Camp War

"Is their son at war?" the nervous bystander whispered to my sister as other anxious faces awaited her reply.

"He's eleven. He went to camp." my sister responded, suppressing a chortle as she added, "About 3 hours ago."

OK, so perhaps Gregory and I overdid the somber upon discovering a missed call on the cell from our son. War, camp...whatever! Our boy had left the home front and was out there on his own! By missing his call had we sent a message that we were not there for him? That we were out celebrating his departure? This was grave matter!

Much to my surprise, I discovered as we pulled away from Chivalry Camp that afternoon that parental distress does not go away when your child is out of your immediate care. If anything, it intensifies. I tossed and turned a good part of the first night. I wondered if he was homesick. I wondered if his mattress was comfortable, if he was warm enough, and if his pillow was hypoallergenic. I got up to place the phone on my nightstand, "just in case".

After two days of a churning stomach and distracted attention to my duties, I knew something had to be done. I had been praying diligently for him since he left, and yet I had no peace. Then it hit me. Phillip is not really mine. He has been entrusted to my care, and certainly I am responsible for his well-being, but he is not ultimately mine. He is God's.

This reminder changed my outlook entirely, restoring my peace and instilling a sense of freedom. Like Hannah before Eli, I willingly give my beloved son to God's service, and trust that as I let go, Christ will take hold.

Yes, he's eleven, and yes, he's just at camp, but in a way he is at war (or at least he is a soldier in training). The purpose of the Chivalry Camp he is attending is to train boys to be gentlemen ready to protect and defend their Faith and Christian culture. So as he learns to wield his sword, I will tie a yellow ribbon and prepare a hero's welcome for his return home, no matter how temporary it is.

L.L. Flexible

I never, EVER buy something advertised in an infomercial.

Well, until recently.

Newly discovered bingo arms and the ham hocks attached to my hips aside, I can't really explain why Chalene enticed me to agree to the 3 easy payments for Turbo Jam. Clicking the "BUY NOW" button just seemed so thrilling and full of potential ...

I was marvelling about my impulsivity again this morning as I suffered through Turbo Sculpt. It was mat time, and as I stretched my jiggly arms toward my distant toes, a revelation struck.

Flexibility. I desire flexibility.

My resourceful husband spent days on Google maps a few weeks ago, plotting a route from our driveway to the Blackwoods Campgrounds of Acadia National Park. We even knew where all the Dick's Sporting Goods stores were along the way so that we could stop to return some of the spoils from an overzealous pre-camping shopping spree. He printed out about 40 pages of maps: zoomed out, zoomed in, with points of interest and without, the route there and the route back (including a stop for Mass on Sunday at a church in Waterbury, Connecticut. We searched for a Mass time and location which would fit our travel plan for hours.) He entered each leg of the journey into a borrowed GPS as a supplement to the printed maps. We felt ready, seasoned and wise.

In stages throughout the week, however, our Boy-Scout-merit-badge-worthy preparedness developed some holes. 1. All of our research into the trip did not reveal the fact that the campground had no showers. 2. Some of the maps became campfire starter, which was fine except for that the trip back maps which were carefully removed from the fire ring vicinity got lost somewhere in the van/wimp tent, not to resurface again until we were back in our driveway. 3. Masses have no rain delays, which is unfortunate. 4. "Clean and convenient" in an on-line hotel review doesn't always tell the whole story. "Ghetto nearby" and "Scary men leering over balconies" is far more accurate.

Despite the grimness of these holes, they were opportunities to limber flabby character muscles and stretch further than I thought I could.

Same resourceful husband hooked up a primitive cleansing area with a few trees and an extra tarp. We dubbed it a "bucket bath" and steam actually rose from the top of the tarp while in use. It was surprisingly refreshing. (Photo courtesy of Allison)

Without the maps to rely on on the way home, we had to trust the GPS, and my limited knowledge of how to work it. What an opportunity for my husband to gain patience and for me to learn to make fast decisions!

Not going to Mass was a hard blow, but it led to a good discussion of avoiding legalism and the worth of an honest intention.

Without a reputable hotel in sight, we bucked up and headed straight for home. A 13-hour day in the car is a stretch for anyone, but we made it.

Now planning is a good thing, and I do not regret a moment of the prep work we did. But I am grateful for the storms that cause us to bend in the wind.

I noticed this morning on the mat that the third time I stretched my arms down my extended legs toward my toes, I was closer to reaching them than the first time (even without a map or a GPS!) Flexibility can be learned.

Novel Endings

I've heard that authors spend months - years even - birthing the first line of a book. It's important stuff, setting the tone and reeling in the reader and all that. There are a plethora of fine examples of first lines. A few quick picks from my bookshelf demonstrate:

"When I stepped out into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home."


"This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it."


"Christina Brannigan would have laughed at the empty sheet of college ruled paper if it weren't so sad."

Not bad, eh? Are you hooked?

I picked up a book recently called Flabbergasted by Ray Blackston at my favorite library. I fell in love with the title, the cover, and then the author. I truly LOLed through the whole book. I loved his style, his humor, just about everything except...the end. Why is it that authors (save those who penned the above quotations, of course) who spend so much time crafting the beginning of their works seem so darn sloppy at the end? Perhaps they get tired, or bored, or pressing deadlines trump creativity. Whatever the reason, I often find myself disappointed as I approach the back cover.

There is a possibility I expect too much. Look at my college career, for example. The beginning was exciting, fresh, intense. The middle long and drawn out to be sure, but the tantalizing question of "how will it end?" kept interest high, like the obsessed viewers of The Truman Show (see video below). The end turned out to be disenchanting. As you can see, I didn't even blog about Graduation. It rained, I wasn't given the Summa status I earned because I transferred too many credits, and I spent most of the time cold and worried that the black from my drenched gown was going to bleed on my nice new dress underneath. Disappointing.

But, you say, what else did you expect? Where did the experience fail you? I suppose I anticipated a feeling of satisfaction and completedness. Kind of like the satiated sensation I experience after summer fare of grilled chicken and pasta salad, or the accomplishment of lying in the middle of a room I've just redecorated. Or the rare exultation of closing the cover on a book which ended in a lovely way I didn't expect.

Final Final

Rain. You might know.

I should have hired security guards. Maybe I should have called my insurance agent. At the very least, I could have invested in a plastic bag!

I was on my way to my final final and in my hand I held my ticket to success: a crib sheet. The guideline given by my professor was one 8.5 x 11 in. paper with as much information as I could fit in my own handwriting. I've been working on the sheet for days. I've kept it by my side for safekeeping, protecting it like an original copy of the Declaration of Independence. Now, mere yards from my goal, it was raining.

I angled the broken umbrella kept in the van for such emergencies and clutched the sheet close to my body. One drop of rain could wipe out paragraphs of my microscopic script.

I reached the classroom without mishap and set up my space: two sharpened pencils, a big eraser, a granola bar that I wouldn't eat because I hate making food noises in public but in Paddington-esque style felt bringing it was necessary, and my crib sheet. My professor had warned that at the end of the three hour exam, he would probably have to wrench the test from students' hands. I was ready for intense.

Ever feel like you're braced for a gripping drama just to be let down by an anticlimactic end? Well, join the club. The test was done in an hour and a half, and I barely needed my cheat sheet. I think it was my professor's ploy to get us to study more writing it all down.

I left O'Leary Center to find bright, beautiful skies. I am done.

White flag

I surrender. I give up. I lose

As You Like It Quote of the Day

Touchstone: Nay, if I keep not my rank,

Rosalind: Thou losest thy old smell.

The Hills are Alive, But They Are Not Laughing

Some forces are simply too powerful to stop - like earthquakes, runaway trains, adolescent boys near food... Most uncontrollable of all in my book, however, is humor. How am I supposed to know when something is going to strike me funny? I harbor no humor defense system. Never wanted one, quite frankly.

So, this is why, sitting in an auditorium on Sunday afternoon with my daughter, waiting for our high school's production of The Sound of Music to begin, I became concerned. Written boldly in the program in the helpful section referred to as "Theater Etiquette" was this warning: Laugh only at appropriate times.

"How am I supposed to know if it is an appropriate time?!" I nervously asked my daughter. "What if I think it is appropriate, and no one else does?"

I'm pretty serious about rules. I hold the opinion that good manners dictate respect for authority. But this one was tough. Even if I wanted to, I wasn't sure that I COULD comply! Historical reports reveal a poor appropriate laughter record.

There was the inappropriate bug earring hysteria during a church service back in '86, as well as the "Unto You, O Lord, Do We Lift Up Dale Whampam" hilarity judged unfit by our youth minister who glared at us in the rear view mirror of the church van.

Then there was the uproarious display at the movie theater during Stranger Than Fiction. Apparently, there were no other writers (or wannabes) in the house that afternoon.

Why, just yesterday I was simply walking into Weis Markets when I saw a sign which read "Passover Display Inside" right next to a "fresh pork" ad. No one else nearby seemed to find that to be appropriate humor, either.

I thought the crowd at the high school musical on Sunday was a little dead. Maybe they were struggling to ward off a Sunday afternoon nap. Perhaps the swell of the live pit band obscured some of the more humorous lines. Maybe, sitting in a play recounting the terrors of the Nazi regime, they were simply afraid of breaking the rules.