Heidi Marshall's Blog

My mom loves to decorate. My mom is also what I like to call an organized hoarder. The woman has got STUFF. She has tubs in the attic filled with decorations for each season. The Christmas tubs are red, the Easter tubs are pastel green, the Halloween tubs are black – you get the picture.

The woman has got some lovely stuff. Stuff I will be happy to inherit someday and display proudly in my home. But then…there’s the other stuff. It’s like the Isle of Misfit Toys. I’m sure I will someday display some of them purely for nostalgia’s sake, and others I will journey across Middle Earth to dispose of in the fires of Mordor. But for now, let me take you on a journey of oddities as we review the top 10 weirdest Christmas decorations in my mom’s house…

10) I’ll start off with something only minorly strange, because I need to ease you into this. Here, my dear friends, we have a gingerbread man. But do you notice that he has no mouth? Where is his mouth?! Is he hanging in the kitchen to remind all the other gingerbread men that if they narc on their friends they are fated to become a mouthless avox for the rest of time? It just freaks me out. Maybe I need to take a Sharpie to it. Ooh, or some puffy paint.

9) Ok, now we are getting slightly more strange. This I had never seen before, but when I went to open the door of my childhood bedroom, I found this on the doorknob. Apparently my late grandmother knitted (crocheted? Probably crocheted) it, so I can’t make too much fun of it…but I will anyway. WHY OH WHY WOULD SOMEONE HAVE A NEED FOR A SANTA DOORKNOB DOOHICKY??? I just don’t understand why this was even created in the first place. Did she make it from a pattern? Or come up with the design on her own? Why does it have no body? Are the dangly red things legs? Let’s just make a rule that Christmas decorations should not have googly eyes, unless made by a child. Also, he shall forever be known as Santa Long Legs.

8) Now we move on to this…angel…thing. But first, go ahead and take note of the VHS tapes on the shelf. This is but the tiniest fraction of the VHS tapes in my mom’s house. It’s like a museum dedicated to outdated media. But I digress. Bald angel. Out of proportion red bow tie. A wintery scene painted on his giant abdomen. Need directions to my log cabin? It’s just below the bald angel’s appendix.

7) I’m starting to realize that I have a problem with missing body parts. Here is one out of a collection of many, many Christmas mugs. This reindeer has clearly just finished his Christmas shopping, lives in a city that charges you 10 cents for bags so he decided to go green, and he’s also doing the can-can for good measure. But where is his nose?? I think I see a very slight dot where his nose should be, but even with that, it’s still very strange to me. It’s basically the stick figure equivalent of a reindeer man. With no pants.

6) This one technically isn’t a decoration, but it deserves to be included on the list, because it decorates my spirit with Christmas gladness. This is a casette tape that was given to us many years ago, and we listen to it every Christmas. It is exactly what you think it is – cows singing Christmas songs. Some of my favorite tracks are the Hallemoojah Chorus, Deck the Stalls, God Rest Ye Merry Cattlemen, Carol of the Cowbells, and We Wish You a Dairy Christmas. I’ve gotta be honest, this one holds a special place in my heart, because it is so wonderfully weird, somewhat clever, and a great thing to listen to while playing a few rounds of Mexican Train.

5) He’s cute and all, but why is a gingerbread man doing the splits?!

4) To be clear, the cow skull hangs on the halltree year-round. My parents live in the country, and they fancy themselves to be country folk, which apparently means having part of a cow skeleton hanging up. But at Christmas, he gets festive! And why not.

3) Also hanging (or shall I say swinging?) on the halltree is this reindeer with googly eyes. I do appreciate that he has all of his body parts, even if he isn’t wearing any pants, and I do find some whimsy in the fact that he is carefree and on a swing, but let’s be real, he’s still weird. And his vest has very large lapels. Very large lapels indeed.

2) The bear king. I’m not really sure what is Christmasy about the bear king, but he only comes out at Christmas, and he reigns over this part of the VHS collection. This just makes me shake my head. What was my mom thinking?! Was she walking through Big!Lots (I know they realized the ! in the middle was stupid and changed their name to Big Lots!, but it will forever be Big!Lots to me) the day after Christmas and saw this bear king on sale and said to herself, “I think this would make a most excellent addition to my already bizarre collection of Christmas oddities!” The world will never know. But at least he’s wearing pants. And if anyone needs to borrow a VHS copy of October Sky, I know where you can find it.

1) Here it is. The absolutely WORST, weirdest, positively bizarre Christmas decoration in my mom’s house. The frog king and queen. I remember the first time she put these up, and I asked her what in the triple damnation was that, and she said “What? They’re lovely! They’re so happy!” And I knew not to argue with it. And they’ve grown on me over the years. They are RIDICULOUS, and like the bear king, have absolutely nothing to do with Christmas, but they make her happy and they apparently are themselves happy, so who am I to argue with how other people and other frogs choose to live their lives?

Well folks, that’s all I’ve got. I hope you have enjoyed this fantastical journey, and don’t be surprised if you find a swinging reindeer and a bear king in a Salvation Army near you someday. But never the frog king and queen. Those I will keep.

Today was not my day.

It could have been. It should have been. It even was for a few short minutes. But when I somehow ripped the toilet paper holder off the cabinet in the guest bathroom as I was trying to change the roll, I should have known that today would not be my day.

I woke up at 4:30 am, which is not unusual for me, unfortunately. I turned on the Criminal Investigation channel and watched a couple of episodes of “Why I Ran” before dozing off again. But by 6:00 I was done sleeping. I took a shower, threw my hair into a messy ponytail bun thing (and when I say messy, I don’t mean Pinterest cute messy. I mean hot tranny mess messy) and dressed for the morning.

Today I took my credential exam to be a certified medical coder. The test is 2 hours long, and you have to go to a professional testing center where they do things like make you turn out all your pockets and take a scan of your palm vein every time you enter or exit the room. I wanted to be comfortable and be able to focus on how to sequence neoplasm codes instead of my jeans digging into my waist. So I donned some capri sweatpants and a purple t-shirt, like a champ. I went to Coffee Bean, because that’s where champs go, and did some last minute studying. But I was really anxious for my test and couldn’t study, so I decided to go shopping instead.

I went to Old Navy, and bought clothes for Melody’s 3 kids, because they are cute. At the last minute, I bought a green hoodie, because I thought it might be cold in the testing center. Although green and purple are complimentary colors, I probably wouldn’t suggest this combination of clothing. So now instead of a hot tranny mess, I looked like a hot clown tranny mess. But who cares? I’m just taking my test and going home. (I think I just switched tenses. Roll with it, folks.)

I get to the testing center, take my test, and pass. Wahoo!! I’m now credentialed as a Certified Coding Associate! This is what I’ve been working towards for the past 18 months. I’m happy. I do a fist pump in the hallway. I get in my car, pick up some Subway, and drive back to Aaron’s to eat lunch and change clothes.

BUT THEN.

About halfway to Aaron’s house, I hear a noise. But that noise couldn’t possibly be coming from my car, right? My car is shiny and new(ish) and has leather and heated seats and a hook in the trunk for my grocery bags. But as I drove on, I realized that the noise was, indeed, coming from my car.

You know that episode of Friends when Ross is playing the bagpipes and Phoebe is trying to sing along, and she squeaks out a painful rendition of Celebration by Kool and the Gang? Yep. That was the noise. And it was LOUD.

But I had to eat my sandwich. (“MY SANDWICH!” Ha! I worked in another Friends reference.) So I got back to Aaron’s ate my sandwich, and called the fine folks over at Firestone to see if they could fix my car. Sure, they said. Bring it on down.

Stupidly, I did not change my clothes. I figured I’d be down there for an hour or two, and might as well stay my comfortable clown hot tranny mess self. I was SUPPOSED to drive to San Diego to see Melody and give her children with clothing and celebrate my status of Medical Coder Extraordinaire, but first I had to do the responsible thing and get my car fixed.

After 3 hours of sitting at Firestone watching Divorce Court, they informed me that they could not fix my car, and I would have to take it to Volkswagen. Fiiiiiiiiine. I called Volkswagen. They close at 6. It is 5:15. Oh, but the mechanics go home at 5. So I can drop it off and leave it overnight. Mind you, my closest friend lives an hour away, and Aaron is in Seattle. So transportation is an issue.

Oh, and my iPhone was almost dead.

I get directions from palliative care iPhone and head off towards Volkswagen. It’s pouring, and there’s tons of traffic. So even though it’s only like 10 miles away, it takes me 35 minutes to get there. And that entire 35 minutes is accompanied with the soundtrack of bagpipe squeals and angry stares from other drivers. But then, I made it to the dealer! Or…did I? This can’t possibly be right. I’m in a super ghetto part of town, and there’s a Jack in the Box where the dealership should be. BLAST! MY IPHONE GAVE ME BAD DIRECTIONS!

I turn around, somehow figure out where to go, and screech (literally) into the VW service center at 5:55. I walk in the door, soaking wet and colorful, and the men smile at me. They know exactly what is wrong with the car. They can fix it first thing in the morning. Oh, you bought the extended warranty? Great, it should be covered. Except the warranty company isn’t open on the weekends, so you’ll have to pay for it out of pocket and then submit a claim to them to get reimbursed. And while you’re at it, maybe you should buy yourself some new clothes, because this outfit is not working for you.

I may have made up that last part.

Great, I say. So glad you can fix it. Now the problem is I’m from out of town, so I’m kind of stranded. I’m not sure how to back to where I’m staying.

Blank stares.

Um…well…I guess I can call a cab?

More blank stares.

Ok, so…I’m calling a cab to drive me 8 miles. Cool…

Thankfully, the manager came in at that moment and offered me a loaner car. Well, he offered me the loaner car after he told me that my car is drivable and I gave him a look that said “If you make me get back into the bagpipe car tonight I will cut you.”

So away I went, in my bronze VW Beetle. (Who wants a bronze car? I think that is pretty much last on my list of colors I want my car to be painted.) My iPhone had just enough life left in her to get me to Ralph’s to buy some champagne, and then I knew the way from there.

So, here I am. Still in my purple and green attire. Bronze Beetle in the garage. And it’s time to pop open the bubbly, because I need to celebrate the fact that I passed my test!

Oh, and Aaron? Something happened to the toilet paper holder. You’re gonna want to fix that.

I’ve been reading a lot of things on Facebook this week since North Carolina voted down the gay marriage bill. I rarely get involved in political discussions, for various reasons. For one, I think they are mostly pointless, because I highly doubt I will be able to change anybody’s mind. I actually don’t think it’s my place to change anybody’s mind. I have my beliefs, you have yours. We cool. Also, I hate debating. I’m not good at it. And I like things to be harmonious.

I haven’t felt harmonious this week. I’ve felt attacked. Nobody has said anything to me personally, and I haven’t uttered a peep on my own views, and yet the posts that I see are hurtful to me.

So here is my attempt to explain myself. I’m not trying to change your mind, or debate, or anything. I just want to be heard and hopefully, understood and respected.

When California was voting on Prop 8, I wrestled with the topic. I know there are countless gay relationships out there which are loving and committed. The night before I voted (in my neighbor’s garage during a garage sale, which I thought was highly inappropriate, but that’s another story) I had a vivid dream. I dreamed of a very dear friend of mine who I have known most of my life. He’s gay. And he’s wonderful. And in my dream, he came up to me at the voting booth. He looked me in the eyes, and with equal parts sincerity and pain, asked me if I really wanted to forbid him to get married.

I woke up with a heavy heart. Who am I to say what’s right and wrong? Who am I to tell people who they can and can’t love? But then I realized something.

My beliefs are not based on my feelings toward people. My beliefs are based on the extreme love and reverent fear I have for my God.

I’m sure there are a lot of hateful Christians out there. People can be judgmental and cruel. But I feel like anyone who opposes gay marriage is automatically labeled as intolerant, old fashioned, stupid, and hateful. And that is just not fair.

I think someday, probably in the somewhat near future, gay marriage will be legal. And when that day comes, I’m not going to be out on street corner waving a sign with a hateful message on it. I’ll be sitting quietly in my room, reading God’s word and praying for people who are hurting. Ok, let’s be honest. I’ll probably be playing a game on my iPad, and THEN I’ll do those other things. Hey, I’m human. And I’ll continue to love my gay friends.

But don’t you dare call me ignorant. Or hateful. Or stupid. Do not compare me to racist people in the Civil Rights era. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to think for myself. Don’t tell me I have not yet evolved, or I don’t believe in human rights.

My job as a Christian is actually simple. I need to love people and to follow Christ. And one day I will stand before my Maker. I want to be proud of the way I lived my life, and not ashamed for wavering on issues with which the Bible is very clear just because my opinion may be unpopular.

And to my wonderful, caring, loving gay friends out there – I mean you no disrespect, and please take no offense to this post. I love you, and hope you feel no judgment from me. I respect your right to make your own decisions, and I hope you respect my right to put God above all else.

There is an epidemic in this world. I think it started with Bath & Body Works when they came out with Cucumber Melon lotion. Before that, scented products were named things like "Vanilla" and "Raspberry." I remember when Cucumber Melon came out. I thought it was so cool. But did I ever stop to think if I actually wanted to smell like a cucumber? Or a melon?

Since then, companies have really taken the naming of scented products to a whole new level. I'd like to share some of my favorite examples of utter ridiculousness.

Let's start with Febreeze. Febreeze has a scent called Spring & Renewal. That's right. Not just Spring, but also Renewal. Spring alone I can get behind. Spring smells like flowers and rain. But renewal? Since when is renewal a scent? And do I want my fabrics to smell like renewal? I mean honestly. They might as well have named this product Porcelain Dolls & Promises. Because that's just about as absurd.

Next, let's move along to things that smell like angels. I had a lot to choose from in this category, but I narrowed it down to two. Which do you prefer - Sparkling Angel or Angel Whispers?

You're right. Angel Whispers is obviously the winner.

BUT WHAT DOES AN ANGEL WHISPER SMELL LIKE?????

Nobody knows. At least, nobody who doesn't own this particular Glade candle.

Ooh, here's a good one. You know those tree air fresheners that you hang from your rearview mirror? Did you know that they have a whole host of scents? It's not just pine anymore, people. Now, your tree can smell like none other than Passion.

Passion! A pine tree that smells like passion. A passionate pine. Let's just go ahead and rename this one Coors Light & Rebound Man.

Since we're talking about passion, I believe our next product should be this here candle that smells like a Jungle Kiss.

Have y'all been to the jungle? I have. And if anyone were to kiss me whilst in the jungle, I can pretty much guarantee they would smell bug repellent and sweat. So go ahead, buy this candle. If you want your house to smell like bug repellent and sweat, that is.

The next one is an example of being far too specific.

"Hey hon, can you pick up a coconut scented candle for me at the store?"

"Sure sweet cheeks! Was there a specific coconut scent you had in mind?"

"Hmmmm…yeah, I think Serene Coconut Breeze. Be a dear and see if they carry that at Target."

"What if they only have Moderately Intense Coconut Breeze, or Serene Coconut Tornados?"

"Then I'll just take Jungle Kiss."

 

 

 

 

 

Although I could probably keep going for many more paragraphs, we have come to our last silly scents. Although I love me a Yankee Candle, I have got to call them out on two scents in particular – Fluffy Towels and Soft Blankets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These scents present us with a conundrum. Why do fluffy towels and soft blankets smell good? If you use scented fabric softener. And it just so happens that Downy makes a fabric softener that contains none other than Spring & Renewal by Febreeze!

So don't fret, folks. You can make your fluffy towels and soft blankets smell like spring & renewal. Or porcelain dolls & promises.

Hello dear friends, faithful readers, and weird stalkers.

The strangest thing happened to me recently. I woke up one morning with the intense desire to unplug. To free myself from the distractions that constantly surround me and focus on discovering who God created me to be. I think I've spent the majority of my adult life seeking happiness from fleeting external sources. The truth is, I don't think I'll find happiness – no, contentment – unless I allow God to show me who I am and what my purpose is.

So I unplugged. I temporarily disabled my Facebook and my Twitter accounts, and this is the last blog post I'll be writing. For now. I'll be back in January, but for the rest of the year I am going to intentionally quiet the noise around me and hopefully learn some important truths. And I'm so excited about it.

Those of you who know me for realsies, you can always call, text, or email. I'm not unplugging like a cavewoman or anything. I'm still around.

If you want to understand a little more about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it, listen to this interview. Start the file at 18:36. I'm reading the book that is mentioned, 10 Conversations You Need To Have With Yourself. I talk to myself anyway, so might as well have an outline for my text 10 topics, right? The interview is about 15 minutes long, but it's a 15 minutes well spent. Trust me.

Here is the link to the interview. It will download an mp3 file to your computer. I would have embedded it, but I'm too cheap to pay the $19.97 per year to embed audio files. Click here for Rabbi Shmuley interview

I think we all have core strengths and talents that God has blessed us with and that no one can ever take away. But if we allow the chaos and the noise of life interfere, these gifts can be lost, and with that we lose our identities.

Goodbye, distractions. Hello, Heidi. Let's chat.

Well…it happened.

I said goodbye to my twenties.

Honestly, this is just not my favorite birthday. It should be an exciting milestone, but alls I can think about is how at this rate, I'm probably going to be a very old mom and have a bunch of Down's Syndrome babies. (All of whom I will love and adore, so you can stop giving me that look.) But instead of thinking about my rapidly dwindling childbearing years, I am going to force myself to focus on all of the wonderful things I've been able to do in my 30 years on planet Earth.

In no particular order…

Traveled to 23 US states
Traveled to Mexico, Canada, the Caribbean, England, France, Monaco
Earned a BA (with honors) and an MA
Wrote and published a book (that has sold close to 10,000 copies!)
Only had 1 of 2 prom dates turn out to be gay
Been on 3 fabulous cruises
Never been unemployed
Seen countless amazing stage shows in New York, LA, and Vegas
Owned the 4 pillars of Apple – laptop, iPod, iPhone, iPad
Won "Best Swimmer" in 1st grade. I have a plaque to prove it.
Won the talent competition in the Miss Appleblossom pageant in 8th grade for my stunning tap dance to "Singin' in the Rain" in a black leotard and pink sequined skirt
Stood on top of the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, the Space Needle, and Half Dome
Had the good fortune to never be hospitalized. Yet.
Sang on a Travis Cottrell album
Worked at Disneyland
Hired to write drama for Word Music Publishing
Saw Mount Rushmore
Have danced at many beautiful weddings and held many sweet babies.
Was saved by the loving, merciful, faithful, and strong God

I think that's a pretty good list. I have a lot to be thankful for. I will also be thankful for the Bloomin' Onion I will eat tonight at dinner, because calories don't count on your birthday.

I can't possibly be thirty. Let's just go with Heidi, version 3.0.

I always hate when people say, "You know, you'll find love when you're not looking for it."

That statement angers me. What does it even mean? If you want to be in a relationship, you should blind yourself to the possibilities, decide you're not going to work for it, and wait to get hit by Cupid's arrow? (Or wait for George Clooney's assistant to call you to say that Mr. Clooney has requested your presence at his chateau in the south of France? Be right there, George!)

The thing is, it's so hard not to look for love when it's what you want. It's almost like deceiving yourself. You tell yourself you're fine being single, but every time you meet a new man between the ages of 18 and 104, you ask yourself, "Could he be the one?" But no, you're not looking for love. Nope. You're simply being discerning.

And if you're not looking for love, you don't join online dating sites. You don't go to bars on Friday nights. You don't choose the treadmill next to the sweaty man at the gym who looks like he is nice to his mother and does volunteer work. Nope. You just sit at home and pet your cats: Dr. Neil Clark Warren, Honeymoon, and Something Old.

I made the decision to stop looking for love. I made the decision to move home and to focus on improving myself. Nobody's going to want me right now, I thought. And that's fine, because I'm really not in the right place to be in a relationship. Maybe a few years down the road I'll pick up the search again, but for now, I'm just not interested.

And without warning, love found me. (Ok, extreme like found me. We've been together less than a month. Let's not push it, folks.)

Perpetually single Heidi now has a wonderful boyfriend. We met when we were 18.  We've had nearly 12 years of ups and downs, will they/won't they, laughter and tears, and we finally figured it out. And I'm so very happy.

It's just so funny. I feel like I've been preaching against this very thing for years. If he doesn't like you now, he's not going to magically like you later…you're worth more than waiting around for a man to make up his mind…love shouldn't be so hard…and yet, here I am. The joke's on me. All I can do is shrug and laugh and continue on this crazy, unexpected journey.

Here we are at age 19.

And here we are at age 29. Well, 30 and 29.

I still don't support the whole "stop looking" mentality. Look if you want to! By all means! But don't be surprised when you find something you weren't even looking for. Or when it finds you.

I'm not hot.

I know. It's a shock to all of you. Someone who seems to be perfect in every possible way must be hot, right?

Nope. Not hot.

I mean, I'm not atrocious or anything. I have good hygiene. I don't scare animals or small children. (Wait, bad example. They can smell my fear.) But I do not walk around in tight velour sweatsuits with words like "Juicy" and "Pink" bejeweled across my posterior. I do not have that, how you say, "boom boom pow." My milkshake does not bring all the boys to the yard. (My apple dumplings, however, do bring the boys to my kitchen. But they are there for the dumplings, not for the boom boom pow. Just to be clear.)

No, most days you'll find me in slacks and a cardigan. Perhaps some heels and eyeliner if I'm feeling sassy. But I never, ever, look like a lady of the night. Not even on Halloween. So why do I keep getting propositioned??!?!?! The funny part is, because I am not hot, I never know I'm getting propositioned until it's over. So I don't even get a chance to get offended and give a speech about respecting women because I don't know what's happening. It's really quite unfair. I'm almost tempted to ask my propositioners to recreate the scene with me so I can get in a good slap and look of disgust before I stomp off. Almost.

But, blog readers, I do have a treat for you. For your reading pleasure: Tales From the Arco Station in Southeast Fresno….

There I was. Pumping my gas; minding my own business. Fully covered in black slacks and a teal cardigan and the prayers of a godly mother that I would always be a good girl. Suddenly, a young man in an SUV drives up. Music pumpin', rims shining.

"Hey!" he calls out the window. "Hey sexy!"

Well, I think to myself, these aren't my sexy slacks, so he can't possibly be talking to me. In fact, when I put these slacks on this morning, I thought "Oh good, my chastity belt pants. I like these." I like them because of the material, and not because of the fact that they have about 178 buttons, hooks, and zippers. So I ignore him.

"Hey! You're the sexiest thing out here!" Wait. Is he talking to me? Maybe he has astigmatism or something.

"Um…are you talking to me?"

"You bet I am sunshine. How you doin' today, you fine lookin' thing?"

I look around at the other 7 people pumping gas as they observe the scene. None of them appear to be coming to my rescue. That's ok, I think. I can handle this. "Look, I'm just here to get gas."

"Oh I see, you married? Where's your man at?"

"Nope, not married, just getting gas." You idiot!?! Why didn't you just say you were married?

"Well why don't we get to know each other better then, sexy?"

"No thanks. Have a nice day." Why is no one rescuing me?

"Do you have a sweet tooth? Would you like some chocolate?" Wait, is he referring to his skin tone, or does he really have chocolate? Because I could go for a Kit Kat…Heidi, no. He doesn't have a Kit Kat.

"Have a nice afternoon." And so I get in my car and leave, still kind of wishing I had a Kit Kat.

Why do men do things like that? How is that ok? And why did I tell him to have a nice afternoon? I want him to have an un-nice afternoon of getting yelled at by his mother for treating women like that. Also, why didn't I have some amazing comeback to put him in his place? Why didn't I make up a fictional husband (George Clooney-esque, of course) who could be there in 2 seconds with his collection of Civil War bayonets? Oh, I know. Because when put on the spot the first thing that comes to my mind, instead of a .22, is a COLLECTION OF CIVIL WAR BAYONETS.

Oh well. No harm done. I just wanted him to go away, and he did. But come ON, men of the world. Let both the hot and the un-hot pump our gas in peace!

The other day, I was talking to a friend. I said something like, “I’d really like to get more involved in church, so I’m going to see if there’s a way for me to serve on the worship team. Because we all know I am NOT working in the nursery!”

Tuesdays are my Life Group night. We get together at someone’s house, have some snacks, share our highs and lows from the week, and talk about our Bible study from the week (which maaaaaaybe sometimes I do several days at a time in the parking lot of Chick Fil A on Tuesday night before group?). Oh, and we recite our memory verse from the week. This week I was all ready to go. I completed my week’s worth of Bible study (Lord, Give Me A Heart For You by Kay Arthur. Good but…meaty.) AND I memorized my verse. “For momentary, light afflictions are producing in us…glory…think not on which things are seen…think on which things are not seen, for they are eternal” ??? I promise I had it memorized earlier today. But after the night I had, I forgot it, ok?

Our life group decided to serve at the church tonight for date night. Parents drop their kids off for free childcare and they go out on a date, which I think is fabulous. The email I got asked if I would be willing to serve pizza to some kids. Sure, I can do that. No problem. But I showed up, and was immediately rushed to the 1-2 year old room for childcare.

JESUS, I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I JUST SAID I DIDN’T WANT TO WORK IN THE NURSERY.

I wish you all could have been there. I stood there like an idiot for awhile, admitted to the girls in my life group that children terrify me, and tried my best to be helpful. Okay, tried 12% to be helpful. There was screaming. There was crying. Kids were falling down. Kids were pooping. Cheerios were flying. And I. Was there. For two. And a half. Long. Hours.

By the end of the night most of the kids were starting to have total meltdowns. They were tired, poor little darlings. I picked up one little boy named Luke and rocked him in the rocking chair for a few minutes. He stopped crying, so I put him down. Hello, how can I play Angry Birds while I’m holding a child? But he started crying the moment I put him down, so I picked him back up. And I rocked him while he sat quietly for at least 30 minutes.

And my heart started to melt a little bit. As much as children terrify me, there are times when I get a small glimpse into how beautiful children really are. They just want to be loved, and held, and rocked, and comforted. I think we all want that in one way or another. Not in like, a creepy fetish way where a grown man wears a diaper and a bonnet, but in an emotional, depths of our souls way.

So even though I’m exhausted beyond belief and probably have Purell poisoning, I’m glad I went. I’m glad I was able to serve in a way that took me out of my comfort zone, and I’m glad that I’m now in my quiet bedroom where there are no screaming children.

The other day, I was talking to a friend. I said something like, "I'd really like to get more involved in church, so I'm going to see if there's a way for me to serve on the worship team. Because we all know I am NOT working in the nursery!"

Tuesdays are my Life Group night. We get together at someone's house, have some snacks, share our highs and lows from the week, and talk about our Bible study from the week (which maaaaaaybe sometimes I do several days at a time in the parking lot of Chick Fil A on Tuesday night before group?). Oh, and we recite our memory verse from the week. This week I was all ready to go. I completed my week's worth of Bible study (Lord, Give Me A Heart For You by Kay Arthur. Good but…meaty.) AND I memorized my verse. "For momentary, light afflictions are producing in us…glory…think not on which things are seen…think on which things are not seen, for they are eternal" ??? I promise I had it memorized earlier today. But after the night I had, I forgot it, ok?

Our life group decided to serve at the church tonight for date night. Parents drop their kids off for free childcare and they go out on a date, which I think is fabulous. The email I got asked if I would be willing to serve pizza to some kids. Sure, I can do that. No problem. But I showed up, and was immediately rushed to the 1-2 year old room for childcare.

JESUS, I'M FAIRLY CERTAIN I JUST SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO WORK IN THE NURSERY.

I wish you all could have been there. I stood there like an idiot for awhile, admitted to the girls in my life group that children terrify me, and tried my best to be helpful. Okay, tried 12% to be helpful. There was screaming. There was crying. Kids were falling down. Kids were pooping. Cheerios were flying. And I. Was there. For two. And a half. Long. Hours.

By the end of the night most of the kids were starting to have total meltdowns. They were tired, poor little darlings. I picked up one little boy named Luke and rocked him in the rocking chair for a few minutes. He stopped crying, so I put him down. Hello, how can I play Angry Birds while I'm holding a child? But he started crying the moment I put him down, so I picked him back up. And I rocked him while he sat quietly for at least 30 minutes.

And my heart started to melt a little bit. As much as children terrify me, there are times when I get a small glimpse into how beautiful children really are. They just want to be loved, and held, and rocked, and comforted. I think we all want that in one way or another. Not in like, a creepy fetish way where a grown man wears a diaper and a bonnet, but in an emotional, depths of our souls way.

So even though I'm exhausted beyond belief and probably have Purell poisoning, I'm glad I went. I'm glad I was able to serve in a way that took me out of my comfort zone, and I'm glad that I'm now in my quiet bedroom where there are no screaming children.