ThePianoGuys REALLY "Play" the Piano.

ThePianoGuys unique rendition of One Direction's "What Makes You Beautiful."

Amazing!

Enjoy ...

WHO YOU ARE ...

You MUST watch this. Every. Single, Day.

The Quest for Perfection in an Imperfect Life

I wrote most of this piece about seven years ago. Since then, in one form or another, it has been published many times over. My father, Harold J. Chadwick, felt it was one of my finest articles ever. This week—Thursday, Sept. 19, 2013—marks one year since he went to be with the Lord.I have rewritten portions of this. I dedicate this new version to my beloved dad, whom I miss more than I can say.

I have spent a great deal thinking about and discussing perfection—the quest for it and its possible attainment.

I will stand up right now (figuratively as I can’t type on my laptop while standing because my lap disappears) and say, “Hi. My name is Hollee Chadwick Jones, and I am a perfectionist.”

[Guy in the back of the room says, “Welcome Hollee!”]

That being said, I will also now admit that I am far from perfect in any way, shape, or form, ergo most of my life, I have been my biggest disappointment.

Years ago, and more recently, I realized what a hard row to hoe this is—this standard of perfection I have set for myself. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself at the difficulties I've encountered since my perfection quest was initiated in my teen years—no, I have no patience with woe is me conversations when I am the woe-er—I merely acknowledged to myself that those difficulties were of my own making and not the fault of any external force.

Nor have I set the same standard for others that I have set for myself, which, when you really get down to the nitty-gritty, means that I have set myself above others since perfection was obviously not possible for them … Wow! That thought just occurred to me. That is not good.

But I digress.

This need for perfection has, at times in my life, hindered my ability to start a task because I was afraid I would not be able to do it completely right. It has skewed my vision of myself to such a degree that I mentally pick myself apart whenever I look in the mirror—I literally do not see what I am told others see when they look at me. It has made me choose friends and companions that I felt were not perceptive enough to see my flaws, my defects, my “idiot”syncracies. Yes, that is a harsh statement, but there it is.

But in my mind this was logical—if I chose someone who was as smart as me, or as driven as me, or who had my same talents, then they would be able to see when I made a mistake. (Now please take that last sentence in the spirit it is intended, those of you who don’t know me. I do not dumb myself down—I know I am intelligent, ambitious, and have certain talents—I inherited all of those things and I won’t deny a single one. To do so is false modesty.)

My greatest fears in life are being wrong and being made to feel stupid. I don’t fear dying—I am a Christian, I don’t fear being alone—I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t fear it. 

Admittedly, I do fear clowns, mimes, and dolls; but that’s a whole ‘nother article.

To the depths of my soul, I fear I may make an error in judgment, in my work, in my life, and I fear that someone may find out some day that, for the most part, I have no clue what I am doing.

That last is entirely illogical, because I have spent my life learning everything I possibly can about what I do for a living, and yet, I have had no formal “schooling” in my craft. I have worked my way up or sideways through the ranks of the writing community for the past thirty-seven years—I have picked the brains of everyone that I admire as a writer and gleaned what I could from the fields of work I am pursuing or want to pursue.

So in some ways my need for perfection has forced me to put myself out there—to forgo my fear of having ‘Stupid’ stamped on my forehead—and asked those who do know how they do that voodoo they do so well. I would have much preferred to just stand next to them and osmosisized the knowledge from them (no, osmosisized is not a real word), but since that is not yet possible, I had to actually ask questions. Asking questions was me admitting to myself and the person questioned that I did not know something. That is and was very hard.

My need for perfection has also driven me to always do the very best I can at anything I undertake—although it has hindered me from being an undertake-er in some instances—that qualifies it as a Catch-22.

The question is: “What do I do? How do I accept less than perfection in myself?”

And this occurred to me: Is a sunset any less beautiful when you discover that the reason for the multi-colors is pollution? And which is more beautiful—the perfectly unblemished piece of pseudo-wood, or the knotty, nicked, and weathered wood that has a story to tell?

My mother continuously reminds me that a diamond—the most perfect of gemstones—is made from coal, which is decomposed vegetable matter.

A pearl—one of my particular favorites—is not, as commonly told—made from a grain of sand. A pearl is formed when something organic, most often a parasite, penetrates the shell of a mollusk and lodges within the soft inner body of the animal. The parasite encounters cells within the mollusk's mantle tissue known as epithelial cells, which grow into a sac, envelopes the intruder, and excretes a chemical substance of aragonite and calcite—or in the vernacular—yucky stuff. Actually, this is known as nacre or the composite of a pearl.

Gives one a different perspective on fine jewelry, no?

I don’t know how not to be hard on myself. I have no clue. But I have been told that there comes a time when good enough needs to be accepted. I am not to settle for only achieving good enough—that is a bar set too low for my personality and I am done with settling—however, as long as I can truthfully say that I have given my absolute best effort, then that is good enough.

I cannot be all things to all people, I cannot fill everyone’s needs, I cannot do everything myself—I have to ask for assistance, let go and allow someone else to help me (not ask for help and then do it all myself anyway), learn from my mistakes, learn from others who have already successfully done what I want or need to do, and accept that there may be times when I can’t do something. I need to learn when “No” is the perfect answer.

I need to look at my flaws and defects—the decomposed vegetable matter and parasites—as, perhaps, that which makes me unique. It is those very things that keep me from being a cookie-cutter human, a Stepford, which gives me depth and contrast, just as clouds enhance the perfection of a blue sky.

I will think on these things—remind myself of them when my perfection bug gets the best of me. That is the best I can do in this instance.

Someday, someone besides my God, my dear-departed father, my mother, and my children will tell me I am loved for who I am, flaws and all, without reservation, without modification, without an “except for …”

How perfect will that be?

10 Years of Weather History in 3 Minutes

Firstborn and Fearless

My oldest daughter, Sarah, will be turning 35, tomorrow—August 8, 2013.

It's hard for me to comprehend that she is that old—mostly because it makes me old enough to have a 35-year-old daughter.

And she has given me two of the best grandchildren for whom a grandmother can hope—Hannah Jean and Michael Rush.

Sarah, being the first child, had to put up with her mother’s, well, quirks, for lack of a better word. (idiot-syncrasies?)

Everything she touched and anyone who touched her had to be sterilized. It was so bad, that my sister-in-law, Sue Pierce (now Birkle), who was living with us in the townhouse in Montgomery, Ohio, had to move out because I was making her crazy.

Thank God I had my mother and my mother-in-law (Mary Carol Pierce, may she rest in peace) living close by to take my emergency phone calls.

Case in point, a call to my mother went something like this:

Me: “Sarah has just projectile vomited all over the kitchen!”

Ma: “Where is she now?”

“I have her secured to her changing table”

“On her back?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, nuts? She’ll choke if she vomits again!”

“Oh. My. God. I am a horrible mother!”

When Sarah was nine months old, I got pregnant with her sister, Amanda. When Amanda was two years old and Sarah barely four, we were shopping at Gold Circle in Tri-County Plaza in Cincinnati. Sarah thought it was a hoot to hide in the circular clothing displays and jump out at me.

At one point, Sarah stopped jumping out at me. I searched all of the clothing displays in the area, and was starting to freak out more than just a little.

Then, over the store loudspeaker, I hear this: “Will the mother of Sarah Kathryn Pierce please come to the Customer Service desk at the front of the store to claim her daughter?”

I am thankful my four-year old was savvy enough to find her way there, and was not snatched along the way. Thankful. Every. Day. Needless to say, although I AM saying it, I kept an eagle eye on that child from then on.

As she grew older, she posed more of a challenge, as the oldest child usually does. The oldest is the “practice child.” You work out all the kinks in your parenting style.

Thankfully, she has always had a marvelous sense of humor.

She’s shorter than my other two daughters are. Shorter than most people, I think. Amanda is about 5’9” and Samantha, my youngest, is even taller. I used to look at her when we were asked to stand up in church for prayer or a hymn and say, “Sarah, stand up!” even though she already was. It stopped being funny very quickly.

She also has one heck of a temper. Do NOT mess with her family. Sam, the youngest, had a fear of condiments when she was a child—especially catsup. If we went through a drive-thru and they put anything but pickles on Sam’s hamburger, Sarah would leap from the car and read the manager the riot act. (Sarah was a manager with McDonald’s for years and knew the drill.)

My favorite memory of Sarah, besides being present at the birth of both my grandchildren, is driving with her in her car when we lived in Columbus. All of a sudden, my car window rolled down.

Me: “Why’d you open my window?”

Sarah: “I didn’t!”

Then the window rolled halfway up.

Then it rolled down again. And it kept right on doing this until we got back to the house.

We got to laughing so hard at the haunted car window that we were in tears.

Then there was the time she went to the local do-it-yourself car wash and took our dachshund, Gretel, with her. Gretel stepped on the door-locking button while Sarah was washing the car. Sarah spent I don’t know how long trying to talk the dog into unlocking the door by stepping on the button again. I think she finally flagged down a cop.

Thirty-five years. Half a lifetime for some. My wish and prayer for Sarah on her birthday is this:

• Love God.

• Be you.

• Be happy.

• Love your children.

• Love your mother.

• And, if possible … become a millionaire so you can support me in my advancing years.

I love you with all my heart.

Happy Birthday, firstborn and fearless!

The Life of an Independent Contractor

Being an independent contractor—or freelancer—can be described in many ways. I choose to use the words of a writer much more famous than me to do so:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. …" (A Tale of Two Cities)

Charles Dickens could well have been describing the 37 years I've spent as an independent contractor.

One the one hand, I have had the freedom to work from home, to work while I travel, to work the hours I choose, and to do the work I enjoy.

On the other hand, I have had to work into the wee hours of the morning—three days straight at one time—in order to meet a deadline, work on vacation, work through holidays, work when I'm sick, and taken work I did not enjoy in order to pay my bills.

That said, I would not, at this juncture in my career as a freelance writer, editor, copyeditor, proofreader, ghostwriter, fixer of all things grammatical, choose any other way of life.

Well, maybe I would choose to work in the Florida Keys surrounded by six-toed cats, but in lieu of that, working from my home office is my idea of the best workplace environment.

Again, that said, the work has not always been sufficient to pay the bills, let alone appease any longing for luxury goods. In "the best of times", freelancing is feast or famine, and lately, it ain't been the best of times, Charlie.

The publishing world suffered a major setback, as did most every other business, in the economic downturn of the past few years. Newspapers have halted their presses. Publishing houses have closed their books. Magazines have folded. Not only has this affected who is willing to buy my work, or hire me for any editorial work, it has also let loose into the freelance pool a whole slew of displaced writers and editors, some willing to work for much less than I can afford to.

Nevertheless, my experience has served me well over the past 37 years. Experience still counts to many companies, or to the author who needs a tested and successful editor to polish their manuscript. Someone always has a story to tell, a thesis to write, a fact to check, or a website to fill with interesting and informative content.

The key is, and always has been, to 'pound the pavement' every single day, network like there's no tomorrow, study your craft, study someone else's craft, expand your knowledge, venture into new territory, and, when all else fails, sell a kidney.

And really, at the end of the day, I can still say, with Dickens:

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. …"

A Memorial Day Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

It’s Memorial Day weekend and I have been thinking of you even more than I usually do, which is every single day anyway.

But this weekend, I want to thank you for your service in the Navy in World War II. You never talked about those days much, as other men do, but I have always been honored that I had a father who served. And I have always been thankful that you lived through it.

I wish you were here now. I wish that when I come to see you on Sunday, that it is not at the cemetery where you’re buried, but at your home, where I had the honor of living with you and Mom from 2008 to 2012, and helping you through your cancer treatments, mostly by doing the housework and yard work and laundry and other grunt duties, as you called them. I know that bothered you, as you shared with me in your last weeks with us—in your last days. I wish I could share everything that you shared with me before you spent your last days in the hospital and were not able to communicate anymore. I want you to know, I honored the commitment I made to you then, just as I will honor your commitment to the country, our family, and your life’s work this weekend and the rest of my life.

You were right, there is a price for our decisions, and you were right, that what you asked me to do for you would have a heavy cost attached to it. The fact that you felt that I had given enough, that I had given up enough, hurts me, because I can never repay you for what you have given me, the sacrifices you made for me, the encouragement you gave me.

We did not always see eye-to-eye throughout my life. You admitted that you were a hard man much of your life—one with high expectations of himself and of me—but in retrospect, as we spoke in those last hours of your ability to do so, and in the days and weeks prior, you did what was best for me. I would have given up so many times, and once did, but you dragged me kicking and screaming back into life.

And my life now is full, and yet empty. It is full of love for Mom, my wonderful husband, Jeff, my three daughters and grandchildren, my three step-children, my soon-to-be son-in-law, my sister, Kim, and her family, and my work. But you are not here. And to some, I am no longer a part of their family, of our family. So, in that, again, you were right. You said, “I’m asking you to be selfish. I’m telling you to put yourself first. Do this for me.”

And I did as you asked, Dad, but it is the hardest thing I have ever done. It has brought me joy, like you wanted, but it also has brought me unbearable pain. Unbearable, that is, were it not for Mom, my husband, and children.

But that is life. Like our life together—we fought hard, we worked hard together, we laughed uproariously, we wrote together, we did a lot of crying together, and we apologized to each other a lot…

I miss you, Dad. I wish you were here so we could work in the garden, so you could yell at me for hauling rocks for the front yard, so you could explain passive sentences and adverbs and adjectives to me like you did when I was little, so we could watch PBS Masterpiece with Mom, and all those horror and action movies Mom hated, so you could teach me to drive again, and then continue to do so For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life. (Stay 10 lengths from the car in front of you. Turn your signal on 50 yards before your turn. Why don’t you use two feet when you drive. Stop driving with one hand. Okay, you can back out now—no wait! Okay, go now. Why are you taking this route? Get in the right lane, no, the other right lane!)

I wish I could argue with you again, could storm away, and then come back and cry in your lap while you cried and stroked my hair.

I wish I could make you laugh again with my horrid impressions, and my commentary on movies, and my smart-mouthed retorts to something you said to me (that once would have mad you angry, but later made you laugh).

I wish, I wish, I wish…

So here’s to you, Dad. With the Father, look down upon me, bless me, and give me strength.

Thank you for every single thing, on this weekend, and every day of my life.

Hollee

The First Birthday After

Today is my 54th birthday.

This is my first birthday without my father.

Dad passed away September 19 after a long struggle with esophageal cancer and its assorted complications.

I am enormously thankful that my mother is still alive, as it has been so very difficult facing each day knowing my dad is not a phone call or a few steps away. Since 2008, I had the honor of living with my folks and assisting them in any way that I could.

Dad and I became very close during that time. It had not always been so. For most of my life, I butted heads with him over nearly every decision I made or thought that I had.

We were very much alike, you see. However, in many ways, we were very different. This, of course, led to some misunderstandings, or more aptly, standoffs akin to “High Noon.”

I really started loving my dad about 12 years ago. I mean, really knowing that I loved him, not in that way that a child seems obligated to love a parent, but—to borrow a phrase I often heard at church—in a “know that you know that you know” way.

The reasons are complicated and are better written about when I am able to step back a bit more and observe them, but there it is.

In the meantime, I am at a loss this birthday. Christmas likewise will be difficult. I have trouble dealing with my grief on many days.

Today is one of them.

Exposing Online Dating for What It Truly Is . . . or Rather, Will Be

At some point in my later years, I am going to write a novella about my experiences with online dating services.

I figure that by the time I get around to doing so, that those particular services will be passé, having gone the way of the way of the mimeograph machine, Pong, and the Dodo bird.

However, there will be those stalwart few who through mega-vitamin therapy, cryogenics, or something new that Estee Lauder is marketing are still alive to read it.

By the time I write my expose’ and tale of woe, or knock-on-simulated-wood tale of success,  couples will be matched from birth to produce the most intelligent and beautiful offspring. Those who have slightly higher intelligence and looks will be relegated to sales and procreation only for the sake of bringing forth more salespeople. Anyone with average intelligence and looks will be servants, since no one looks at them anyway and they will be allowed procreation in order to keep up the supply of Walmart greeters (everyone knows there  are never any available cashiers at Walmart) and Steak-n-Shake waiters/waitresses.

And for all of those whose looks do not pass muster, or whose intelligence is sub-par according to the government agencies, they will be either euthanized or used in experimental procedures—like testing cosmetics or new medicines.

In the meantime, while I await all of the upcoming events, I will just say that online dating is a bit like being a cantaloupe in the fruit aisle. You are sniffed, weighed, squeezed, listened to briefly for some God knows why reason, and then may or may not be added to the cart along with the other hopeful consumables.

If, after a day or two, you are not chosen, the head of the Fruits,either chops you in half and wraps you in cellophane, or scoops you out and mixes you with other melons to make you more attractive.

It’s always about the melons.

Those Famous Lesser-Known Editing Symbols You All Love - The Untold Story

On Monday morning, June 11, 2012, I posted a graphic I had schmooshed together in that old standby - Paint - and posted  it on my Facebook Page under the header of:

New additions to accepted copy editing/proofreading symbols. In case I ever have the privilege of working on one of your books . . .

Since then, it has been shared 6,139 times! That is only the number of legitimate shares, and not the shares from readers who saved the image and posted it without attribution - shame on you!

I am absolutely floored by this! However, I just wanted to make sure that the original authors of these updated copy editing and proofreading symbols were once again lauded and thanked, as I did in my original posting.

Thank you to Brian Klems, whose original post was read by me on Writer's Digest page in August of 2011. Since that date, his symbols have been hanging over my desk.

And thank you to Eve Corbel, whose graphic I found on Monday morning at Angela Cothran's Blog.

I am thrilled to have shared this schmooshy graphic with you, and really happy I can let the whole world know, or at least a few thousand writers and editors, who the original authors are.

Bridge-Logos Foundation releases "Mary Jones and Her Bible" edited andupdated by Hollee J. Chadwick

In the year 1800, a young Welsh girl took a walk.

This was no meandering stroll during which her teenaged mind wandered and she daydreamed of boys, and clothes, and the musicians of the day.

No, young Mary Jones set out from her home at the foot of Cader Idris mountain, in Gwynedd, North Wales, in the early hours of the morning to walk 25 miles to Bala, to purchase a Welsh Bible with money she had been saving up for six years. Being from a poor family, Mary’s journey was undertaken with bare feet.

The Reverend Thomas Charles of Bala, to whose house Mary had journeyed to buy the Bible, was moved by Mary’s love and dedication in this endeavor. He told and retold the story of Mary Jones and her Bible and, in a move that would change the world, he proposed to the Council of the Religious Tract Society that they form a new society to supply Wales with Bibles. And, in 1804, the British and Foreign Bible Society was established in London.

This is the story of Mary Jones and her Bible. It is true to the original version—only better.

Through the years, Mary Jones and her Bible, penned by Mary E, Ropes in 1882, and later updated in 1919, has been read and enjoyed by millions of children. Today, the book remains on the Top 100 List of Christian and secular children's books on Amazon.com.

The editor, Hollee J. Chadwick, has taken Ropes' original version and added commentary, footnotes, and definitions for terms not common today. Ropes' prose remains intact because this is the version that has remained on the bestseller list for generations.

Mary Jones and her Bible is included in many home-schooling curriculum, is an excellent read-aloud book, and is suitable for all ages with a reading level of Grades 4 to 8.

Mary Jones and Her Bible by Mary Ropes (edited by Hollee J. Chadwick). ISBN: 978-0-88270-061-8; TPB; 176 pages; $9.99. 

15 Grammar Goofs That Make You Look Silly

Like this infographic? Get more copywriting tips from Copyblogger.

For Daniel Silveria's Family and Friends - His Stories

I "met" Daniel Silveria in 2004 when we were both bloggers on Blogit.com. When we first met, I did not know that he was wheelchair-bound—he never referred to it in any of his wildly humorous posts.

It was not until he and I collaborated on a series of children's stories that I learned he had Spinal Muscular Atrophy. In later years, Daniel would write about this in his blog post called Justifying My Existence.

Daniel was a gifted writer, a brilliant thinker, and one of my dearest friends – even though we never met face-to-face. He never complained about his life to my family or me—he encouraged us, kept us laughing, and sometimes made us cry, all though the gift of his words.

Daniel went to be with the Lord on December 10. Today, Friday, December 16, is his funeral in Brockton, Massachusetts.

Since I can't be there to celebrate the life of this gifted young man, I want to share with all of you two of the stories he wrote. They are excerpts from Introducing Paxton Grundle.

First, Daniel's description of Paxton:

“My name is Paxton Grundle. I’m six and a half, and live in a big ole house on Cranberry Street. At least I think it’s big. Everything looks big to me cuz I’m jus’ little. But I’m tall for my height. I live with my mom and dad, my dog, Fur-Face, and my big, smelly, older sister, Kelly. I like Mom, Dad, and Fur-Face.”

Kiddie Table

By Daniel Silveria

So, it’s Thanksgivin’ again and, even though I’m a whole year older than I was last year—if I did my math right—they still had me sit at the kiddie table. They sure know how to make a guy feel small. I was forced to sit with Cousin Emo, Cousin Deborah Ann, and Diaper-load Davey. Besides them, there was a bunch of new kids I didn’t rectonize. They keep addin’ new faces to the mix every year, but nobody ever runs it by me. I don’t know where they all come from. Mom told me about an ostrich, or somethin, droppin’ babies off to their mommies and daddies. Maybe it was a carrier pigeon, I don’t member.

Cousin Emo is a year older than me, but about 100 years dumber. He likes to punch ya in the shoulder when you’re not s’pectin’ it; and he kicks at your legs under the table. For some reason, nobody sees it when he does it to me, but if I taliate and do the same thing to him, then I get yelled at and get no chocolate cream pie! Emo doesn’t do this to Diaper-load Davey. In fact, most us kids keep a safe distance from Davey. He’s a good enough guy, I guess, but he’s not a winner, ‘specilly by a nose.

Deborah Ann is the most annoyin’ girl on the face of the earth—and that’s a doobies distinction, cuz all girls are annoyin’. For one thing, she’s got two first names. Jus’ who does she think she is? Pick a name and stick with it, that’s what I did. But that’s not even the most annoyin’ thing about her; she insists on bein’ all touchy-feely—GROSS! Deborah Ann tries to kiss me every chance she gets! She looks like a big ole guppy fish comin’ at you with her lips puckered all the time. I’d probably get in trouble for punchin’ her, too. So, the whole time I’m sittin’ at the table, I’ve got the two-name Deborah Ann hangin’ onto one arm and Cousin Emo sockin’ me in the other one. I was outnumbered and hand-in-capped, cuz the grown-ups at the aptilly named Grown-up Table were completely ‘blivious!

My older sister, Smelly Kelly, has been allowed at the Grown-up Table for as long as I can ‘member, and she rubs my face in it. I’ll look over at her and she’ll be grinnin’ down at me like she’s Queen Turkey. Ha ha and ha! That’s cuz she is! Queen of all turkeys—a big ole stuffed bird!

Anyway, Smelly Kelly was sittin’ next to Uncle Ned, and that’s no treat when he’s scarfin’ down Gramma Edie’s baked beans. Even Kelly gets out-smellied in that contest. P U!

Bein’ that my arms were both ocktey-pied most of the time, my food was gettin’ cold. One time, Dad told me that cold turkey was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done. It really wasn’t that hard, though. The cold mashed tatters were much worse. So, I flung most of ‘em at Emo with my fork, cattapolt style—ha ha!! Hittin’ him at all was good enough; the fact that some really got stuck in his hair for the rest of the day was jus’ gravy on the pate.

I would have taken a shot at Deborah Ann, too, but she’s such a Clingon I couldn’t get my arm free. She told me she has a crush on me, and she said it in front of everybody. That girl has had more crushes on more people than the auto yard crusher machine has had on cars. There are strains of cooties named after her! Diaper-load Davey was the only one smart enough to keep his distance.

The Santa Plan

By Daniel Silveria

I was watchin’ Barbara Walters’s 10 Most Interestin’ People of the Year show and couldn’t believe that Santa Claus didn’t make the list! Is Barbara Walters wacko or somethin’? None of the guests she inner-viewed can travel ‘round the ‘tire world in one night. Maybe some of ‘em could slide down a chimney, but I serially doubt any of ‘em could push a button in their nose and fly back up the chimney. This guy is incredible! At least interestin’, I’d say.

I stayed up last year, tryin’ to see Santa. I know, I know, that’s a bad-boy thing to do, cuz he knows when you are sleepin’ and he knows when you’re awake, an’ he knows if you been bad or good and if you stole the cake! But he’s getting’ old, ya know, so I was thinkin’ I would test ‘em to see if he was still sharp. My Gramma is like a million years younger than him, and she tries to change the microwave with the TV remote. So I figured it was possible Santa was getting’ rusty too.

So I waited and waited for Mom and Dad to go to sleep, so that I could sneak out and watch for The Big Guy. But they kept comin’ into my room, checkin’ to see if I was still awake! That was getting’ very tirin’. I had to hold my eyes open with my fingers some of the time. I kept callin’ Fur-Face over to lick my face, so that I would be freshed up, but I could tell he was getting’ aggravated cuz he wanted to go to sleep himself.

Dogs aren’t much interested in Santa Claus, I guess. Make that Dogs and Barbara Walters.

Mom came in for the third time to check on me, and this time she said that Santa was prolly avoidin’ our house cuz I was still not sleepin’. She ‘spressed concern that we might not get any presents if I stayed awake much longer. Meanwhile, I’m slappin’ myself in the head, attempin’ to keep myself from dozin’ off.

It was like 10,000 o’clock or somethin and I was startin’ to question the whole plan. Obvidiously Santa was still sharp enough to know that I was still not sleepin’. But I had stayed up that late so far, and I wasn’t ‘bout to call it quits after all that.

The next time Mom came into my room, I maked believe that I was sleepin’. She said, “Paxton? Paxton, are you awake?” and this time I didn’t say a thing.

When she left, I popped up and snucked out of my room real quiet. I barely knew where I was goin, cuz I was so tired. I heard whisperin’ in the living room, and then I heard the front door open. This woked me up right away, cuz I was thinkin’ Santa ‘sided to use the front door stead of the chimney!

I frozed right where I was. A trillion things started goin’ through my mind. I was a-scared too. If he caught me bein’ awake, there’d be no Christmas presents for Paxton Grundle. So I looked around for a place to hide. First thing I saw was the Christmas tree, but, when you’re tryin to hide from Santa, under the Christmas tree prolly isn’t the best choice. My heart was thumpin’ so fast I thought I was goin to be heartiac arrested! If I heard somebody say “Ho Ho Ho” I’d have dropped dead right then and there.

Then I jus’ started runnin’ with no ‘ticular destination in mind. I ran through the dinin’ room, passed the kitchen, into the laundry room, and then jumped into the clothes basket. But it was dark in there and would hamper my view of Mr. Claus—which was what this was all ‘posed to be ‘bout—so I jumped back out. (Also, it smelled like dirty laundry in there.)

By this time—really late—I was ‘zausted, so I couldn’t run no more. I jus’ kinda dragged myself around like a puppet. ‘Ventually I found myself crawlin’ to the sofa, which was back in the livin’ room, which was prolly where Santa was. I was ready to confess to bein’ a bad-boy and ‘cept what was comin to me. It would be worth it jus’ to see him at last.

When I finally got to the sofa, nobody was in the room ‘cept for me and the tree. It was all sparklin’ and the lights were blinkin’ off and on and off and on. That kinda made my stayin’ awake that much more harder. My eyes were all blurry, and the sofa was so soft. My head started tellin myself that I could jus’ take a quick nap before Santa came back with more presents. I didn’t believe my head, cuz it’s wrong 10 times out of 9, but my eyelids started agreein’ with my head and they started closin’ by themselfs.

And that’s when I heard the front door open again. I heard bags bangin’ and clutter clatterin’. I wanted so bad to be able to wake up, but I was like two-thirds asleep, or maybe four quarters. Beats me—I hadn’t taken math at school yet, let alone Geometry.

With eyes fuzzier than Fur-Face the time Smelly Kelly blow dried his fur, I could see big, black, snow-covered boots walkin’ toward me. As my heavy eyes went up higher, I could see red pants above the black boots. Then I tried to get my eyes to go up even further. That’s when all I saw was black, cuz my eyes were closed. Last thing I ‘member was somebody whisperin’ “Merry Christmas, Paxton.”

The next mornin’, I woked up on the sofa, surrounded by presents. I done did it! I managed to saw Santa and still got tons of gifts! Me and my family sat around openin’ up all the stuff. Fur-Face knocked over the Christmas tree, cuz he’s not used to seein’ trees inside the house—thought it was an ‘truder or somethin’, I guess. But anyway... everything was perfect and the best thing was openin’ the presents.

There’s no time like the present. No time at all.

 My dearest Daniel - I love you to the moon.

Mean Girls Memory Lane - Not a Nice Street . . .

It is Sunday night and I am watching Dateline NBC. Tonight’s episode is about bullying, specifically among teenagers.

The show started while I was doing dishes, and I was only half-listening. What caught my ear though is when they focused on what is called, in modern vernacular, “Mean Girls.” I heard how the mean girls, who for the sake of this newscaster’s story, are actors, very slyly pick apart another girl, also an actor, in front of two “innocent bystanders.” The point of the Dateline story is to see who steps in when bullying happens, and the bystanders’ parents are watching this from a hidden room.

And suddenly I am 11 years old again and back at Loveland Junior High School, and feeling all the shame and pain being heaped on me by two of my “friends.”

The one girl had been my best friend in 6^th grade. We had both just moved into the school district and lived on the same street and did everything together. Then, in the summer prior to our 7^th grade year, another girl moved onto our street and we became a trio of best friends.

Somehow, during the course of our 7^th grade year, these two girls became my worst critics and my torturers. “Sixth grade friend” had invited me to go to an amusement park with her family, and on the day we were to go, she called and said they weren’t going. An hour later, I was outside and saw her and her family driving away, with the “newcomer” in the car, on the way to the amusement park.

I was snubbed on the street we lived on, where there were a large number of kids in our age group, although only a few of us going to the public school, while the majority attended St. Columban Catholic School until 9^th grade. It was to those kids I turned for friendship when this happened. But at school, it was a nightmare. Pointing and laughing at me in the hallways, running into me, talking about me loud enough so I could hear was the kindest treatment. However, they took it as far as going to the guidance counselor and telling him that I was bothering them, that I was constantly following them, and that they wanted him to talk to me because I was making them so uncomfortable because it was obvious that there was something wrong with me.

The counselor told me everything these two girls had said, and asked for my response. When I denied everything and even admitted that I was trying to avoid them because they were being so mean to me, he said that he had to take their word because there were two of them and only one of me, and majority rules. He warned me to stop “stalking” these two girls or he would have to step in and see that I got some kind of help.

I was devastated. I had so loved both of these friends, and I could not comprehend what made them hate me so much.

Then one day, my “6^th grade friend” had an argument with the “newcomer.” She came to me and said she had really missed me and wanted to be best friends again. She didn’t like “newcomer” anymore and it was all her idea to be so mean to me.

I was so happy to have my friend back. Oddly, though, my “6^th grade friend” wanted to then do the same thing to “newcomer” that they had done to me. A part of me wanted to get back at “newcomer.” But the thought of inflicting that kind of pain on someone else broke my heart. But my “6^th grade friend” stopped “newcomer” on our street and tore her apart, in front of me.

And I did nothing.

“Newcomer” broke down in tears and went home.

I felt horrid. “Sixth grade friend” was elated that she had that effect on her, as she must have been all the times they had had that effect on me.

The next day, I was the outsider again. No explanation. I was just ignored while the two of them went on being, well, them.

Junior High was a nightmare for me. If it had not been for Marty Faith, and Tami Funk, and Jill Baron, and some others, I would have been so absolutely miserable, I don’t know how I would have made it through the days.

High School solved everything. These two girls were no longer so important as freshman in a large school. And I had all my Catholic School friends with me now, as well as a whole new group of kids who had gone to other elementary and junior high schools in the district, and then converged on this, the only high school. I had to deal with these two only at home now, since we still lived on the same street.

We moved my freshman year, though, and the four or five-mile move put me in another school district—Kings High School. There my life was pleasant and school was an exciting adventure every day. I had marvelous friends—Rita Lester, Julia Davis, Donna Forste, Michelle Petry, Lynn Schumacher, Doreen Biehle, Martina Byrd, Cathy Stringer, and come to think of it, more guy friends than girls.

I healed while I was at Kings. All of my dear friends there helped me to feel like I was okay again, that I wasn’t some strange and fetid creature—like my two “old” friends had made me feel.

To this day, I vividly remember that feeling. I wish I had spoken up when “6^th grade friend” was tearing down “newcomer.” I am ashamed that I did not. If you are reading this and know that I am speaking of you, then I ask your forgiveness. I am heartily sorry.

And yes, I did forgive these two girls, who are now in their 50s. It took me years, sadly. And apparently, I am still healing . . .

Beverlee Chadwick's Interview with Lloyd Hildebrand about Spurgeon, Lake, Guyon, and Other Pure Gold Classics

Beverlee Chadwick is a freelance non-fiction editor for Bridge-Logos and author of "The Bridge Exhaustive Biblical References to the Father, Son, & Holy Spirit." She has edited many non-fiction books for Bridge-Logos, especially in the Pure Gold Classics series. She is currently compiling and editing a new Charles H. Spurgeon Pure Gold Classic, Spurgeon on the Holy Spirit. For one of her books, Interior Castle by Teresa of Avila she also narrated the audio excerpts. A licensed minister, Beverlee co-founded two ministries with her husband. She also operates an internet bookstore that features Bridge-Logos Foundation books, http://www.blretail.com.




http://www.blogtalkradio.com/BTRPlayer.swf

Listen to internet radio with Bridge-Logos on Blog Talk Radio

Rollerblading, Daffodils, and Lemon Zest

I live in a small town—not really a suburb of Cincinnati, but sort of, and not really rural, but sort of.

The community in which I live is inhabited by dog walkers, power walkers, baby walkers, joggers, sprinters, and today, for the first time, I saw a woman rollerblading.

I was outside in the cold sunshine picking some daffodils that had not faired too well in this morning’s now melted one-inch of snow. To save the happy lives of this small patch at the corner of the garage, I was bringing them inside to enjoy the remainder of their days in a pink vase atop the pie safe in the breakfast nook.

I heard an odd whirring sound and looked up to find a woman in a helmet and full-body windbreaker suit, rollerblading.

As she glided effortlessly and gracefully up and down and around the two culs-de-sac within my view, I was struck with such envy. She looked so calm, so free from stress.

And then I remembered . . .

It was the year 2000. I was living in the city of Columbus in a townhouse community. Sam, my youngest daughter, who was 12 years-old at the time, was in the throes of a rollerblading binge.

Out of a desire to enjoy this activity with my daughter, I asked Sam to teach me. Anyone who knows me well knows that I trip over dead air. I walk into walls. I have issues with gravity.

Sam’s lessons turned into a laugh riot for her and a near face plant into concrete for me. The neighbors gathered to sit in lawn chairs, drink beer, and watch. I think I heard someone ask, “What are the stakes?”

So back here in the real world, in 2011, I smile and wave at the woman as she breezes by, gather up my cut daffodils, and put them in a vase on the pie safe in the breakfast nook.

And then I mix a stick of butter with some flour and a wee bit of salt and some confectioner’s sugar, press it into a pan, and bake it for 20 minutes. While it turns a beautiful light golden brown, I grate two teaspoons of fresh lemon zest, add freshly squeezed lemon juice to sugar and eggs and flour, pour it over the baked crust, and pop it back into the oven for another 20 minutes. Then I sprinkle confectioner’s sugar over the top of these perfectly baked lemon bars.

My mom comes into the kitchen and comments on how wonderful the lemon bars smell, and we smile, get out our newest cookbook, and look at more recipes we’ll try together.

And I forget how I envied the graceful woman on the rollerblades.

A Postscript to Yesterday's Perfect Blog Post, by Guest Blogger, Daniel Silveria

These thoughts have been persisting in my mind.  I thought I'd better write them down before they give up on me and go wherever it is neglected thoughts go.  So my friend wrote something today which was along a similar thought process.  I figured this must be a sign.  My friend wrote about Perfection and being a perfectionist.  What is perfect?  If perfect is our goal then we need an example of this.  The easy answer is God.  The more difficult question is what is God?  Is God perfect?  I sure hope so -- He's God.  His imperfections are even perfect: the inhale necessary for the exhale; the space between the notes which makes the music; the temporary absence of a loved one which makes the reunion all the more exhilarating.  The power of the sweet and sour, the sour enhancing the sweetness of the sweet.

And if the creator is perfect, then are all of His creations not perfect?  It seems pretty obvious to me that, if God wanted us to be perfect, we'd have come that way right out of the box, batteries included and all.  However, this is the perspective of a person who is an imperfect creation, (or a creation moving toward perfection?), because clearly Scripture tells us our goal is to: "Be you therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect."  At which point I imagine the apostles were so disheartened that they were ready to take their ball and go home.  "Oh, is that all you want?  Perfection?  No problem."  St. Sarcasm

OK, I made up St. Sarcasm, so let me quote somebody who actually existed, Yoda the Jedi Master, who said, "Do or do not.  There is no 'Try.'"

Think of it this way, a newly engaged couple doesn't go to the bride's parents and say, "We've got great news: we're going to try to be married!"  Marriage is hard work, so going into it with that kind of 'try' mindset is doomed at the outset.  The bride's dad is sitting there, smiling and nodding his head, while whispering to his wife out of the corner of his mouth: "I give 'em three weeks.."  Perfection is both the destination and the journey.  Your ability to overcome obstacles has brought you closer to the ideal.  You were not made perfect, you were made to become perfect.  Your offering to God is humble, because you are only human.  You are a mere creature, a creation.  However, God's immense love for you graciously accepts your humble offering based on its loving intent.  When you give love you glorify God, because you are giving God.  God is love.

A little girl gets up early with the intention of surprising mommy by making her breakfast in bed.  The little girl has limited culinary skills, so she goes with her specialty, which is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, heavy on the grape jelly.  She's not allowed to go near the stove, so coffee is out of the question.  Grapefruit juice is the next choice, and it's a big ol' bottle of grapefruit juice, filled to the rim, so the transfer from bottle to Little Mermaid-decorated cup doesn't go so smoothly, resulting in spillage and contamination of one corner of the PB&J.  Extra soggy sandwich helps it go down easier anyway, right?  The breakfast wouldn't be complete without the addition of chocolate, so a chocolate Poptart rounds out the meal.  Perfect!  Not surprisingly, the Mom not only doesn't reject the sticky mess presented to her, but is overwhelmed with love at the gesture when she looks into the eyes of her daughter, who is absolutely ecstatic with anticipation at the prospect of being able to please her mommy with this humble offering.  It's not the presentation, it's the loving intent of its presenter.

So it is with us and God.  When Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel, it was probably the equivalent of a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the eyes of God.  Perhaps not even as significant, because maybe Michelangelo's intentions were not as pure as the little girl's.  It's probably safe to say that the most valuable works of art -- in the truest sense -- are hanging on refrigerator doors of mommies and daddies all over the world.

I remember watching some documentary about a tribe somewhere in the third world where they created intricate works of art on the ground using various colored sand and rocks.  And they were really very beautiful, but the artist would always finish the work by intentionally smearing the final stroke, in order to prevent it from being "perfect."  When asked why they did this, why the intentional blemish was added, they explained through an interpreter that it's because only God can make perfect things.  They didn't want to offend God by matching His impeccable workmanship.  Excuse me?!  I couldn't hear you; I was distracted by your enormous ego.  Somebody give the bushman a slice of humble pie.  We need to keep things in perspective.  Without God, we are a speck of dust.  Wait a minute, correction: without God, there are no specks of dust with which to make intricate sand paintings.

With God, however, perfection is the direction and the inevitable conclusion.  There are many cracks and blemishes on the path to the promised land, all of which are meticulously designed to enhance, strengthen, and enlighten us along the way.  After all, we are being prepped and polished in order that we may be made presentable.  We, a humble offering to a father who delights in the sincerity of our hearts.  All of our broken works, done with noble intent, pile up under our feet, raising us higher and closer to heaven.  Just because daddy beams with pride and joy when his child gets the training wheels removed from their bike doesn't mean that he was ever ashamed that they were needed in the first place.  Our Loving Father wishes for us to be comforted in His peace, not slaves to the anxiety-inducing external demands.  Perfectionists are obsessed with the future, with the end results.  God resides in the present, yet knows what has been and what's to come.  So, if God sees the future and loves you in the present moment, what does that tell you?

"I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence, I can reach for; perfection is God's business." - Michael J. Fox

Is the Grand Canyon a magnificent display of God's awe-inspiring beauty or is it a giant hole in the ground?  It's several centuries worth of "happy accidents."  Serendipity is a choice tool of the Almighty.  Although you are mistaken if you believe in accidents.  Particularly if you are on purpose.  And you are on purpose.  That purpose being perfection.  Have faith that you're heading there, and you'll be rewarded by Him taking you there.  God bless you.

A Re-post of The Perfect Blog Post, (because sometimes I need to remind myself of certain truths)

Today I have spent a great deal of time discussing perfection—the quest for it and its possible attainment.

I will stand up right now (figuratively as I can’t type on my laptop while standing because my lap disappears) and say, “Hi. My name is Hollee, and I am a perfectionist.”

That being said, I will also now admit that I am far from perfect in any way, shape, or form, ergo most of my life, I have been my biggest disappointment.

During a long conversation with a loved one who, in some ways, knows me better than I know myself, I realized what a hard row to hoe this has been—this standard of perfection I have set for myself. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself at the difficulties I’ve encountered since my perfection quest was initiated in my teen years—no, I have no patience with woe is me conversations when I am the woe-er—I merely acknowledged to myself that those difficulties were of my own making and not the fault of any external force.

Nor have I set the same standard for others that I have set for myself, which, when you really get down to the nitty-gritty, means that I have set myself above others since perfection was obviously not possible for them . . . Wow! That thought just occurred to me. That is not good.

But I digress.

This need for perfection has, at times in my life, hindered my ability to start a task because I was afraid I would not be able to do it completely right. It has skewed my vision of myself to such a degree that I mentally pick myself apart whenever I look in the mirror—I literally do not see what I am told others see when they look at me. It has made me choose friends and companions that I felt were not perceptive enough to see my flaws, my defects, my “idiot”syncracies. Yes, that is a harsh statement, but there it is. But in my mind this was logical—if I chose someone who was as smart as me, or as driven as me, or who had my same talents, then they would be able to see when I made a mistake. (Now please take that last sentence in the spirit it is intended, those of you who don’t know me. I do not dumb myself down—I know I am intelligent, ambitious, and have certain talents—I inherited all of those things and I won’t deny a single one. To do so is false modesty.)

My greatest fears in life are being wrong and being made to feel stupid. I don’t fear dying—I am a Christian, I don’t fear being alone—I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t fear it. Admittedly, I do fear clowns, but that’s a whole ‘nother blog post. To the depths of my soul, I fear I may make an error in judgment, in my work, in my life, and I fear that someone may find out some day that, for the most part, I have no clue what I am doing.

That last is entirely illogical, because I have spent my life learning everything I possibly can about what I do for a living, and yet, I have had no formal “schooling” in my craft. I have worked my way up or sideways through the ranks of the writing community for the past 30-plus years—I have picked the brains of everyone that I admire as a writer and gleaned what I could from the fields of work I am pursuing or want to pursue.

So in some ways my need for perfection has forced me to put myself out there—to forgo my fear of having “Stupid” written on my forehead—and asked those who do know how they do that voodoo they do so well. I would have much preferred to just stand next to them and osmosisized the knowledge from them (no, osmosisized is not a real word), but since that is not yet possible, I had to actually ask questions. Asking questions was me admitting to myself and those I questioned that I did not know something. That is and was very hard.

My need for perfection has also driven me to always do the very best I can at anything I undertake—although it has hindered me from being an undertake-er in some instances—that qualifies it as a catch-22.

The question is: “What do I do? How do I accept less than perfection in myself?”

And these thoughts occurred to me as my loved one and I were talking: Is a sunset any less beautiful when you discover that the reason for the multi-colors is pollution? And which is more beautiful—the perfectly unblemished piece of pseudo-wood, or the knotty, nicked, and weathered wood that has a story to tell?

My mother continuously reminds me that a diamond—the most perfect of gemstones—is made from coal which is decomposed vegetable matter. A pearl—my particular favorite—is not, as commonly told—made from a grain of sand. A pearl is formed when something organic, most often a parasite, penetrates the shell of a mollusk and lodges within the soft inner body of the animal. The parasite encounters cells within the mollusk's mantle tissue known as epithelial cells which grow into a sac, envelopes the intruder, and excretes a chemical substance of aragonite and calcite. This is known as nacre or the composite of a pearl.

I don’t know how not to be hard on myself. I have no clue. But I have been told that there comes a time when good enough needs to be accepted. I am not to settle for only achieving good enough—that is a bar set too low for my personality and I am done with settling—however, as long as I can truthfully say that I have given my absolute best effort, then that is good enough. I cannot be all things to all people, I cannot fill everyone’s needs, I cannot do everything myself—I have to ask for assistance, let go and allow someone else to help me (not ask for help then do it all myself anyway), learn from my mistakes, learn from others who have already successfully done what I want or need to do, and accept that there may be times when I can’t do something. I need to learn when “No” is the perfect answer.

I need to look at my flaws and defects—the decomposed vegetable matter and parasites—as, perhaps, that which makes me unique. It is those very things that keep me from being a cookie-cutter human, a Stepford, which gives me depth and contrast, just as clouds enhance the perfection of a blue sky.

I will think on these things—remind myself of them when my perfection bug gets the best of me. That is the best I can do in this instance.
However, I was told today that I am loved for who I am, flaws and all, without reservation, without modification, without an “except for . . .”

How perfect is that?

I Can Only Imagine

On January 29, in the early hours of the morning, my dear Uncle Lloyd (my father's eldest brother) passed away. Lloyd Chadwick leaves behind his wife, Margaret, and his children, and all of us who loved him so.

This very morning, my Uncle Roger Head, husband to my father's eldest sister Shirley, (who is with the Lord) also passed away. My cousin Rick called us during our morning praise and worship—we’ve been having “church” at home on Sunday’s since Dad is recovering from surgery and Mom is preparing for hip replacement surgery on Tuesday.

Both of my uncles died in a state of grace—Jesus was their Lord, Master, and Saviour.

Although our hearts may be heavy at our physical loss of these two loved ones, we are not as those who have no hope. We know that Lloyd and Roger have the grand privilege now of kneeling before the Christ and El-Shaddai—God Almighty—and worshipping in Their presence.

When I received the call about Uncle Roger from Rick, I interrupted our time of worship to let my folks and sister know the news. We spoke of, as my cousin Rick said, my Aunt Shirley waiting at the gates of Heaven for Roger and her brother, Lloyd. Rick said his mother was probably yelling at Roger for taking so long to get there.

Then Mom sang a beautiful song of praise to the Lord for His promises that came straight from her heart as she accompanied herself on the autoharp.

I thought, as I often have at the death of a believer, of how much I long for the day when I can finally see the face of He whom I love most, and kneel before the throne of Yahweh and worship Him with a pure heart. I always feel a tinge of jealousy when I think of how that person, so soon passed away, is in a state of pure joy, pure peace, no more sorrow or pain. Since I became a Christian at age 12, I have felt this way. I feel sorrow for myself, yes, at the physical loss of my loved one—but I also feel envy of their ability to now be with our Father.

After her song, Mom then turned to our morning devotion from Spurgeon’s Morning by Morning, and this is what she read:

What is Unseen (II Corinthians 4:18)

In our Christian pilgrimage, it is well, for the most part, to be looking forward. Forward lies the crown, and onward is the goal. Whether it is for hope, for joy, for consolation, or for the inspiring of our love, the future must, after all, be the grand object of the eye of faith. Looking into the future we see sin cast out, the body of sin and death destroyed, the soul made perfect, and fit to be a partaker of the inheritance of the saints in light. Looking further yet, the believer’s enlightened eye can see death’s river passed, the gloomy stream forded, and the hills of light attained on which stands the celestial city. There we see ourselves enter within the pearly gates, hailed as more than conquerors, crowned by the hand of Christ, embraced in His arms, glorified with Him, and made to sit together with Him on His throne, even as He overcame and sat down with the Father on His throne. The thought of this future may well relieve the darkness of the past and the gloom of the present. The joys of heaven will surely compensate for the sorrows of earth. Be still my doubts! Death is but a narrow stream, and you will soon have forded it. Time, how short—eternity, how long! Death, how brief—immortality, how endless! Even now I seem to be eating of Eshcol’s clusters, and sipping of the well that is within the gate. The road is so, so short! I will soon be there.

Oh, how great is our God that He gives us this word of comfort, and yet, exhortation to stay the course—to not take our eye off the goal for that glory to come is what gives us strength to do what is required of us. And what a reminder of what Uncle Lloyd and Uncle Roger, and all those who’ve gone before, are now experiencing.

And so now, I sit here, writing this, and listening to Mercy Me sing I Can Only Imagine, and I thank God that my uncles with the seraphim are singing, "Holy, holy, holy, is the LORD of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory."

Thank You, Father, for loving us so that You gave Your Son so that we may one day dance before You, surrounded by Your glory.

Mercy Me singing I Can Only Imagine w/lyrics. 

For those days when you feel like an idiot . . .

A good friend of mine sent me these quotes today, with the preface that I should read these on those days when I am not feeling particularly intelligent. She also pointed out, that some of these are elected officials, celebrities, or just plain people, sort of, who have the right to vote!

Now, I am sharing them with you. Enjoy.

(On September 17, 1994, Alabama's Heather Whitestone was selected as Miss America 1995.)
Question: If you could live forever, would you and why?
Answer: "I would not live forever, because we should not live forever, because if we were supposed to live forever, then we would live forever, but we cannot live forever, which is why I would not live forever,"

"Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can't help but cry. I mean I'd love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff."
~Mariah Carey

"Smoking kills. If you're killed, you've lost a very important part of your life,"
~Brooke Shields, during an interview to become spokesperson for federal anti-smoking campaign 

"I've never had major knee surgery on any other part of my body,"
~Winston Bennett,   University   of   Kentucky   basketball forward.

"Outside of the killings, Washington has one of the lowest crime rates in the country,"
~Mayor Marion Barry

"That lowdown scoundrel deserves to be kicked to death by a jackass, and I'm just the one to do it,"
~A congressional candidate in Texas. 

"Half this game is ninety percent mental."
~Philadelphia Phillies manager, Danny Ozark

"It isn't pollution that's harming the environment. It's the impurities in our air and water that are doing it.”
~Al Gore, Vice-president 

"I love California... I practically grew up in   Phoenix."
~Dan Quayle, Vice-president

"We've got to pause and ask ourselves: How much clean air do we need?"
~Lee Iacocca

"The word ‘genius’ isn't applicable in football. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein."
~Joe Theisman, NFL football quarterback and sports analyst. 

"We don't necessarily discriminate. We simply exclude certain types of people."
~Colonel Gerald Wellman, ROTC Instructor.

"Your food stamps will be stopped effective March 1992 because we received notice that you passed away. May God bless you. You may reapply if there is a change in your circumstances."
~Department of Social Services, Greenville, South Carolina 

"Traditionally, most of Australia's imports come from overseas."
~Keppel Enderbery 

"If somebody has a bad heart, they can plug this jack in at night as they go to bed and it will monitor their heart throughout the night. And the next morning, when they wake up dead, there'll be a record."
~Mark S. Fowler, FCC Chairman