The stone cottage over the creek.

Ah me! I have a fever... but not the hot, uncomfortable kind... I have "building fever". I want to build SOMETHING! In fact, I want to build something specific.

It started the other day when I walked into a lumber store and smelled that wonderful scent of pine. That was the first moment when it hit me.

"I want to build something!" I announced to no one in particular.

A few days later, as the horses were chewing the north pasture down to dangerously non-recoverable levels, I decided to let them out into the back 30. Anyone knows that in order to do that, you have to walk the fence line to make sure that no limbs have come down in a storm, creating an escape route for the beasties.

I walked... and walked... and walked.

My farm is 1/2 a mile long and 1/4 mile wide. It had been raining and I didn't really feel like forging the creek, so I had to walk 1/4 mile down the road, just to start the process. Then I had to walk to the back of the north pasture, inspecting the fence all along (it could use some repairs, but it's okay for now)... I then had to walk 1/4 mile back to the gate separating the north 10 and the back 30. Then another quarter mile further, back to the outer fence line. The tromp was getting close to a mile at this point.

Nearing the end of the northeastern boundary, I paused at "the canyon". It used to be this innocent enough looking pond until a mysterious storm washed away the hillside and created a deep and cavernous canyon... leaving the fence, and a single hedge pole, dangling high above the ex-pond-now-creek.

It's very creepy back there... dangerous feeling. To stand at the top, near the fence, and look down makes my stomach do flip-flops from the height. It's a Looooonnnnngggg way down!

Technically, the horses COULD escape through there. I mean, all they'd have to do would be get into the stream and walk out... but there is also a giant Bobcat who likes to hunt in the surrounding woods. Bobcats also like to "mark" their territory, and while I can't smell anything, the horses would be able to. I'm suspecting that they'll leave that spot alone and graze elsewhere.

Soon, I walk around the "pond" area to check the fences at the back... walk across the back to the windmill, and then mosey on up the hill a little bit. Like I said, we've just had rain and it's all just a bit more squishy than I care to deal with.

Now I am standing at the fence which separates the row crop (corn this year) from the pasture. I'm thinking that I might climb over it, just to save the 1/4 mile hike aaaallllllll the way up and the other 1/4 mile aaaaalllllll the way back, but another glance around at hundreds of poison ivy vines covering every square foot of the wire makes me reconsider.

1 and 3/4 miles into my tromp, I discover a gate in bad shape. This gate was probably built in the 1920's and has been left to rot in neglect at the far southeast corner of the row crop field. Not only that, the rest of the fence for a good twenty feet is also down. However, there is no food in here for acres around...

I rationalize that the horses will (hopefully) not discover it. They don’t tend to get very curious when there's no food involved.

As I start on the way back toward the house… 1/2 a mile yonder - to the west… I glance up at the trees. They are so old and huge. Giant Osage trees frame almost the entire outer boundary of our farm. They aren't the most beautiful trees in the world, but they are very useful. Pioneers used to plant them to mark off their property lines. The wood is exceptionally hard and resistant to rotting, which is great for making fence posts. Also, when cut and split, the firewood sends off beautiful sparks shooting out into the night. It is lovely to watch... mesmerizing...

However, this tree line needs some serious pruning.

I take a deep breath, trying not to feel overwhelmed at the work that needs to be done, and continue on my way. That was when I noticed it. The "Broom Sedge" has taken over the entire lake pasture!

Broom Sedge (some farmers call it "Red Thread") is a course red grass which can take over a pasture that hasn’t been sufficiently fertilized. It’s so course that the pioneers used it to make brooms… and it's difficult to get rid of. I knew I had a "patch" of it out there, but that was the first time I noticed that it had taken over 90% of my hay crop!

"Argh! Stop throwing more work at me!" I yell and shake my fist and the weeds.

Sighing deeply, I continue my task of inspecting along the fence line, trying to ignore the things I can't change right now. To mow the Broom Sedge at this point would only spread its seed further. I'm also not comfortable operating a chain saw alone... or at all... for cleaning up that tree line.

*Sigh*... back to the task at hand.

I finally make it through the field to the back pasture, make my way down the hill and through the equally old and rickety wooden gate. There, I stepped into the Camp site...

The "Camp site" is a beautiful, relatively level, clearing within an otherwise dense grove of trees. A bubbling brook melodically meanders down from the ever flowing springs in and around the lake just up the hill.

It is beautiful...

It is peaceful...

It is divinely lovely!

It fills me with an immediate desire to pitch a tent, build a campfire and swear off modern civilization for the rest of my days. OH SO HEAVENLY!

As I stood in the grove, it happened again... I was seized upon by the lust to build something! At first I thought about a camping cabin, but then I remembered the little stone house I've always wanted.

It would be a completely self-contained retreat. I could go there and find the peace and quiet to work on my books again. It would have a huge stone fireplace and chimney, a porch and windows all the way around. I think I'd even like to give it sky lights so that I can lay there on snowy days and watch the flakes pile up over my head. On rainy days, I could watch the water drops fall down from the sky and splash, splish, splash! On stormy nights, I could watch the lightning flash through the clouds, listening to the thunder rumble on and on and on... On clear nights - in the winter - when there are no leaves - I could watch the moon and the stars.

Of course, I would be lying on my comfy white iron, four poster bed covered in a thick, white satin quilt and feeling quite protected within the embroidered lace curtains drawn all around it, a lacy dust ruffle fluttering near the floor and a nice warm fire burning in that gorgeous gray river rock fireplace. Outside, nothing else can be heard above that bubbling brook, breezes in the trees and birds singing love songs to their mates.

*Sigh…*

Standing in the grove, weighing my lust for building, I also experience an intense desire to be rich. If I were really rich, I could do it. I could hire someone to help with the heavy part and I could get it all done...

For now, however, I can barely scrape together the funds to fertilize the pastures and try to get rid of that broom sedge... and all the other weeds that are threatening to take over the rest of the farm.

Still... it all starts with a dream right? I mean, I designed one cottage before and after 10 years or so, it actually became a reality. Granted, it's only used for storage, but it DID happen. Maybe, it could happen again.

*Sigh...*

Taking another deep breath, I walk down the hill, cross the bridge over Silver Brook, trek up through the back pasture, through the grove in the back yard, past the wood pile, through the garden and finally make it back to the house. I've tromped 2 and 3/4 miles and dreamed visions of possibilities, fought discouragement and overwhelm and flown on the wings of hope.

All is not lost… I can now cross "Exercise" off my list. :o)

Snowmageddon Rocks

The other night I was listening to the news as they reported on all the snow covering the East Coast, places that normally get 22" of snow for an entire year, but were reporting 6 feet for the month of January! Yeah, while reporting on piles of snow more than 5 stories high and 4 acres wide, they coined a phrase to describe it all.

"Snowmageddon".

Very descriptive. They filmed doctors and other emergency peoples trekking to work in cross country skis... because that was the only way they could get around. I'm glad I'm not a doctor!

Tonight, we're having our own little version of Snowmageddon. The winds outside are howling near 40 mph and the snow is still coming down in generous proportions from the sky. Phase two should happen around midnight when the snowfall stops, but the winds continue to whip what's already on the ground up and around into some really nice drifts.

In some ways, I'm kind of itching to get out and start in with the snow shovel. However, since that would be completely futile, and being that I like to see lasting results from my work (and prefer that the wind NOT peel the skin off my face!), that means I'll have to wait at least until Thursday when the tempest stops. Until then, we're just not going anywhere!

In the meantime, we've all been "celebrating" with comfort food. It's kind of a snow storm tradition... we buy donut holes, danishes, ice cream, rootbeer and pizza... you know, the good stuff. This afternoon as I was getting ready to cook said pizza along with a set of cheesy bread stix, I asked Kamaron to go down to the basement freezer and bring up some healthy vegetables to complement our decadent food orgy. He came up with pumpkin pie.

"Pumpkin is a vegetable!" he claimed.

Had it not been all out blizzarding outside, I might have argued, but what the heck. If the boy wants pumpkin pie, then I suppose he can have pumpkin pie... and whip cream. Yes, we bought some of that too. I had it on my donut holes for breakfast this morning. Yes... I know... completely decadent.

Maybe that's one of the reasons I like these sorts of storms... it may also be why I'm not losing much weight lately.

Being snowed in creates a small amount of natural stress. You can't drive... and even if you wouldn't be inclined to drive anyway, the very fact that you can't makes you want to all the more. It creates a sort of cabin fever. Like I said... not that you would want to leave the house before, but just knowing that you can't is enough to make you want it. It's human nature.

To counter this natural stress response, we instituted a freedom day. It's freedom from things that normally cause stress. For me, that's dieting. No sense enduring dieting and cabin fever both. However, while I did eat the donut holes and pizza, it all has a limit. Ergo, I don't think I'll "partake" of the pie.

Kamaron, on the other hand, gets stressed out by English tests. He's been working on his final exam for his American Literature class now for a record breaking 26.3 hours... and counting! He's been wanting a "snow day" off of school for even longer than that, so I told him he could have one... as SOON as he FINISHED his final test. His exam is on "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn", a book that he has read about 4 times now in the past week, just trying to finish that exam.

That's kind of a downside to home school. You don't get snow days. I mean, get your 4 hours of school work done and you're free to go play in the snow all you want. However, when the wind and snow are howling as they are, it's hard to focus on books and pencils and paper, so we let it slide for the day. He'll have to make up the time later on, but we can let one day slide now and then. Instead, we play scrabble and watch the snow drifts pile up by the feet, doing "estimation exercises".

"I think it's at 49 inches."

"I say 53 1/2."

"Okay, you go measure it then."

"No way, it's cold out there; you measure it."

"No you!"

"I have a better idea; let's just re-estimate in another hour."

"Okay, sounds good! Let's play scrabble until then."

"Cool!"

And so, I guess I'll title this blog: "Snowmageddon rocks!"

Either that, or "Pumpkins really are a vegetable."

Peace out, y'all... and pass the can of whipped cream.

Stained Glass Windows

I've never been particularly impressed with stained glass windows on the whole. I mean, every once in a while you see one that is truly breathtaking, but usually it's more of a "hm, okay" response.

So, I had this dream the other night that I was at a church and they put me in charge of designing a stained glass window for the building. Odd. It was an old church and not particularly beautiful. Additionally, there weren't any windows in the chapel, so they asked me to design one for a large glass wall in the foyer.

I thought it was a very odd request.

I began contemplating different floral or pastoral scenes, white lillies, green hills, blue skies. I kept remembering all the truly unimpressive stained glass windows I'd seen in my life, full of oranges and reds, windows I'd really not cared for at all. What is it with people and putting orange and red in stained glass. Yuck!

Then I began to consider the setting. Church. It needed to be something soothing, comforting and uplifting, inspiring of hope.

All at once it hit me like a stroke of inspiration: The Resurrection!

What greater message of hope could be portrayed? Because of the resurrection, we will all have perfect bodies one day. All of us, regardless of good or bad, will have a perfect immortal body at some point.

Nice. I could go for a perfect body.

From there, the promises continue accordingly. All of our worldly sorrows will be made up to us in the resurrection. ALL of them. No sacrifice we made, or goodly effort we applied ourselves to, or pain we suffered in a just cause will go unrewarded. No loss will be forgotten.

Now, that is a something to consider. Talk about hope... I will receive my little girls back to me, to raise in a world of joy! That alone is enough to make me euphoric in hope for that joy! And I'll get to do it with a perfect body. Nice.

Sorrows. We all have them, and I've certainly had my fair share. I'm not sure how they'll be "made up to us", but I'm confident that if my sorrows are turned into joy, I'm going to be one very happy person.

As I thought about the resurrection and the ultimate message of joy it contained, I realized that this was the image that had to be portrayed in the window. Lots of white, eventually feathering out to the royal colors of blues and purples, edged in the loveliest green... maybe that pastoral setting I'd considered before.

The Savior would be at the center, in a very bright white resurrected state and, perhaps, over the green hills in the background, beyond the light all around him, you could see other people being resurrected, amazed at their beautiful bodies and filled with joy at the restoration of their losses, the comfort of their griefs, the reward of their kindly sacrifices.

Now, I understand that there have been some bad people in the world... really, truly, horribly bad individuals, but when it comes to the resurrection, I am convinced that it will be, overwhelmingly, a day of joy. Perhaps, for those few who are truly, truly horrible, the murderers and people who love to torture, the Judas Iscariots of life, those who do it with a full knowledge and not because they have never known love, perhaps for them it will be a sad day.

On the other hand, even if it takes a thousand more years to gain the understanding of hope, I'm convinced it will be a glorious and joyful day. It's not just about heaven and hell, it's about degrees of heaven and for most, by far, it will be some sort of degree of Heaven.

Heaven! I'm certain it will be amazing.

I never actually built the window, but when I woke up, I knew what it would be and the hope it would need to portray... if anyone ever asked me.

It was an interesting dream.

Snow Angels

Snow angels are a rite of winter… one I haven't indulged in for many years... until this week.

It happened something like this: I was, quite innocently, making my way to the mailbox to deposit the bi-weekly letter to my missionary son, the one filled with pictures and news and the latest happenings... just the way he likes them.

I miss my son and my thoughts were filled with the hope of his return, wondering if he would appreciate the letter, if it would sufficiently fill the void from home… if it would give him joy.

Being thus absorbed, I didn't remember the ice at the end of the driveway. When I hit it, my feet flew right out from under me and, after some mild flailing in the air, I landed flat on my back.

In my mind, it was rather comic. Just like a cartoon, I landed with a giant "Ploomph!" The snow was fresh, powdery deep and it was much like landing on a giant feather bed... except somehow softer.

As I layed there in the driveway... in the dark... all alone… trying to figure out what had just happened… a smile began to slowly spread over my face.

Snow angels… how many years had it been since I'd made one?

Without further delay, I spread my arms and legs up and down, back and forth, and made a perfectly respectable angel right then and there... after which I rested a few minutes longer… just since it was so quiet in the night and SO comfortable in the snow.

After all, it was the country. You can do such things without anyone to know it. I could have done it in my undies if I wanted to... but that would have been cold.

Finally, after I had my little rest (and began to feel the snow melt through my clothes), I hauled myself out, deposited Bear’s letter into our rural (ie: old, beaten and riddled with buckshot) mailbox and returned to the house.

It's been snowing quite a bit around here lately. We've had several storms just in the past week or so... 4" here, 8" there, 2 inches around and in between… and tonight they're saying we may even get another 5 or 6… or so. It could, possibly, just maybe, even be preceded by ice which could cancel church.

I love the snow! I always have and I suppose I always will! There is something about it that utterly thrills my soul. It cleanses the earth, neatly covers every little ugly, gray or just plain brown thing, and transforms the world into a crystalline wonderland.

Gorgeous!

Magnificent!

Amazing!

After a storm, while the lovely fresh flakes are still bound to the bark on the sides of trees, all I can do is marvel in awe of the elegance of winter. Mother Nature's artistry. God's pristine gift to a dreary winter world.

Even now, to glance outside, it is everywhere. There is a huge snow "wave" on the barn roof, where the wind has piled it into a beautiful, billowing surge of whiteness. Miniature avalanches have been cascading from the steep roof of our home, spraying clouds of sparkling whiteness to the ground.

All the world seems just a little purer from a good snow. People slow down and light a fire in the stove; they grab a blanket and a cup of hot cocoa, maybe with a dollop of whip cream on top, they fix meals of comfort food, read a book or just chat with their loved ones, caressing hearts, embracing minds and sharing that precious commodity called down time.

Watching those heavenly flakes float down, reminds me of angels spilling some sort of ethereal powdered sweetness all over the sublunary world... the earth is covered in alabaster powder, a playground for poetic imagination.

This week, as I was attempting to reclaim our driveway from its captor dunes of frozen deliquescence, a full moon began to rise over the yonder hills and trees which form the pastoral boundaries of our home. As each pass of powder flew through the air, landing atop the growing periphery banks, it seemed as if sparkling diamonds blew, trysting amongst themselves through the air, refracting the moon's perfect incandescence and then falling, softly, gently, still glittering in their resignation back to their mother earth.

It was beautiful...

It was heavenly...

It was quiet…

And peaceful…

Lovely and pure...

And that is what I see and love about the snow.

Rocking Robin

Outside my window in the snowy winter world that I call home, there is a bird feeder. Once upon a time it was new and lovely, painted yellow and white to match the house in the background, but in recent years it has rather fallen into disrepair. Of the four sides it used to have, it now sports only two.

However, the bottom is still in tact and it holds a moderate amount of bird seed to feed my feathered friends outside. Of course, the little birds tend to kick the seed all over the place, making it fall on the snow below.

One might think that they're just being messy... but no, if you watch long enough, you will find a method to their manner.

You see, it's all about the beak.

I see many different kinds of birds at the feeder. Some are beautiful, others are cute, some are charming and some are... well, just downright obnoxious. Despite their differences, they're all still entertaining in their own way.

My all time favorites are the Mountain Bluebirds, because (of course) they're my favorite color - BLUE. One need only look as far as a Shirley Temple movie to know that if you want to be truly happy, then you must possess a "Bluebird of Happiness". This frankly proves that Bluebirds are truly the best bird in the whole world.

I also like Indigo Buntings, which are actually (supposedly) black, only refracting a blue light off their feathers... but you'll never convince me of this idea. They always appear far too beautiful a shade of blue to be anything but just that.

The Mountain Bluebird's cousin, the Eastern Bluebird, abounds here in Missouri. In fact, they're the official state bird. If there aren't any of the first two kinds of blue birds around, then I will condescend to acknowledge the state bird as well, but it's not my favorite. That red patch on it's breast just kind of ruins the whole effect.

Chickadees are cute enough and so plentiful in the winter, as well as the female Cardinals with their bright orange beaks and muted colors. Their husbands, the red cardinals are hanging around too, but are a bit too ostentatious to really appreciate. Other winter birds include various types of Woodpeckers, Blue jays and far too many sparrows to count.

Summertime brings a whole slew of new varieties to the yard. The lovely Dickicissels, Meadowlarks and Brown Headed Cowbirds are always fun to see. There are Orioles with their beautiful songs and dollop nests hanging precariously from the tips of trees. Goldfinches are not uncommon, as are tri-colored Blackbirds and Robins.

The saying goes that Robins are the first sign of spring. Others claim they are here all year long, but turn gray, so we don't notice them. All I know is that they tend to show up around February, by flocks in the thousands, heading straight for my crabapple tree. Here, they merrily feast to their heart's content before heading onto their further migrations. To those who say they're "around" all winter long... I say, you must be living in California.

The Red Wing and Tri-Color Blackbirds tend to come this way too... by flocks of hundreds and thousands at a time, passing through the yard, searching for whatever they can to refuel and be on their way. It is all enough to thrill the heart and gladden the soul.

The real sign of spring, in my opinion, comes in the arrival of the swallows. These wonderful little creatures show up on April 1st and eat something like 7 times their body weight in flying insects each day. Living in the Midwest is enough to make anyone appreciate that little bit of trivia. A single Barn Swallow can consume nearly a thousand insects a day, or several times their own weight worth. Bless their little hearts!

Everybody knows from Monty Python that swallows fly south to warmer climes and amazingly, the little 5 oz birds bring back coconuts, straddled between them. Wondrous little creatures!

But, back to my humble bird feeder. There is a hierarchy out there in the cold and snow.

The Chickadees are clearly at the bottom.

It's a pecking order, very literally... one of those situations where our agrarian colloquialisms translate to a truth. The Chickadees have the smallest beaks, so that even the scrawny sparrows boss them around. They are cool, tame little birds... or fearless. They land on the bird feeder and peck at the food... until another bird comes along... at which point they kick a bunch of seed to the snow and fly down to eat below. You can walk up to put more seed in the feeder and they'll scarcely bat an eye at you. And, for some reason, the cats leave them alone.

After the Sparrows, the Cardinals rule the roost. Grackles and Starlings reign over those and the Blue Jay is boss of them all... almost.

Blue Jays are particularly beautiful birds, but far too obnoxious to ever truly love. Their reign of aggressive tyranny at the feeder alone is enough to dislike them forever, but to know they also rob young from the nests of other birds is the real nail in the coffin of their popularity contest.

So, this morning, as I was watching the birds at the feeder outside my window, a particularly bossy Blue jay appeared on the scene, chasing all the other birds away. No one was willing to attempt a challenge on his maleficent beak... until, moments later, a Woodpecker landed on the edge! Mr. Blue jay jutted his weapon toward the adversary and flared his wings, trying to look (literally) larger than life.

Mr. Woodpecker didn't buy it. He poked his long sharp nose only slightly in the direction of his foe, and the Blue jay abandoned the battle, hightailing away, squawking all the way to the trees!

Woodpecker 1... Blue jay 0.

Ha!

They will continue this contest of dominance all day long... or until the feed runs out. At which point I'll pour fresh seed back out onto the dilapidated stand, drawing them all back in for round 2... or 10... or whatever.

It's really too much entertainment to miss.

In conclusion... if I were a bird, I would want to be a Bluebird (the mountain kind) which rank somewhere down near the chickadee, thanks to their very small beaks. They are beautiful, curious, and lack the hostility of their larger rivals, willing to take the lower ground in order to survive and still keep the peace.

In the end, they are just gentle on the eye and the soul.

And what could be better than that?

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood!

Today, I made the executive decision that I wasn't going to watch t.v. or play any computer games. Instead, I was going to be disciplined and stay focused, working on my books and doing things that would make for a difference in life! Positive things... like exercise and reading the scriptures.

If for nothing else but the sake of practicing self control, I determined that I would not "partake" of those time obliterating activities... at all.

I think I've pretty much gotten everything done that I intended to do; the horses are fed and Rose is treated with her medicine. I've spent hours finishing any and all corrections to Ghost Train (volume one) and have printed out Volume two. I've cleaned the kitchen and helped Kamaron with his school work. I read Luke 5 and 6, wrote in my journal, stoked the fireplace with fresh wood (numerous times) and even got my Bearby's flight reservations!

After that I danced a jig! (Does that count as exercise?)

Technically, after so much writing my brain is now kind of fried and I'd love to sit back and do something not quite so mentally taxing... except that I made this promise to myself that I would have perfect self control today.

Like the movie, Iron Will, I will press on through the solitude and frostbite of my resolutions! I will not give in and waste time! I will not play those dreadful games that suck all the gray matter from my brain! I will not eat anything that will be wrong for my diet... (yeah, I won't, but the statement doesn't get an enthusiastic exclamation point). Instead, I WILL exercise!

... something more than an Irish jig... and half an hour of farmwork...

I guess, there's really nothing left to do. I'll just get on the treadmill... and while I'm exercising, I'll try to figure out if feeling so brain dead is caused by the 3 year hiatus I've taken from writing any books.

I will try to figure out why, even if I haven't played a single game of spider solitaire, it still feels like all the gray matter is gone forever.

And I will pose other present pertinent ponderings while preambulating. Quizically Quantam Questions, like:

Will I ever get my brain back... in this life?!

Will I ever stop being tired?!

Will this sore throat ever go away?!

Will there ever be a day when donut holes have zero calories for real?!

Will the world really end on December 21, 2012?!

Do great white sharks really hunt in packs, like the velociraptors of Jurrassic Park?!

Is Winnie the Pooh really male?! (Winnie is a girl's name, afterall! Maybe she just has a horribly sounding male voice...)

Was Michael Keaton's first acting role really the Purple Panda on Mr. Rogers' neighborhood?!

And, perhaps most importantly:

Will Mr. Rogers be ressurected with one of those cool zipper sweaters and will he come out of the grave singing: "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor would you be mine? Could you be mine?

*Sigh* I'll be your neighbor, Mr. Rogers!! *Sigh*

Time to exercise and revive those brain cells!

Blessings of Omission

What are Blessings of Omission, you may ask?

I’ll tell you; it’s when you are thankful for something that hasn't happened. For example, you might be sitting in church, peacefully minding your own business, when you see a member of the bishopric drawing dangerously close to your pew. You look the other way and then hold your breath… until they pass, at which point you hear them ask the person behind you to give a talk. At that point, you whisper:

“Thank you, God!”

That is a blessing of omission. Or, say, some July while you are uncomfortably sweltering in the humid heat of summer, you might be thankful that there were no recent terrorist attacks on the nation’s electric grid, because that means that your air conditioner is still functioning... and when you get back into the house, you'll use it.

Perhaps, even better stated as an example, let’s say you are ill, but you’re not dead… yet. You might be thankful that you feel only slightly dead, instead of mostly dead… or worse… entirely dead. THAT would be a classic blessing of omission, and that’s exactly where I found myself this last week.

I’ve written before about the snot bombs in nursery… well, last week, 48 hours from contact, I became ill, as usual… only instead of the usual routine, this last virus didn’t respond to my normal overdose of vitamin C and attempting to sleep into the later hours of the following morning. Instead, it only got worse, until I fully became the dreaded the snot bomb!

There was little else to do… I embraced it, I experienced it and I was then fully ready to let it go… only, it still wasn’t leaving. In fact, it had the nerve to get way worse instead of better, rapidly degenerating into full-fledged misery.

I tried to carry on as usual, but at every turn my body was reminding me that I was truly mortal. My head hurt, my joints ached, my sinuses burned and pounded, I had chills, I couldn’t breathe or sleep for more than about 5 seconds at a stretch. My eyes ached, my hair hurt and it felt like the very photons of light cruelly shining through the windows were bashing themselves against my skin, causing a constant background agony.

To top it all off, I was trying to stay on my diet. Hm… my diet. I’ve been on this diet for a little over 18 months now… that would be 551 days, to be exact. It’s been sound enough: 1400 calories/day and lots of exercise. The goal was to lose enough weight and improve my health to the point of not needing any prescription meds. A worthy goal, and I’ve had some success and lost about 40 lbs... but when you’re sick, depriving yourself of food isn’t always the greatest idea.

Therefore, 5 days into the illness and only getting worse, I decided that I was going to do the only “intelligent” thing left to do and increase my food intake. I needed to get well, and somewhere in the back of my mind this little voice was telling me that dieting while sick wasn’t okay.

My husband was about to head out to the store to buy some more medicine, so I asked if he would mind picking up something “yummy” while he was out. He wanted to know specifics.

“Do you mean food like peppermint ice cream?” he asks.

I nod and smile. “Yeah, peppermint ice cream sounds good… and maybe a burrito from Taco Bell,” I add as he is headed for the door.

He leaves with his list.

It was about then that the idea of actually being “justified” in going off my diet began to register. Wow, I NEEDED extra calories! How often can I say that?!

I call Kirk on his cell phone.

“Can you add some mashed potatoes and gravy to that list… and maybe some potato wedges… like, a LOT of them. A large order,” I specify, just to make sure there is no confusion. “I need this to be comfort food, because, clearly, I am feeling uncomfortable.”

I sat back down on the couch and began to think it through further. Comfort food. Wow. I was allowing myself to “partake” of comfort food! Truly, I could see the heavens open and hear the angels singing the Hallelujah chorus!

Honest!

A state of euphoria began to overtake me… I had just given myself valid permission to EAT… something delicious even!

I called Kirk again.

“How about some orange juice too? Can you add that to the list?”

He complies and is ready to hang up.

“Wait!” I cry out… thinking of what might be more comforting than ice cream and potatoes and orange juice?

“DONUT HOLES!” I nearly shout it out in happiness. “Can you bring home some donut holes too? I want those chocolate covered ones… ooh, ooh and those powdered sugar ones… and if they don’t sell them in the same box [which I totally knew they didn’t], then just buy two boxes of them, okay?”

I am here to officially tell you that waiting for that comfort food to get home took FOREVER! Dang! Where was he? Did he stop off to watch a football game somewhere along the way? I check the clock… 23 minutes have passed… It’s only a 40 mile round trip. Where was he? I begin rocking back and forth on the couch, whispering in a sort of hypnotic-like, semi-catatonic mantra:

“Ice cream, potatoes, orange juice, donut holes… Ice cream, potatoes, orange juice, donut holes… Ice cream, potatoes, orange juice, DONUT HOLES!!!”

I repeat this many times until, at last, I hear the chain rattle on the gate at the end of the driveway. Now, our driveway is quite long, but donut holes can do that to you… you know, make your hearing supersonic.

Eventually, Kirk walked into the house bearing the edible treasures and by now I’m giddy with excitement and can hardly wait. Already the food was making me feel better and I hadn’t even eaten it yet. It was a miracle!

*

Fast forward one hour later. After having sampled a “little bit” (purely a relative term) of each and every item, I sit back on the couch, sigh and smile, thinking about how I just might have donut holes for breakfast the next morning… and the morning after that.

I still couldn’t breathe, I still couldn’t sleep, and my body still hurt all over, but I was happy! Donut holes! Can it get any better than that? Because I was sick, I was eating donut holes. Oh, beautiful joy!

And so, in a weird way, I’m thankful today (that would be the 3^rd day of having donut holes for breakfast) that I’m neither dead nor necessarily healthy. I’m still coughing and my throat still hurts, there’s still all that gross green stuff and I still can’t sleep at night, but something beautiful has happened over the past 3 days. I feel alive again! I’m in love! It may only be love for donut holes, but those little morsels have given me a renewed purpose to life.

And that, I suppose, could be termed a blessing of omission.

*sigh* …donut holes… *sigh* .... I LOVE YOU!