Huh?

As I was purging my room recently I ran across a file of stuff I'd written a while ago.  A while being "within the last probably five years but long enough that I don't have any recollection of actually writing such things."  But I literally have no idea what I was trying to say in half of them.  I imagine poets encounter the same problem when they find poems from the olden days, or artists who look at their young work and think, "did this mean something?"

Not like I'm comparing my words to those of a poets, or the brushstrokes of an artist (because, um, no, I do not wield that sort of power with my pen, I tell you what!), but it's just a feeble comparison.  For instance, apparently one day I was watching people who stride through glass sliding doors and felt a little bit jealous because I always have to pause before I go through them, or run into them.  Seriously, listen to this:

"That’s what annoys me about confident people, they make such bold assumptions. I mean, I sometimes just look at the person who confidently strides towards the sliding glass doors, not slowing down even a step, because somehow they know that the door will open for them. How do they do that? I stop for a painful second before believing that the doors will open sufficiently for me to pass through. I am not that person.

And people who have the appearance of being calm at all times. How does that even work? I see people, often, those calm-types, the type who, when it’s raining manage to merely walk through the parking lot, not caring that it’s raining with such ferocity. They don’t mind getting wet, and heaven forbid they should just make a run for it. They keep going, even pausing to find the correct key, and then they will calmly climb into their car, enter their house, or tape the door shut on their cardboard box of a home. I’m the type of person who has to run through the rain to get where I want to be. I rush through a store if I feel I’m late, even though others might be amazing enough to just walk purposely, as though that would be enough."

Admittedly, not much of that makes sense, but kudos to me for using the word ferocity.  I don't find much occasion for that word.  Also, the chances of me having seen someone tape themself into a cardboard house are pretty much zero.  I do not know what I was talking about.  Also (part 2), I have no idea why walking through a store purposely was considered "amazing."

You thought that made little sense?  Read this one.  Your brain will hurt.

"Either way, I haven’t gotten a piece of this to take with me the whole time. I don’t understand where in the world we could take these thoughts from. We always make things us: we assume we have all the answers, though we rarely have so much as a clue. Answers? Not so much. We wish we could change things, yet we don’t try. We don’t put effort into anything; we don’t attempt to alter the course of things that cannot rightfully be ours to begin with. How can we change pieces of history that weren’t ours to make? How can we switch courses that aren’t planned through our own free will? We take no thought for what we may do with His power, we seek those things that are "our own destinies." We don’t understand that our destiny, once yielded to His, is no longer our own. And destiny? As if the word commands more power than does His will. We haven’t a thought for the things we disown. We merely seek those things that own us. We seek the things beyond our reach, closer to the stars than our humble dwelling we call home. We don’t look for those things which are above: to do such would be to seek Him in the truest sense. We, as humans, merely seek the things that are above us. Our feeblest senses cannot seem to enter into the purity that could be ours, should we divest ourselves from the enemy that is our own flesh. Why is it, that one of our three mortal enemies should be ourselves?"

Is there a word for "quite possibly hadn't slept for days when writing that," do you think?

As much as I'd like my posterity to be able to have stuff of mine to get a sense of what it was to live in 2011, I'm sometimes afraid of what they'll find.  Because seriously, WHAT?

Not to mention--did I never start my thoughts at the beginning?  Both of those pieces of whatever they are start as if they're following something else.  Why would I jump into a rant about confident people?  why the confusing paragraph about free will and stars that begins, "either way" when there is nothing coming before to answer such a question?

I found one about Lewis Carroll as well.  Apparently I gave him the benefit of the doubt as to not being on drugs and figured he just wrote words at random and gave them to a publisher who was asleep (?) the day they published Alice in Wonderland.  I guess I wasn't too keen on Lewis Carroll.  Good to know.

Another day

I have been exceedingly busy recently, working on some projects which are nearing completion.  I must say, projects are fun to dream about, but the execution thereof is usually trickier than I expect.

Which means...  this morning I woke up at 4:30, worried that I wouldn't have time to finish everything I wanted to get done.  Thankfully, it paid off and I've accomplished a lot!

None of this is very interesting, but since I've been awake since 4:30 I don't think I should be expected to have profound thoughts.

That's all.

Seeking: the impossible

So, I'm weirdly picky about certain things (light switches, microwaves, windshield wipers, and silverware settings, just to name a few). But there are some things that I'm particular about in a more haphazard way. For instance, my room is allowed to be messy as long as I still know where everything is. My books are half packed up in boxes (a girl only has so much shelf space!), and the labels leave somewhat to be desired, but I understand exactly what's in each box, so it seems perfectly acceptable to me.

There's one thing that I'm weird about, though, that has no rhyme or reason. I make no secret of the fact that I tend to keep a journal. Perhaps not as faithfully as I should, but I like to keep them full of enough fodder so that if I don't burn them (this is a distinct possibility), my children will have an interesting view of my life. Now, I know some people keep journals in regular notebooks, but personally? I like to think that if I'm going to all this trouble to write down all the potentially interesting parts of my life, it might as well be in a book I like to look at, and one that is Just So.

This means a few things. 1) It has to be spiral bound. This is more for the sake of ease than looks, but I like the look of a spiral-bound notebook better. 2) It can't be plain. There has to be some distinctive feature that makes me want to look at it. 3) The pages can be neither too narrow, nor too wide. If the pages aren't exactly to my liking, I spend inordinate amounts of time in my journal discussing why I don't like the length of the lines. No joke. 4) It can't look too girly, nor too blah, and it can't have anything that would make me laugh at its absurd cover in 10 or 20 years. 5) There are actually other things, having to do with the type of page, the way the lines look, whether or not the first page is blank or lined, and some others. I'll spare you the details.

All that is good and well, but the fact is, there's no such thing as the perfect journal. I refuse to have the same cover more than once (I think I was hit on the head as a child--there's no way this is normal), and I don't like to have the new journal waiting in the wings while I write in a current journal. It makes me feel like the new journal is judging me for being too slow. So I can't buy a new journal until I'm nearly done (or done, if I write too much near the end and lose track of how many pages I have left) a current journal. So that leaves me shopping (sometimes for days on end) for a journal that fits all of my weird quirks. I never find exactly what I want, but, though great perseverance, I usually find something that fits at least a few of my qualifications!

I like to think that I'm particular in this because I don't like to be picky in other parts of my life. That, obviously, is just wishful thinking, as I am hardly perfect and un-picky on other occasions. So anyhow, this all has been on my mind recently as I accidentally finished my old journal and didn't have a new one! I do now (it took about three days, but I got it), but I had to visit many places to find the perfect fit.

In other news, I realize that if I do indeed burn my journals, it will make all this trouble be for nothing. Maybe I'll burn the pages and leave the covers? That might work. Hm.

Well then

Dear World,

I'm sorry. I was not sleeping, and apparently decided it would be a good idea to write whatever I was thinking. This is why I have a journal, so I'm not sure why I chose to share with the world, instead of myself. Either way, it amuses me, so I've left it.

Love,
Jo

And a day for Earth

This morning I realized that it was Earth Day. Not like that's too crazy, but I realized that Earth Day marks that I've been blogging for more than a year now. Last Earth Day I said pretty much all that needs to be said about this event, so I won't bore you with another round, but I did, of course, take the time to google Nancy Pelosi just to make sure she didn't happen to use another not-entirely-real verse from Isaiah. I honestly can't get over that.

Pardon.

Anyhow, It's funny how certain things can remind us that time glides ever onward. For instance, it's hard to reconcile myself with the idea that I've been blogging for a year. Not like I've done it entirely faithfully (summer=not even close), but it's been here. And I just realized the other day that I'm coming up on ten years as a faithful (mostly) journaler. I used to journal here and there when I was much younger, but it's only ("only" haha) been the last ten where I've written frequently.

But time is strange. I've been working at my current job for six months now (I've already surpassed the average time of how long most former employees worked here by a fair amount, which tells you something about the job, let me just tell you), and I realize "hey, six months flew, I bet it'll be a year before I know it!" Oh, if I lasted a year, by the way, there would only be three other employees amongst the 35-some employees who have worked at this job who will have worked longer than I have. Most are lucky to last for three months. The last lady lasted for four days. Correction, four mornings. She wasn't even working all day.

I have digressed.

I think the older you get, the less time means. Thirty Year Fixed Mortgage? No problem. My child will be finished school in just another 14 years? Sweet. You only have to be 55 to qualify for some senior discounts now? I'm nearly there!

Um, I personally am not nearly there, I'm just making a point.

But time means little once you realize how much has already passed you by. It brings to mind the fact that we can't change what has passed, but only live for Christ in the minutes and days to come. Everything will pass away (did you hear that, Earth? you too!) but it's what is done for Christ that remains.

Only one life, t'will soon be past, only what's done for Christ t'will last!

All for the sake of posterity

Some people keep journals as a record of their life for the sake of posterity. Others, like me, keep a journal to keep from exploding from the excessive amounts of words inside of them. Honestly, I like my way better, because it seems more interesting, plus, I can write or not write whenever the Spirit so moves me without worrying that a grand-niece of mine might one day wonder what I did on that illusive missing Tuesday. Even better, once I burn my journals, they'll never be the wiser as to the fact that my Tuesday was missing in the first place.

But... should the Lord wait a while before rapturing us, will posterity actually want something through which they might be able to understand what sort of person I was? Not that I think I'm that interesting (because trust me, I don't), but because history is so deeply ingrained into us humans that I feel like somebody should would want to have a part of my life just because it was a life that was lived. For instance, I love to look at pieces of my grandparents' and parents' lives. Mind you, I've certainly never been allowed to look at journals of any of my relatives (maybe they've burned them?) but I like other parts of their lives, like a pair of my dad's baby shoes, a childhood book of my grandma's, my mom's old school projects. I love to look at things like that!

But those things are collected as we live. By virtue of the fact that I was a baby, I have baby shoes (actually, I'm pretty sure we don't have any more of my baby shoes, but since I've never liked shoes I've never worried about whether or not that particular item was preserved in any capacity), and because I did school, I'll have old school papers. The fact that I come from a hugely readerly family indicates that I'll have plenty of my childhood books for my descendants to have. But sometimes I like to write random things that I think would be fun to look back on, should someone care.

But what I wonder, while doing things like this: will anyone really care? Because things about me aren't that interesting, neither do they really have a historical factor. For instance, I have a love/hate relationship with carrots. But such jumbled feelings regarding carrots isn't really something I would care to know about my great-grandpa Harry (I have no idea how he felt about carrots, just so you know). Or is it? My great-grandmother used to love licorice and she would give one piece a night to her kids while their dad (aforementioned Great-Grandpa Harry) was away Bibleing around. I think that's fun to know. But carrots aren't quite as interesting.

For at least 20 years of my life I managed to never break a bone or get stitches--though I'm a klutz, and expect this to change momentarily. But... that's not really interesting. I just wish I had more things from my own past (AKA, more information about my great-grandparents and such), and wish I could somehow create something that would be a part of life right now, in 2009, to show what they (which is to say, posterity) missed by having the misfortune of being born later on in life. I mean, I was around when we had nine planets! I remember the day Pluto got plutoed! Is there a way to portray that, and still be able to burn my journals?

I guess this is what scrapbooking is for. And stories. Maybe the Lord will tarry and I'll grow up and have some younger relative who loves to collect and file away family stories. Or maybe I should collect and file away family stories. I've got enough memorized already--This is the pond where we got our fish, Freddy. This is the pond where mom almost died. This is the silo dad used to climb around on when he babysat grain during harvest. This is the tree under which mom and dad got married. This is garage where dad backed up with the car door open and removed the car door. This is the old couch we used to have in the dining room where all of us kids used to sit on, half-asleep, while we waited for breakfast. This is the typing program we all used to learn to type. You get the idea.

But I feel like those are things that would be insanely boring to collect and preserve. Especially the typing thing. Yet... when my nieces and nephews grow up, will they even know about typing on computers? We laugh to think of things beyond computers as we know them, but my parents used typwriters in school (not that I view that as too crazy--my dad still uses a typwriter at his office, no joke), and I think it's interesting to hear them talk about "erasing" stuff on typewriters and such.

Clearly I go on too many bunny trails to be able to accomplish such things as these. I'd be discussing my parents' wedding tree, and then I'd ramble about how it was so early in the morning... but they got crapes for breakfast, so it was OK... and how one of the groomsmen was so tired he forgot to wear a vest like the rest of the guys... and my dad forgot to wear actual nice shoes, so he just wore his ugly ol' everyday shoes to the wedding... and how the dresses were lovely for that day, but frightfully unattractive to my eyes at current. Which says nothing about the tree under which my parents got married. Which is mostly acceptable, I guess, since the tree just sits around at the park and gets more and more bug-eaten year by year.

I'm not sure why I wanted to write about that tree, after all. It's nearly dead these days. Which doesn't seem nicely symbolic, like I first thought it would. Oops.

Thomas Stearns would have cried

I don’t know why I keep sharing all this stuff from my journals, since they’re supposed to be top secret, keep out or else, and all that. But apparently I don’t write as much private stuff in my journals as 10-year-olds are wont to do. Plus, I’m still dwelling on them, and blogs are supposed to be about things we’re pondering, so I figured I might as well spring for it.

First, I’m not completely insane, I promise. However, I do sometimes do odd things. For instance, in a journal that I kept about three or so years ago, I decided to do a rather insane thing. My first entry has a portion that goes as follows:

“Well, I’ve finally started my new diary. Just for background information (for 47 years from now, if the Lord doesn’t come, or tribulation saints (hi!) if He does) I’m __ years old. I lead a rather uneventful life and can’t write in straight lines… and absolutely NO handwriting skills. Good luck, oh ye tribulation saints. Go find a Bible or something—way more profitable and way easier to read!

“So, _______ conference comes up soon, and no doubt these pages will be full to the brim of “guess what?” stories. I seem to always collect stories at conferences, like flies to honey, or something. Not that I’m honey, or stories are flies, but it was just the best analogy I could think of. By the way, I can’t spell, not even if my life were hanging on the chance. So, my tribulation saints: beware. And as I said, Bible is always better. But if you do insist, I shall keep writing.

“That gives me an idea. You know how Anne Frank did that annoying “Dear Kitty” thing? Well, for this insufferably long journal, I can do a “Dear Tribulation Saint.” I doubt that’s been done too many times before. And if it has, well, so what. We’re all just excited about the Lord’s coming.”

So apparently I decided to keep a journal dedicated entirely to a random tribulation saint. We often talk in our house about how we hope the trib saints get to our house before the government, because then they can get our many Bibles. Clearly this has influenced me to consider that they might take off with my journals as reading material.

So, I carried forth for several months, starting each journal entry with a “Dear Tribulation Saint,” or, if I were feeling rather blasé, I’d just say “Tribulation Saint:” and carry forth. But one day, I had a rather startling thought.

“Friend,

“I just realized something. What if you’re not a tribulation saint? What if *gasp* you’re an evil dictator who has scoured the homes of known believers for information on meeting places and stuff? AHHH!!!! Get away from my diary!

“Anyhow, if the (hopefully large) chance that you’re a Saint, and/or still reading this, I shall endeavor to tell you about my day.”

Then, one September 11^th, I got pensive about that.

“Before I get too far I just want to say, September 11 already? I know that you, as a tribulated person, have all sorts of crazy stuff in your world, but September 11 was pretty crazy for me.”

I just couldn’t believe that I would even vaguely compare our little problems to Tribulation-sized problems. Clearly I have no sense of fair comparisons.

While going tangenty one day, I made this observation to my friend TS,

“Anyhow, that got a little off-topic from my subject, but that’s OK, because 1) this is a diary and I can say pretty much whatever I want, and b) if you’re really a tribulation saint, then I’m in Heaven and the rules of writing don’t even apply any more.”

I’m not sure why I thought that the rules of writing would cease to apply once I got a Heavenly-type promotion, but maybe my old self knew something it hasn’t bothered to share with the current me.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!

“Oh wait, do you have happy anything days there in the tribulation? That would kind of stink, not having happy anything days. I mean, I guess you have joy in the Lord and all that, but that would just kind of stink.”

Actually, I think the most amusing part of my whole thing was that I eventually shortened my saint’s title from “Tribulation Saint” to “TS.” It took me a little while to realize that T. S. Eliot has such initials, so I started calling my Tribulation Saint TS, Thomas, or just Eliot. And sometimes Thomas. It vaguely weireded me out to realize that writing my journal to a man didn’t seem odd, because I’d been subconsciously writing it to a male the whole time.

Which should be weirder, but when I think of tribulation saints, I mostly think of men, for some reason. Silly, I know, because women and children would be the most likely to grab journals from someone’s room (the men would be in the basement stocking up on pliers and flathead screwdrivers) and so it goes to follow that a woman or childly person would end up with my journal.

But, it’s all foolishness anyhow, because if I manage to remain on earth for very long, I intend to burn most (code word: all) of my journals anyhow. So, Tribulation Saint, don’t bother looking for those journals. Go help your mom raid our pantry. Also in the basement, by the way, so just follow the menfolk, and you’ll do fine.

I never did like to brush my hair...

Sometimes I have these little epiphany moments in life wherein I realize that I'm pretty much exactly the same now as I was when I was a child, only, well... taller. Most times these moments strike me due to things I do or say that remind me that you don't cease to be a child unless you're willing to put away those childish things (Paul was way ahead of me). Sometimes I find these childish vestiges of me in old essays, notebooks, or journals of mine, but I recently managed to find a quote from an old school paper of a sister of mine that made me laugh. She had done character sketches of each member of our family, stating how old they were and a little thing or two about their life at that moment (K was sixteen, just gotten her drivers license, C was a baby and just sort of hung around, etc.), and reading mine was like reading something she might have written about me today. It was in the fall of 1996, and this was her perception of me:

"Jo is six years old and in second grade. She enjoys making lunches and singing more than brushing her hair!"

Switch out "lunches" for "suppers" and "six" for "twenty," and it would be as believable now as it was then.

Of course, now I'm plagued with questions about whether or not posterity can get a grasp on what I was really like without having access to the papers and musings of all of my siblings. I've been considering staging a takeover of all relevant papers, but have determined that since the Lord is coming soon, I don't have to worry about such not-entirely-kosher activities. I shudder to consider the full extent of damage I could cause to all of my familial relationships...

Abe's big test

Apparently I’ve always been a pensive one. I spent one whole entire journal entry several years ago wondering something that I still sometimes take time to ponder. Namely, Abraham. I’m just going to type in all the words I wrote, since my thoughts on it haven’t truly changed in the last several years. Actually, they have, but I’ll get to that afterwards.

~*~*~*~*~

I was thinking about Abraham and Isaac. That story seems so unfair to me. And I know, God has His ways, nothing is ‘unfair’ with God, etc. I know the drill. But why, why did God have to test Abraham like that?

God knows everything. God knew that Abraham would go, that the angel would show up, that Abraham would sacrifice the ram instead. God knew all of that! So the point was certainly not that God was wanting to see how far Abraham would go. Did God do it to show Abraham how far he (Abraham) would go? And if so, what was the point?

I can see it now. “Sarah! We’re back! I almost killed Isaac last week, but on the plus side, I know that I trust God and that He rocks!”

“Um, dear, you can’t take any more father-son bonding trips, OK?”

Ahhh, so many questions, so few remaining Bible characters. And when I say ‘so few,’ I mean none.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Well, I’ve since decided that the Lord does indeed test us just to show us what we can accomplish when we actually dare to trust Him. Also, most of what the Lord puts us through ends up showing out His Glory to those around us in incredible ways. So while I still think that it was crazy times for old Abe to have to go forth and do this, I appreciate it for the strengthened faith that he got, and also for the lesson it teaches us—and the picture it is for us of Christ.

Also, I liked that I had to clarify that no Bible characters have remained to this day. You know, just in case one day I had forgotten that no Ezras or Timothys of Biblical proportions were still wandering around. I’ve got a bad memory, you never know how bad it might get. Best be prepared, that’s my motto.

With age comes... boringness

While reading through old diaries of mine the other day I realized that I am boring these days. I mean, legitimately not interesting. My diaries used to be hilarious. My emailing habits were laugh-inducing, at the very least, while maybe not hilarious, per se. For instance, I was looking through emails the other day and came across this email (this is only a fragment of an email, we used to email lengthy missives to one another multiple times a day) that I wrote to friend mrg. This was from April 2006, should any of you wonder how long ago it was that I used to be funny. How I wish I understood why I stopped...

"It snowed 2 nights ago, did I tell you? Freezing cold. As in Jo-could-almost-see-her-

breath-inside-the-house cold. I hate sitting through breakfast when it's cold. Partly because sitting through breakfast means that I'm awake, partly because breakfast implies that it's morning, partly because I hate all mornings, and partly because I'm not huge into cold. Just thought you should know.

"Ahh, I miss those old mad scientists. Do you ever wonder what would happen if a bunch of crazy Einsteins just kinda jumped out of nowhere and started talking? Talking about anything, really, because they talk so funny. Sometimes I have to wonder. Those crazy geeky-type people: do they realize that they're not normal? I mean, really, do they understand that there is a world or "normal people" (should the rest of us in the world be considered normal, which, looking just at the example of you and I, is quite unlikely, but compared to the Einstein guys we seem normal enough) that they just don't fit into.

"Good grief, am I still talking? I honestly have no idea where that came from. I have no idea why I started talking at all. Oh man, I think I need a nap. I hope you're faring better then I, because I think my condition is deteriorating. Do I have a condition? I hope so. Conditions seem fun. Fun in that very I'm-most-likely-going-to-die kind of way, but hey, that could be fun. OK, yeah, I really do have to go."

I guess that's not that funny, but I can't even tell you the last time I wondered about Einsteins jumping around and talking. In fact, that was likely the last time. I don't entirely miss those days, I think my brain wires were criss-crossed and somehow they've gotten somewhat untangled, which is why I'm old and boring now. I just miss that I had the ability to say words like that.

Though why I wanted a condition, I'm really not sure. Though if you died from something, huzzah, you'd be in Heaven!

Journal Journies

So why my sudden interest in going through my old journals? Well, one day I realized that I taught a Sunday School class of 10-12 year olds, yet could hardly remember anything about that age. It seems silly to admit to not remembering a few years back, but a lot has happened since my 11-year-old days! Eleven, by the way, was the age I was when I first started keeping a journal with any real consistency. I was actually a little fanatical about it, writing enough in my first month of writing to fill up an entire journal. Since then, I’ve slowed down quite a bit. Oh, sometimes I’ll go through spurts of entry after entry of completely random musings, which usually end up filling quite a bit of white space, but in general, I’ve lost a bit of my chronicling zeal.

But what did I discover about my little 11-year-old self? Mostly that I was a depressed and sad little child. I never found anything positive about myself or my surroundings, and dwelt mostly on problems that I felt affected me personally. Thankfully my short-sightedness wore off during the years, though when, I’m not quite sure. I’m still reviewing the evidence for a breakthrough from my dismal childhood blues, but haven’t come across anything yet. Mostly I’m just thankful to be far, far away from those days.

Summer couldn't last forever...

Well, I had a great summer. I was away from home from May to the end of August, basically, and it was swell. So why is it the end of September and I'm only just now writing? In short, I'm slothful. And sluggardly, actually. A friend and I were discussing the other day whether or not it was a sluggardly sloth, or a slothful sluggard. Suffice it to say, I usually put off until tomorrow what I could have done today. Of course, since I'm actually doing this now, and it's within the first hour of today, I think it's only fair to say that in this case, at least, I've very decidedly NOT put this off.

All that aside, it's good to be back.

If I were a good blogger, I'd write all about my multitudinous summer adventures (and they were many, my friend) but... well, I just don't feel inspired to do so. Which is terrible! I was just looking through some old journals of mine, and I actually feel vaguely cheated out of all the events I didn't bother writing about because of sheer laziness (what was I just saying about the sluggardly sloth? Yeah, I wasn't joking). For instance, one summer I traveled extensively out West, and forgot my journal. So when I got home I wrote a list of the places I went, and that was that, no funny stories, no anything. There's a whole summer of my teenage years I'll never remember. I run across stuff all the time in my journals that I'd totally forgotten about. Sometimes I wish I could have forgotten them forever (read: anything I ever wrote about the male species, ever), but in general, I like to have at least some sort of documentation of my life.

But... like I said, I won't be able to blog all the time. Also, I have a bunch of blog entries I wrote back in the day (uh, earlier this summer...) that are now vastly outdated, but I figure one day I'll just post a bunch, with the appropriate notes stating that these are old and maybe even boring, but words for those starving for copious amounts of verbiage. Ooh, for instance, I wrote a blog post about a book at my grandma's house that I LOVED, and then she died, and I inherited it. Talk about a swell deal: she's in Heaven (!!) and I got a sweet book. Clearly she came out the victor in this situation, but hey, I'm making the best of still being here on Earth. Which is fine, living is Christ, after all...

So, all this was to say, I'm back. For today, anyhow. We'll see how I do as time ticks by. I trust the Lord is coming soon enough to make this post superfluous, but if He tarries, and you happen to read then, well, welcome, and feel free to smack me if I forget to prepare wordy snacks for your eyes every once in a while. Well, maybe minus some actual smacking. I sure do sound violent. I don't try, I promise!

That's actually something I've been meaning to work on, but that's a whole separate story for a separate post...