change needed to happen fast.
My wake-up call was ringing, and I planned to answer.
Here's the deal. When you're overweight, pregnancy tends to be a blessing. You see, I've learned that when I was skinny and got pregnant, I gained a lot of weight. When I was fat and got pregnant, I lost weight. Figuring that in the equation, and I knew when Master Em was born, I'd have my diet jumpstart if I was willing to take it.
He arrived happy and healthy, and I was down a whopping 30 pounds almost immediately.
Could I keep it up?
Not without exercise. Three weeks after he was born, I headed to the track. I started walking and running, and I kept going. The weight was slowly coming off, but my diet needed a boost, so I cut calories. Big time. I went from over 2,000 calories a day down to 1,000 to 1,200.
It worked. The weight started falling off.
Who knew the secret to weight-loss would be diet and exercise? No miracle or secret to it. No belly band needed, or firming belt required. It's not easy, but 70 pounds later, I'm wearing sizes I would've never dreamed of wearing, and I'm maintaining.
But I can't eat triple burgers loaded with calories and fat. I don't even want to. I figure an ex-fatty looking at something like that is akin to an ex-smoker seeing a person smoke -- it disgusts you. I pass on Chinese buffets, and pick a salad most days when I eat out with my family. I choose my restaurants according to menu items, opting for a place with grilled chicken options over their calorie-loaded counterparts. Mexican was once a weekly, if not twice weekly treat. I can honestly say I haven't eaten Mexican in months. It's the same with alcohol. Loaded with calories, I skip beers and mixed drinks are a rare treat. I even know which restaurants have medium-sized drinks that are more like gallon jugs and which ones have "normal-sized" drinks.
It's a lifestyle change for sure, but I think it's time for Americans to step away from the plate. Portion control is a major factor, and I'm proof you don't have to live off of egg whites and wheat toast to lose weight.
I don't believe the government should be stepping in to control things like school lunches, yet I wonder when the food industry is going to get the hint. When will we give up buffets, super-sized calorie-laden soft drinks and quadruple burgers with cheese and bacon? When is enough going to be enough?

 (Below: Before diet; Above: After)

I suppose when more people like me decide it's enough.

The art of a child's love

Little white scraps of paper litter my laminate. Cleaning the kitchen table requires scraping white glue off the oak surface. I pick up Crayola markers, search for caps and try my best to pry them from little fat fingers that shouldn’t have access to any writing tool, especially those that can turn his hands blue in a matter of seconds. I find the dog munching on Crayons. I find the baby doing the same. I’m thinking my new house should include an art studio for a creative 5-year-old who spends hours upon hours every night making anything that comes to his wonderful little mind.

One morning it was crowns. One for him, and one for bigger and much-worshipped older brother, Lucas.

One evening it was a Superman cape. Four pieces of white computer paper were glued together. A Superman symbol was drawn in the center, and Scotch tape was placed at the top to hold it in place. My precious 5-year-old wore it for hours. When it was time for him to use the rest room, I received very specific instructions, “I have to poop. Don’t let Emery get my cape.” I shook my head in laughter as he ran off, then I watched as Emery immediately toddled over and picked up that discarded and much-loved cape. I laughed again, and carefully removed it from Emery’s grasp and put it up on a higher surface until my artistic superhero returned.

I’ve figured out that these scraps and carefully crafted pieces of art are Alex’s way to show his love.

It dawned on me Thursday morning. Alex and Lucas race each other every morning to get ready. First one who has eaten, dressed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair and put his shoes on is the winner. It’s usually a tie. Ties don’t cause tears. After this particular race resulted in yet another tie, Alex exclaimed, “I want to be just like Lucas.” Lucas, knowing how important his role is as the much older and wiser brother, said, “Thank you, Alex. That was very nice.” They walked off together smiling. I was left smiling too.

A few minutes later, Alex rumbles in again with a triangle-shaped piece of art. He’d just made it. He took that computer paper. (We go through many reams.) Got out his glue, markers and scissors and created something — just something. On it in very legible kindergarten script it read, “I love you, Lucas.” The other side featured a smiling face. He gave it to his very proud brother after showing me what he did.

Mornings are crazy at our house. We don’t get up too early. Four boys and two adults getting ready in an hour’s time often requires frantic finagling. We never have too much time. It’s always “just enough,” yet this little boy had “just enough” time to create something that surely made his brother’s day a little brighter.

He does the same with me. I’m often the receiver of robots that are 3 feet tall, or bracelets that he carefully measured, cut and glued together for me to wear. I get necklaces so new the glue drips on my shirt. He loves to play “Chutes and Ladders” or read books. He loves to play. Period. But there’s nothing he loves more than creating pieces of art for his family.

So I’ll keep sweeping scraps off the floor. I’ll search for marker caps, scrape glue off the table and laugh when the bath water is blue from the baby’s latest marker attack. I’ll keep hanging those “somethings” on the refrigerator, and I’ll wear any crown, necklace or bracelet he makes for me.

There’s much I can learn from my children. Alex shows me every single day that love can be created using a dab of glue, a handful of markers and a dozen sheets of paper. His creativity is inspiring and proves that love is what we make it.

Greetings from Krystal!

I'm sure a few of you have received unexpected greeting cards from me in recent weeks. A few of you have not. Don't fret. It'll come when you least expect it. God has planned it that way.

You see, I've tried something new. As you may have read (see previous blog entry), I've given up Facebook in an effort to reconnect in a more personal, less electronic way.

I hope it's working for you. It's certainly working for me.

Each week, I get my greeting card box out of the closet. I have dozens upon dozens of all-occasion greeting cards. I pick them up during the kids' fundraisers, at the farmers' market, or whenever I get a chance. I love cards, but until a few weeks ago, the box just kept getting more and more full. More cards were going in, and few were coming out.

No more, my friends.

When the box comes out, I grab a pen and sit down for some quiet reflections. Whomever God puts on my mind gets a card from me, complete with a probably too-long, hand-written note. It's my way of telling my friends and family just how much they mean to me, and it gives me a certain amount of peace within. I love doing it.

But the best part of the process if how God is involved. For example, I sent out a card a couple of weeks ago to a female friend. She came to my mind. I didn't know it at the time, but it was her birthday. Reading "Crazy Love" by Francis Chan, the first paragraph of the book talks about how society is forgetting how to communicate without social media. And a recent pastor talked on the radio about how God, if he came now, could connect with more people, but he came then because he desired a more personal relationship. I think all of this is more than coincidence. I'm meant to keep going, keep writing and keep sending.

It's personal for me, and it's helping me grow my faith and hopefully become a better person, friend and communicator.

I'm sorry for not resisting ...

This engagement announcement was printed Oct. 22 in the newspaper:

SPRINGVILLE — Carole Smith of Bedford and Charles Sproull of Springville will exchange vows at 2 p.m. on Oct. 22 at the Life Tabernacle Family Center in Springville.

How we met

I had been noticing a nice looking lady named Carole Smith sitting alone on the other side of the church. One evening in June 2011, our music director mentioned that Carole had written a song she was going to use for the Men’s Quartet. Then I went over and asked Carole if she would like me to compose her sheet music. She enthusiastically said, “You’re the one.”

As it turns out, she had already written about 15 really good gospel songs, and had been praying for God to send her a man to help her compose music, and I was the answer to her prayer.

Also, I had been praying for God to give me a woman who loved music, who would sing with me and whom I could harmonize with, and who was good at domestic things and gardening.

Several days later I had this amusing conversation with God: He said “I have been listening to your prayers for several years and have seen the desires of your heart.

I have searched all over southern Indiana, and here is my gift to you containing all the things you asked for. Even though the container is bigger than what you expected, what are you going to do with my gift?”

And I said, “Marry her.”

I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that he's either dead, or single again.

Daddy's girl

"Any man can be a father, but it takes a special person to be a dad."

I love my dad. Dearly, in fact. There are few people in my life who mean more to me.

What can I say about a man so great?

He's hysterical. One of the funniest people I know. And I know he's usually full of crap when he starts a story. All of this is evident when he gets this little twinkle in his blue eyes and well-worn laugh lines creep up around his face. I didn't learn he was full of crap until I was much older. I faithfully believed bigfoot was in the woods every single time he pointed out the car window while saying, "Look, Krys, there's bigfoot." I'd probably still look today. He celebrates April Fool's Day as if it's an actually holiday. He loves to joke. I love his sense of humor.

He's a little on the short side, vertically challenged, perhaps? And he's a little on the stocky side. He loves to golf, read, watch TV and tends to say what's on his mind. He cooks, cleans and worships my mother. He's her perfect match, and she's the love of his life. He loves his children, all five of us, and adores his 10 grandchildren.

He was a hands-on dad. He changed diapers, fed babies and after raising four daughters, he thought nothing of running to the grocery store to buy sanitary napkins. You didn't try to change him. He is who he is. When he'd walk around the grocery store with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, I'd want to cringe in shame. When he'd cruise around town in the antique Impala he adored (and consequently sold to send me to college), I never wanted to go. Old cars were for old men, not teenagers. And when I pulled out in front of a semi on my first day of driving, he didn't kill me or yell, but he still holds on to the handles when he rides with me to this day.

He's brutally honest. He's the one who taught me as a teenager that "there is no place in a relationship for jealousy." I follow that rule to this day. The example he set as a father and a husband was one every man should emulate.

He turns 65 on Thursday. Sixty-five wonderful years, filled with hard work, military service, children and family.

He's my hero, friend and champion. He's taught me more about life than I could ever imagine, but more than anything, he led my example. I am the person I am today because of his strength, trust, support and love.

Thanks, Dad, I love you.

Blame the media, but then what?

I can't believe I am dedicating blog space to Newt Gingrich. If he's the Republican choice to run against Barack Obama, I am sure our president will laugh his way all the way back to the White House. Let's just say I don't think much of the former speaker. Really, I never have.

His resurgence as a candidate for the Republican nomination for the presidential race has always kind of befuddled me, but I figured the slate of candidates was so odd, he fit right in.

But after watching Thursday night's debate in South Carolina, hosted by CNN, where Newt blasted the media (again) because John King had the gall to ask Newt about the fact that his ex-wife came out that very day with damaging allegations that had to do with his infidelity toward her, and how he cheated on her with his current wife, which led to the demise of his marriage.

First, Newt is the one who cheated. He made the mistake. Supposedly, he's asked for forgiveness from God and moved on. That's fine. Great for him. I'm glad he did, but does that absolve him of blame, questions and allegations?

I don't think anyone who runs for president of the United States would be naive enough to believe that any mistake, no matter how minor, or the mistakes of their family members wouldn't make headlines at some point or another. If Sarah Palin's daughter's out-of-wedlock baby continued to make news for years after she and McCain were defeated, then why wouldn't Newt's extra-marital affairs be on the nightly news?

Don't get me wrong. I'm not condoning this, but it's the facts of life in the U.S. We know too many details about a blue dress, a cigar and Oval Office happenings, thanks to Bill Clinton, so why wouldn't the media question Newt's affairs? Especially since it was Newt himself who came down hardest on Clinton when Clinton was in hot water ... Well, until Newt's misgivings came out that is, and he lost his job in Washington.

As much as I don't like hear about the personal lives of politicians, doesn't it hint a little bit at their character, and isn't character important to the office of president?

But beyond that, I was confused by Newt's attack last night on the media. Is it the media's fault he cheated, or that his ex-wife came forth? But Newt loves to blame the media. He should take my husband's advice. Henry always wonders why any public figure would blast the media. As he says, "I don't care how much I didn't like the media, I'd be their best friend. I sure wouldn't piss off the one thing that can destroy me."

Of course, the media isn't out to destroy anyone, not the average media anyway. We try to be fair and report the news, not create it. But a lot of people, especially public figures, like to blast the media to the cheers of the American people. Everyone loves to hate the media.

But why? And where would we be without it?

Where would you get your news? How would you know what the nation's deficit is, or what your politicians in Washington are really doing? How would you find out about the attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, or even on a local level, how would you even know who represents you on the city council or county council? And how would you know if they're representing you at all?

Obviously, you could go to every meeting yourself, but I think for most that's not going to happen. They rely on the local newspaper, radio and regional TV stations to know what's happening in their world at the same time they're blasting the people for telling them the news.

Newt, the people of the United States wouldn't even know who you are if it weren't for the media you love to insult. Think about it.

The strength of McDonald's

The Mitchell school board hired a strength coach during its meeting Monday. It was a controversial move, in my opinion, and not one I particularly agree with. The newspaper I work for published the story Tuesday. The same day, the newspaper also published a story about navigating the McDonald's drive-through.

By virtue of the job, I notice online comments, even though I wish I didn't. At some point this morning, the McDonald's story had something like 60 comments on it. (That's a lot.) The school board story had nine. (That's probably normal.)

I have a theory that most people only care about what happens in their own back yard. I think they are mostly apathetic to politics, policies and government. Apparently, they aren't apathetic to Big Macs and McNuggets.

I suppose today I'm disappointed that this simple exercise, to me, shows that people care more about the junk they put in their stomachs than the people in charge of their child's education. I probably shouldn't be surprised, but I can't help it. And then again, maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it.

Lost art of communication

I've practically given up Facebook. It's beginning to make me sick. Let me explain ...

My sister sent me a text message and asked me to join her for lunch. While sitting at Bob Evans waiting on our food, my niece mentioned that she got a new cat. I asked what their two chihuahuas thought of the addition, to which my sister replied, "Well, there's only one now." Confused, I asked her what happened. She explained her youngest, a male named Moses, died two weeks before. Knowing how much she loves her animals, I told her that I wished I had known. She replied matter-of-factly, "Well you commented on it on Facebook."

A long pause ensued while I stopped and searched my memory. For the life of me I couldn't recall reading a post about her dog dying. Wouldn't I have remembered that, especially if I commented on it? So I asked her how I missed it. She told me her post said, "This isn't the way I wanted to start my new year." Apparently, I was supposed to gleam a dog died out of that.

This isn't a "pick-on-my-sister" post. I can do that without a blog. This is a "what-has-happened-to-communication" post. My sister is just one example of many, and I know she's used to me picking on her, so she won't mind.

So what's my problem?

We've forgotten how to communicate. We think that we can post stuff on Facebook, and that's good enough. Everyone will see it.

"My Dad is sick. Prayers needed." 144 posts follow.

"Baby Lola has arrived!" 123 posts follow. Baby Lola's picture arrives 15 seconds later. Another 123 posts that say, "cute," over and over again.

"It's Steve's birthday. Wish him a happy birthday." No thanks. I like Steve, but if it weren't for Facebook, I wouldn't know his birthday. Now, when it's Susie's birthday, she's a good enough friend that I don't need Facebook to remind me, so I send her a card or at least a text message to wish her well.

I'm sick of the posts about your dinner. I don't care if you're making "chicken and dumplings. Yum!" Congratulations that your daughters made straight A's. I don't care that you're rooting for Tim Tebow, and not all that interested that the eighth-grade girls are playing basketball again tonight. Facebook has turned into our only mode of communication. We post everything from random rants to anonymous people to our most intimate details. We sell everything from cars to Girl Scout cookies. We send invitations through Facebook and post music videos that no one else cares about. In essence, we crave the attention of 950 of our closest friends.

We are more connected than ever, yet farther apart than we've ever been.

We sit across the table from each other in a restaurant and text other people. We check Facebook 100 times a day from our smart phones. We post pictures and videos of everything, especially things we shouldn't. We pray via blogs and social networking, as if God has a username and profile.

Yet, we don't have a genuine talk with our closest friends for months at a time.

There is something seriously wrong with this picture, and I wonder where it's leading us.

I hear people lament about how Mitchell is heading in the wrong direction. But if your only involvement with the community is through Facebook and the "online community" is the only one you relate to, what do you expect?

In this day and age, I'm beginning to think of text messages as a personal form of communication because it's directed strictly at me and not posted on Facebook for 1,000 of our "closest" friends to see.

It bothers me that I have friends who are only my friends on Facebook. It bothers me that I feel like I need to keep my Facebook account active because I have friends I would never see or hear from if it weren't for the site. It truly concerns me that sometimes the only way I can find people is through Facebook.

So, for the most part, I quit. I'll continue to check for messages, mostly for work purposes, but no more news feed or status updates. Part of my revolt against social networking and the fact that it is seemingly taking over our lives is that I'm going to start sending cards, the paper kind, and for no darn good reason.

Call me crazy, but I still think personal communication is important. I want to sit on my friend's front porch and chat. I don't want a computer to remind me it's your birthday, and if your mother died, I expect a phone call. There are just some things I'm not willing to give up, but Facebook isn't one of them.