Winter, the greatest season

No one actually likes winter. You may think you do, but really, you like wearing scarves, knit hats, and big, comfortable jackets. Not to mention all the different coffee flavors Starbucks comes out with around this time of year.
 

Think about it. During the spring, every one wants to be outside. Being cooped up inside your house is just strange. You can take a pleasant walk outside [emphasis on pleasant], go for a picnic, jog around the park.  Same with summer. We get tan, buy new sunglasses, go swimming, bike ride, etc. Even fall has its perks. I love taking walks with Grahm and crunching the colorful leaves underfoot.

But winter??

Who actually likes standing outside, going for a walk in this blustery weather? You don't.  While it may be fun to see your car iced over and cold, white slush on the ground, these pleasant thoughts almost immediately vanish from your mind because all you can focus on is HOW STINKIN' COLD it is.

No matter how many long-johns you bulk yourself up with... you're still going to be frigid. You're still going to shiver. The last place you want to be is outside, de-icing your car until you can't feel your fingers. But you are, because your "favorite" season left a little present for you while you were sleeping.

Right now, there is less than two inches of snow on the ground, and it's a snow day.  Welcome to Oklahoma. We close down schools at the mere mention of snow, even the smallest of possibilities. 

So as much as [really] we all loathe being cold, having numb fingers and toes, and shivering incessantly ... winter is by far the best season. Sure, no one likes it. Not really. But at the end of the day, it's the only time of year that provides unexpected days off, an excuse to be utterly and wonderfully lazy.

And any season that does that, well, I guess I can get on board with.

Ten years ago, today

Today, most people [normal people] think of Martin Luther King Jr. and his unwavering passion for African-American equality. Me? Well, I think of baby swings.

Ten years ago was... well, it was an interesting day to say the least. Like every other ten-year-old, I was enjoying the freedom of no school. My mom [oh so wisely] took all of us to a popular park in Mesquite where we could properly embrace this freedom without breaking anything, or killing anyone.

Once there, I decided it would be fun to slide my child-like thunder thighs through the small holes of a baby swing. And let it be known, the nostril-size holes were from one of those old-school baby swings, the ones that look like giant brown diapers.

A few seconds later [or however long it took me to realize a ten-year-old in a baby swing really isn't that funny] I decided to ditch the swing and move on to bigger and better things. But there was a slight problem with that.

You see, I couldn't move. No amount of wiggling could get me out.
I was, in every sense of the word, STUCK.

My eyes grew big as I realized I was trapped. I started thinking "OH my gosh! They are going to have to chop my legs off! I'll never be able to walk again!" Keep in mind, I'm ten.

I yell at Blake to find my mom. She, of course, takes her sweet time because I "did this kind of thing all the time." By the time she finally made it over to the swing, I was convinced my legs were turning purple and would fall off at any moment.

It didn't take her long to assess the situation. This time, I wasn't faking it. She gave my body a few jerks, trying to free me from my diaper chamber. But nothing.

She ended up calling 911, because what else could be done?
I'm sure they loved getting that call, "Yes, we have a juvenile stuck in a baby swing..."

What seemed like an eternity later, the paramedics finally arrived. By this time, a crowd had started to gather. Parents and children all sat around the jungle gym and watched the poor, idiotic girl trapped in the baby swing.

The paramedics tried to calm me down, but that effort was pretty futile. First, they tried to cut the swing. But underneath the leather covering was metal, so cutting through the swing wasn't an option. Then they flipped the swing [me along with it] entirely upside down. One man held my feet, while another tugged on my arms trying to release me. I felt like a human tug of war.

They then splattered petroleum jelly all over my white legs, much like they would prep a pregnant woman's bulging belly. Flipping me upside down, they pulled, tugged, yanked... until FINALLY, I was free!

I stumbled out of the swing, crying from the relief that I wasn't going to lose my legs and the embarrassment that I had just been the playground spectacle for about sixty people. It was a horrific, terrible experience. But now, it's hilarious and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

So here's to freedom this MLK day, freedom of all kinds.

Simplicity at its finest.

Today after hitting the gym [Is anyone else's New Year's Resolutions kicking them in the buns?], I had some extra time on my hands. Grahm wasn't going to be home for a while, so I didn't need to be ready for date night just yet.

Free time is my favorite, mostly because there are so many options. Should I clean the bathroom for the second time this week? Work on diminishing my ever-growing laundry pile? Watch season 8 of Friends?

Instead, I decided to do some journaling. The old-fashion form of blogging, where I am the only "follower."

I used to be really diligent at putting pen to paper and recording my thoughts, however frivolous they may be. There is a dusty cardboard box in my old room at my parents' house that holds eight bound books brimming with my carefully written ideas, emotions, hopes, etc.

There's something about reading your words from so long ago. It's more than an old facebook status or an ancient blog post. It's more real, more personal. My first one was from age ten, when my only aim in life was to be a famous singer. And my last one is filled with prayers from a heartbroken girl who was angry at God.

Life happens. We change. Our URLs disappear. But our words will forever be written down. In an age where everything and anything is electronic and fast, I think there is something beautifully simple about journaling. Simplicity at its finest.

And I, for one, don't want to give it up.

How about you? Ever journal?

Skim...And I'm not Talking about Milk

Are you the kind of person that reads every word on every page?

This past week, I've started three books. Give or take, I've read about fifty pages of each. For whatever reason, I decided none of them were actually good enough to plow through. My philosophy on reading is: life is too short to read bad books. So, I only take time with the good ones. If you think about it, this is actually a terrible perspective.

My reading habits got me to thinking.

You see, I'm a skimmer. My eyes quickly scan the words on a page, line after line until I grasp the big picture. It doesn't matter if I skip entire sentences, or even paragraphs at a time. Just as long as I get the gist. Just as long as I have a sense of what's going on. That's all I really need, right? Unless there is some brilliantly written prose, I don't need to be bogged down by every word.

Yesterday, after I put down "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" for the hundreth time, a question popped into my head.

What if I treated people the way I handle books?

I start and stop so many novels, it's ridiculous. I lose interest quickly. I skim, until I find something worthwhile. Gloss over the text until I get to the "good part." Pick 'em up, put 'em down until I find one worth flipping pages for... if I treated people this way, I wouldn't have any friendships, any real relationships to speak of.

The beautiful thing about life is that every one of us has a story, words on pages. And every word is important, it all matters.

Aren't you glad Christ doesn't skip the pages of your life? He doesn't flippantly decide whether or not certain parts of your story are worth reading or not. He cares about it all.

If we are truly loving people, skimming isn't an option.