Materialism and The Epic Monopoly Battle

It's a classic tale of the glorious rise and subsequent fall of someone to and from economic power. A tale of scandal and corruption and greed. A tale I like to call, "The Epic Monopoly Battle." It all started on a snowy afternoon in Bozeman, Montana. One Starbucks employee, one Young Life staffer, and several high schoolers. None of us what you might call "exceedingly wealthy." But over the course of ten hours, (that's right - ten hours) we went from rags to riches and...back to rags again. Except for Sharon, who won the game and conquered the world with some $30 billion racked up on her Monopoly Visa. (If you are not familiar with the new electronic variety of the classic board game, you might want to check it out...unless you are a purist and have an affinity for pastel paper money.) I came in second place with...zero dollars. I fought to the death, but just like in real life, I had about a trillion dollars and a hotel on Broadway at lunch time and by 3:oopm I was living in a cardboard box under a bridge and fending off evil rent collectors (i.e. Sharon) with Snickers Bars. Such is life.

I struggle constantly with having a Godly view of finances. I can be very judgmental of affluent people and often have guilt for having nice things or spending money on things that aren't necessities. Something deep inside of me longs to purge my life of all my possessions and the way they almost own me rather than me owning them. I think: I could give it all away and be much more contented. On the other hand, I want stuff. I want and want and want. I want expensive Patagonia baselayers and paintings by local artists (particularly the orange and red one of leaves that is hanging by the door at Common Grounds in Spearfish) to put in my living room and a car I can talk off-roading and a kayak and a tent and a plane ticket so I can spend a week floating on my back in the Mediterranean Sea. And shoes; oh, how I want shoes! I also want to eat at Q-Doba every day, and believe me, that adds up pretty fast.

Biblically, Jesus talks about the perks of poverty - it seems he feels that generally speaking, people who are just getting by are more apt to have correct world views, a greater dependency on him, and increased love and compassion for others. On the other hand, in the old testament, God was often blessing the good guys with riches. So it's obviously not the being rich that is the problem.

I suppose it boils down to healthy balance - constantly remembering that what I have is not mine...but that it is entrusted to me to manage with wisdom and generosity.

Hmmm. Any thoughts from the rest of you?

Bridesmaid Dresses, Baby Birds, and a Broken Heart

...plus bluegrass, bicycles, and being home.

Part III

I promised I'd finish out this polytopical (I think I just made that word up) post sooner or later...and I'm following through. Even if it takes me all summer.

On the subject of bluegrass music:

#1) I really, really, really like it.
#2) Unfortunately, the only bluegrass I've really gotten to listen to this summer was half of the gospel show on the tail end of the Black Hills Bluegrass Festival the morning after returning from Young Life camp.
#3) Jalan Crossland will be in Hill City a month from today! Oh, be still my beating heart!!! (There's nothing quite like a banjo and a man who can play it...)

If this is my biggest concern, I have nothing to worry about...

I decided after three years of not wearing my retainers and increasingly crooked teeth and an ever growing sense of guilt over the thousands of dollars my parents invested in braces while I was in high school...to start wearing my retainers again. Now I have a perpetual tooth ache, and a still imperfect smile. Humph.

Bridesmaid Dresses, Baby Birds, and a Broken Heart

..also bluegrass, bicycles, and being home.

Part 2

I suffer from apathy. This is a pretty huge problem on many levels...but especially critical when your job is based on feeling passionate about a need in the lives of other people. And it's not necessarily that I don't care at all. But I definitely don't care enough. I mean, there are lots of things we say we care about. I care about the environment. I care about political activism. I care about homelessness. I care about nuclear warfare. I care about being healthy and buying locally and getting out of debt. But we all have priorities...and things we really, really care about. Things that affect the way we live and the decisions we make.

So when it comes to the kids that I work with, I frequently feel convicted that I don't care as much as Jesus wants me to. I love them, but I know I am usually complacent with my love for them. Complacent with their hearts. And when I really think about it, complacency is not okay.

I don't think Christ is complacent in his love for me. I don't think he's okay with me being where I'm at. I know that he loves me...right where I am...no small print, no strings attached, no prerequisites. But that love -true love- is only love if it desires more for me. A parent loves their child immensely, just how they are in the present, but still desires change and growth and victory over struggles. Therefore, I'm thinking that's how he wants me to love other people. A love that is not content with the current state of affairs.

This is a love that is a bit foreign to our human way of thinking.

So, in the last year, I've found myself praying over and over and over again for God to help me not be complacent. To see people the way he sees people. To love people the way he loves people. To break my heart for the things his heart breaks for.

Just a little tip...don't pray for something like a broken heart without first considering the consequences. That is what I did. Because to be honest, when I prayed for those things...the seeing people and loving people and broken heart stuff...all stuff that sounds quite noble, I prayed for those things for that reason: because they sounded noble. I didn't give any serious thought to what the ramifications of such a request might be. I also didn't take God very seriously...I think I was thinking he wasn't going to deliver.

I was wrong.

Sometimes I imagine what God might be saying when he's working in my life...and this time it went something like this: "Oh, so you want to know what it feels like to love people? What it feels like to really love people who are hurting and broken and running from their only source of hope and freedom and light? Okay. Fine. I'll give you just a teeny, tiny glimpse...because that's all you can handle."

So just for the record...broken hearts hurt. They suck. For the first time in my life, over the last few weeks, I have felt a sincere, urgent sympathy and compassion and broken-ness and love for some of the kids I work with. I have wept and lost sleep and been discontented with their current state of affairs. With their need for Christ. And it has been a very good thing.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not cured of apathy. And I'm not claiming to suddenly have this superhuman ability to love people just like Jesus loves them. Like I said earlier, I think it's just this little sliver of what Christ's love is like. But if this is just a sliver, can you imagine the immensity of his love for us?

"This is but the fringes..." Shane & Shane

Bridesmaid Dresses, Baby Birds, and a Broken Heart

also...bluegrass, bicycles and being home.

Part 1
One of my favorite features of my little house in the woods is the wrap-around porch. From the wicker chairs on the south-facing side of the house, you look across the horse pasture at a grove of aspens, behind which are ponderosa pines and blue spruce covering a hill that rises to where the ridge meets the blue sky. It's pure Black Hills beauty at it's best. When I first moved into the house, I couldn't wait to sit on the porch in the mornings - drinking coffee, smelling the pines, watching the ridge change color with the rising sun, and listening to the birds...oh! It would be divine!

However, I quickly discovered that, though the porch is attached to my house, it is not mine. Nope. It belongs exclusively to a small black and white swallow who set up camp in the birdhouse directly above the wicker chairs. And she is violently opposed to my watching the ridge change color with the sunrise while sitting anywhere near her home. I tried on several occasions to be diplomatic about the situation...explained to her (while she repeatedly dive-bombed my head) that I meant no harm, that it was a big porch, that we could peacefully co-habitate the space. But she would have none of it. So I gave in and settled for the east-facing side of the porch. Fine. She can have the view of the pasture. I'll take the view of the...shed.

Well, after spending most of the month of June away from home, I thought maybe I would try again. With the exception of coming and going, I had not spent any time on my porch in several weeks and thought maybe that was adequate time for little Miss Birdie to reconsider her hostilities. So this morning I grabbed my cup of coffee and ever-so-stealthily slipped out the screen door and into the wicker chair. I maybe had three minutes of peace and quiet and the aroma of pines when all of a sudden, from across the pasture, came the angry bird...chirping and swooping for me to leave. Then I heard it: the tiniest little baby chirps coming from inside the birdhouse. Aha. She was not just an angry bird. She was an angry momma bird...just doing her job. Mmmm. Warm fuzzies. As I was getting up to vacate the premises, I spotted a little ball of gray fluff on the deck below the bird house. It was one of the baby birds who had fallen from the nest, and not survived.

Now, I know that in the grand scheme of things, this is only a minor tragedy, if that. But I felt this strange pang of sorrow over the situation. I suddenly felt like I was six years old...that I should scoop up the baby bird and go running to my mom. And then I felt annoyed. At God. In Matthew 10:29, Jesus said that not even a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the knowledge of the Father. So, my question is, why do they fall in the first place? If he knows all about it, then why can't he keep them from falling? Maybe it shouldn't matter to me so much, but it obviously matters to the momma bird, who was violently, instinctively protective of her babies.

And if he cares about baby birds, then what about Luke and Mary's baby Josh? If God sees baby birds fall, then I know that he sees the mysterious anemia that continues to plague Josh's little body. I know that he hears the fervent prayers of Luke and Mary, of myself, of friends and family across the country. I know he hears. But I don't know why he doesn't heal him.

I know he sees Riss and Jade...two little girls that he knit tightly into my heart. I know he sees them and their precarious circumstances...being tossed about like little leaves in the wind...never knowing where they will land next. I know he sees them. But I don't know why he doesn't rescue them.

I know some things, but there are many more I don't understand.

I apologize to the momma swallow for being a perceived threat to her precious babies. I apologize for the loss of her little one. And I take my coffee to the east porch.

I almost met my match.

"When in doubt, call a man." - My Mom.

This is her philosophy when it comes to lifting heavy objects, smelling rotten food, and fixing all things mechanical. Don't get me wrong. She is a very intelligent, capable woman. She, like many women, has just happened to choose a few (or a slew of) tasks which she detests and/or feels men are more...accustomed to.

I beg to differ, and have thus rebelled on this subject for many years now. My mantra has, since high school, been "Never, ever call a man." This motto has led to me changing my own tires in the dark on the side of the interstate (note to my high school and middle school girls: I do not endorse this kind of dangerous, irresponsible, high-risk behavior), threaten my college roommate with physical violence when she suggested we not fix our own broken toilet, and devising some very creative ways of moving large pieces of furniture.

But, to all who feel that this "fierce independence" is a negative trait, I want to you all to know that, just the other night, I found myself in a situation that, well, necessitated...um...

...calling a man.

That's right. I said it. I did it. I telephoned my father for assistance.

You see, it was really a dire situation. I want to be sure to clarify that it did not involve car trouble, heavy objects, leaky faucets or pickle jars with impossibly tight lids. Nope. Much, MUCH worse than that. A dead mouse.

I was just going about my business the other evening, chatting on the phone with Em about natural child birth and cloth versus disposable diapers (I'm getting old, aren't I?), fixing up some late-night mac'n'cheese, when I noticed a slightly mysterious odor emanating from one of my kitchen cupboards. I dismissed the smell, because my house is old, and has a lot of mysterious odors. Opening a drawer to look for a wooden spoon released a more pungent frangrance. The kind that should not be ignored. Hrmmm. With fear and trepidation I decided to investigate further. I quick peek into the cupboard under the sink revealed a completely rancid smell and the source of the funk. Poor little Mickey. He had not gone quietly. Evidence suggests he fought to the death. But when your little head is tightly clamped in a spring-loaded device of torture, and you don't have opposable thumbs, and there is no one around to hear your cries for help, your don't really stand much of a chance.

I would like to take just a moment at this point in the story to state that I do not have a weak stomach. I worked for a podiatrist for five years and saw lot's and lot's of repulsive things...fully avulsed toenails, gangrenous infections, amputations...that sort of thing. But nothing makes me weak in the knees like a dead animal...especially one that is mangled...and reeks...and is in my kitchen...lying in a puddle of blood...and has apparently been so for more than a few days.

So, when I gained my composure and bid farewell to Emily, I sucked up my pride and did what any self-respecting feminist does in this situation. I called my dad who lives 25 minutes away and asked him to come handle the situation. Let me point out here, too, that my dad is the first person to encourage me to call if I ever need anything (for some reason he's not a big fan of me changing my own tires on the side of the road in the dark...?). So I was merely complying with his wishes and giving him opportunity to be needed, come to the rescue of his little girl and exercise his masculinity. And outrage of all outrages...

HE WOULDN'T COME!!! He told me to call, so I called, and HE WOULDN'T COME!!! Something about it being midnight, and raining, and the mouse being dead and harmelss. He told me to take care of it myself. He even offered me a few suggestions. Paper towels. Plastic bags. Rubber gloves. But he WOULDN'T COME!

You see? You see why I don't call men? Because they WANT to be needed by women, but when we are truly in a desperate circumstance, they want you to deal with your OWN dead mouse. Figures....ha ha.

So, in closing, I want you all to know that I did take care of my own dead mouse. With a stick. Holding my breath. And trying not to look. It was quite traumatic. But, now that I've faced that fear, I'm pretty much sure that there isn't anything left that I can't handle...

Spring Has Sprung

My mom's a good mom, and therefore instilled in me the conviction that it is a sin to be indoors on a beautiful day. Today is such a day. It is 60 degrees and sunny and sometime between yesterday and today the grass turned green. But I am supposed to be nailing down details on next Sunday's Young Life Mattress Run. So I've confined myself to a dark corner of Dunn Bro's, far away from windows, so as to remove the temptation of fresh air and sunshine. This kind of offense might be justifiable, were I actually being productive and getting my work done and getting the Mattress Run planned. But I'm not. I've been here an hour and all I've done for the event was open the word document with the information. Distractions abound; I currently have a terrible case of wanderlust, a growing list of articles and books I want to be reading, and a 10K to be training for. Also, I've been suppressing my creativity for months now, and I hear that if you do that for long enough, um, your hair will all fall out. Okay, I just made that up. But, still, it can't be good for you, right? Hrm. Alright. I'm going to get down to business and then have time to goof off guilt free. Yep. That's the plan, Scotty. And here I go.

There's No Place Like Home

I just recently came home from a week in Florida. I was there for a Young Life conference and had a fabulous time...um...conferring. A week is a good length of time for that type of January getaway. Just long enough to stockpile some serious sunshine and then realize that I miss the Black Hills terribly.

With the exception of one half-day trip to Cocoa beach, I spent the rest of my time in Florida trapped in what I like to call the T.I.P. (Tourist Industry Prison,) a roughly 50,000 acre block of land just outside of Orlando City Limits, owned mostly by Disney, consisting entirely of theme parks and resorts, and bearing very little resemblance to the "real world" what so ever. It is sort of a realm of existence unto itself, where corporately brainwashed people are willing to pay nine dollars for a bottle of water and fifteen dollars (a piece) for collectible character pins and twenty-three dollars for a parking space, all in the name of American-style escapism. And while the palm trees are lovely and the warm, temperate climate constitutes year-round outdoor living, you never really feel like you've been outside. Thus, my quasi-vacation-invoked claustrophobia. I came home with a desperate need to just "get outdoors;" to wander on a path where you don't expect to see a friendly, underpaid, cleanly uniformed employee with gloves and a "litter-picker-upper" thingy and a trash bag around the next corner. You know, a place where the landscape hasn't been landscaped.

My plans were to spend today wandering around somewhere up in the hills. I didn't have to work, and I'm finally on the uphill side of this nasty cold-virus thing...so I was rearing to go. Unfortunately, it's just too dang cold. I mean, I'm no wimp, but jeepers! It's freezing out there! I have yet to acquire the Patagonia Capilene Baselayers (that I so smoothly sell lots of at my little shop) required to make hiking in single digit temps safe or reasonable. So I've the next best thing. Took up temporary residence at my usual corner table at a coffee shop to spend a few hours people watching, working (or at least thinking about working), writing, and catching up on my newest interest...reading. It's amazing the things that fall by the wayside when you let life control your life.

So, with that, I'm going to move across the coffee shop to a bigger table and join about half of my family for lunch. Then I'll probably move back to this table and read some more.

Life is good.

(And P.S., no, I'm not missing Florida yet.)

The Proverbial Elbow Jab...

"Let us consider how we may spur one another toward love and good deeds. Let us not give up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but let us encourage one another - and all the more as you see the Day approaching." - Hebrews 10:24-25

I just had coffee with an old friend who was home for the holidays. I hadn't seen him in at least two years, and not only was it good to catch up with him and see what he's up to, it was really a blessing to hear him talk about the amazing ways God is working in his life. It seems a rare thing to see someone genuinely excited about Jesus, to hear someone speak in actual anticipation of what God is doing. Here. Right now. In real life.
The conversation was a breath of fresh air. I left feeling encouraged, challenged, and more excited about what God is doing in my life and in the lives of people around me. I left with an increased desire to be in God's word. I left hoping that I bless and encourage people with my words the same way I was just blessed and encouraged.
My aforementioned coffee friend "spurred me towards love and good deeds," you could say. My Koine Greek is a little rusty so I can't tell you precisely what kind of word picture the writer of Hebrews had in mind when he wrote that verse. I did, however, check out a few other versions and found translators also using the verbs provoke, stir, encourage, stimulate, incite, motivate, and promote in place of the word "spur."
All interesting words, no? They don't all necessarily imply mere gentle suggestions. I mean, spurs - the literal kind...worn on cowboy boots...to make horses run fast - are a little uncomfortable. That's why they are effective. Now, if the horse is receptive the cowboy only needs to tap the horse with the spurs, and the horse goes, and the cowboy lays off with the spurs, right? But if the horse is stubborn, or distracted, or lazy, the cowboy's going to have to "spur" a little harder. It's going to be less comfortable.
The other interesting verb in that verse is "consider." We're not just instructed to spur people, we're told to "consider how." Give it some thought. Roll is around in your brain a bit. Think about different ways to do the "spurring." Some of us are motivated, stirred and provoked in different ways than other people. I, for instance, am the stubborn horse most of the time. I take a lot of poking. A lot of prodding. A lot of elbow jabs. And I am very grateful for my friends who are not afraid to elbow jab me on occasion.

Emmanuel

Funny how the Season that is most consciously tailored to draw our thoughts to the Savior of the world is possibly the least likely to allow us any time to spend with Him. This is no ones fault but our own, and I'm not pointing fingers - except at myself. I don't know if I get caught up in the busyness of the holidays and somehow think that Silent Nights and warm fuzzies are going to float me, like they are some limited-time-only substitute for digging into God's Word and hanging out with Jesus and talking with Him. But I do it almost every year. I run around, talking about Him, singing about Him, writing cute little phrases about Him in newsletters and cards - all the while ignoring Him. Sad.

I've been raised by Godly parents. I grew up in the Evangelical church. I've known the Christmas story for as long as I can remember, and have been an angel in too many Christmas programs to count. I've heard a hundred bazillion times about the irony of the King of Kings making his debut as a baby in a manger. And it never actually clicked in my brain until just a few days ago. I was making my regular Rapid-Hillville commute, just listening to Jars of Clay sing "Love came down at Christmas...", passing my favorite spot on Hwy 16, where you can see out over the Needles and Harney and so much of God's glory in the form of trees and stone and the thought occurred to me, (as if I'm the first person to get this, right?) "Wait a second...so the God that spoke this phenomenal landscape into existence is the same God that initiated His plan to save the human race in a barn in a crowded city in the middle of the night? How much sense does THAT make?" *ding! ding! ding!* Genius, Marci. Pure genius. And it only took you 25 year.

It is Christmas Eve. It is after midnight. It is snowing (a direct answer to fervent prayer.) And I have a two day old baby* to feed. Merry Christmas.

*Not my own baby. I thought I should clarify this for any newcomers, or people who were suddenly thinking, "Wow! It HAS been a while since I talked to Marc..."

Winter Cleaning

It is the end of the year and with it comes my ever-increasingly-compulsive urge to "clean out" my life. As if it were a closet. Which, in a quite accurate analogy, it sort of is. While shuffling through piles of "things" I don't need or use anymore, I ran across this fairly neglected blog you are now reading. I thought to myself, "Hmm. I started that silly web page journal my senior year of high school. Life has changed a bit since then. I've changed a bit since then. I don't think I really have the need to keep a random, mostly anonymous, and probably very, very, small group of readers posted on the ins and outs of my life anymore. Besides, anyone that cares need only ask, and I'm happy to tell them what I'm up to, and what God is up to these days." So I added "Write minimally sentimental farewell entry and do away with blog/website for good" to my to-do list.

A few days later I was reading something. A newspaper article. An webzine essay. The back of the cereal box. I don't actually remember what it was, just that it was very well written. I realized that not only have I all but quit "reading" (for anything but necessity) but I've quit writing as well. I spent a good part of my childhood thinking I would be a writer when I grew up, and now I almost never write at all. Which then led me to remember that the whole reason I went out and got myself my own little corner of the internet when I was seventeen was simply so that I could have a little outlet for more writing (okay...well, that, AND I really had a crush on this guy that set up web pages...so that came in handy too). The fact that the page served as a bit of a news feed for my shenanigans over the last seven or so years was merely a latent function. As for the many poorly written entries, I apologize to anyone upset by this. (I know we all have to put up with poor writing, day in and day out -especially if you frequent myspace- ...and I strongly believe we shouldn't do it more often than absolutely necessary...)

All that to say that I've decided to keep the blog for the time being. (I moved it from the "throw" pile to the "find someplace to put it, and throw it out next year if I haven't used it more by then" pile.) I plan to reintroduce my original intentions to practice improved writing skills. A little personal challenge of sorts. What this means for you, is: if you DO continue to check up on the humble little blog, on occasion, I hope to be a little breath of fresh time-killer-reading air on a forum too often filled with bad grammar (wince) and emotional rants about online relationships gone bad, and so many other kinds of nonsense.

Until next time,
Peace, Love, and left-over Turkey.

These are the good ol' days...

I am an incurably nostalgic person. I can look back on the vast majority of my life and think, "Wow. Those were some good times..." Every once in a while I read back to old entries on my old web page (still accesible at www.geocities.com/marciebens) just to see what I was thinking six years ago today...three years ago today. It is not just for the sake of looking back at chapters of my life that I have romanticized into being better than the present...it is mainly to see how faithful God has been. I like to read about the things that I was worrying about, fretting about, stressing over...and then realize that most of those things worked out just fine. And sometimes it is good to know that six years from now, or even six months from now, I will look back at most of the things that cause me worry today and realize that they were not worth loosing sleep over. God is good.

Tonight was our annual Young Life banquet. It was also my first official day on Young Life staff. Interesting. I am excited. That is no lie. I am truly very excited about what God is going to do in Hill City. But I am scared. I of course have all kinds of doubts and fears. I am nervous about "being in the ministry." What if I crash and burn? I have a lot of people watching. I have run over all the right answers concerning those fears a million times. I know they are not valid. But they do cross my mind now and again. I am learning a lot. I learning that the more I learn, the more I learn I need to learn. If I happen to cross your mind, feel free to pray for me. I'll take all of that stuff I can get :)

Hit the ground running...

My days as a professionally unemployed person officially came to an end last week. The month without the burden of a paycheck flew by all too quickly. Upon explaining to friends, family, co-workers, clinic patients and the checkout guy at the grocery store that I was quitting my clinic job in August and not starting my Young Life job until October, most replied, "And what are you going to do with a month off? You're going to be bored to tears!." Well, to all and any who lost sleep over the fear of my being under-occupied, you can flush the Snooze-aid.

In the last five weeks, I (in more or less chronological order):

• Sat on my front porch and drank tea and watched the rain fall until all hours of the night
• Began training for the Rushmore marathon
• Wrecked a mountain bike in North Dakota/sprained my ankle/gave up training for the Rushmore marathon
• Had my wisdom teeth removed
• Went to Denver on a bus with 40 teenagers to see a Rockies game and hang out at Elich's
• Innertubed down the Niobrara River
• Moved out of my apartment
• Lived nomad-style out of a suitcase (4 hotels, 3 houses, a cabin, a retirement center and a church)
• Bought a mountain bike
• Waded in Rapid Creek
• Watched the fountains at the Belagio at midnight
• Swam in the ocean
• Met Mickey Mouse
• Hiked, hiked, and hiked some more
• Read a few good books
• Spent some much needed time just sitting in coffee shops and brushing up on my long-neglected love of writing
• Spent too much money at Borders
• Fulfilled my life-long dream of being a Barista
• Substitute taught at the high school
• Met at least 100 new, wonderful people

It's been loads of fun, but I am becoming anxious to get going with all this new stuff in my life right now. I'm pretty sure I haven't experienced this much change at one time since...ever. It's a little nuts. I have that sort of terrified/excited/adrenaline-rush feeling you get just before you try something crazy, like flying Kamakazi (sp?) style down a single track on a bike. (Which, in the past, didn't work out so well for me...which is where my analogy sort of breaks down...but, um, anyway...) It's going to be great. I often think, "Whoohoo! I have no idea what I'm doing!!!" But whatever happens, it's going to be good, right? I mean, it's not necessary all going to be fun, but it's all going to be good, in the long run. (Which is my philosophy about travel...which is an entirely different journal entry...) I prayer regularly (and selfishly) that God would fill my life with adventure. He hasn't let me down yet.

Vitamin D is underrated...

In my last post, I promised to return on the next rainy day I had to spend in a coffee shop. I am in a coffee shop, but it is not raining. On the contrary...it is well on it's way to being a 90 degree day. And while I tend to favor rainy days, I must say that it has been one of the most beautiful, sunny, warm spring weekends ever created. This is mostly due to that fact that we didn't get a late freeze to kill all the lilacs and apple blossoms this year...so every breath you take is laced with their fragrance right now. Simply wonderful. Anyhow. To catch you up, as promised....

The job: In October I will go on part-time YoungLife mission staff in Hill City. This essentially means that I will be doing pretty much what I have already been doing for the last five years, only now I will be getting paid for it, and I'll have more time to do it. I'm not sure this is fair, actually. It seems like I'm getting a heck of deal. I mean, I was pretty much happy doing it for free. My only gripe was that my job just seemed to be getting in the way, in terms of time to commit to hanging out with kids. But that has been remedied. I guess the pay is just a bonus. What this also means, is that I get to move to Hill City. And spend the other half of my time working at Granite Sports. So pretty much, all I need is a giant dog, a bicycle, and tree house and I'll be the happiest girl you know.

It is far to lovely outside to sit here by the window any longer. I must get out there in the sunshine. So I'll fill you in on the trip some other time. I'm out.

Hola, Mi Amigas!

Hey kids! This is for the few faithful that are left out there. Those two or three people that still check my blog, periodically, even though I only post 3 times a year anymore. I just dropped in tonight to say that I have plenty to catch you up on some rainy day when I'm sitting in a coffee shop with a public use computer. Since the last time I was here I have traveled the world (or at least a small part of it) and gotten a job that actually does have something to do with my expensive college degree. You know I'd much rather just sit in a coffee shop and tell you about it than type about it, so feel free to give me a call if you find yourself in the vicinity on a rainy afternoon. I know a good coffee shop or two...

Just a note...

GOOD: They tore down the BurgerKing on Mt. Rushmore Rd. and are building a Sonic Drive-In in it's place.

BAD: They moved two old houses on Mt. Rushmore Rd. and are building yet another Starbucks in their place.

and I AM actually still alive...

Here I am. I have neither dropped off the face of the earth, moved to a monastic island in the Mediterranean, or joined the witness protection agency, though my absence might have had you worrying. I'm sorry. But no, I have had none of the above excitement in my life. On the contrary. I am alive and well and...a little bit bored. I am also going to be late getting back from my lunch hour if I don't leave this coffee shop very soon. Lunch hours these days are few and far between, and the time must be used with utmost discernment. So I used this one to put your hearts at ease. I know so many of you have been losing sleep over my lack of...postage. Anyhow, I must get going. Adios.

Only in South Dakota...

While driving to work at 8:00 this morning, I passed my governor. He was standing by himself on the sidewalk in the gap, holding a cup of coffee and waving at all the people driving to work. There's something to be said for living in not-so-metropolitan places.

My Grandpa died on Friday night. My grandpa that I had lunch with on Thursdays. My grandpa that never missed a single one of my concerts. My grandpa that taught me how to play harmonica, and then let me play with him in church. I've been blessed. I've never lost someone very close to me before. But now, I wonder if I heard too many lectures in college about the grief process. I have this usually undesireable ability to disconnect myself from my emotions and view them objectively. This can make it tough to get past the "how I'm supposed to feel" and actually deal with the "how I feel." It' strange really. It's strange to lose someone so suddenly, as I'm sure most of you can attest too. Hmmm. Well, that's about all I have to say about that right now. More later, as usual.

Like rollerskating in the china shop...

Hi. I'm back. At the library. They have added a coffee shop. Right in the middle of the library. Inside this coffee shop is a sign that reads, "Feel free to enjoy your beverages throughout the library." I find this a little perplexing since I grew up in a world where having food and beverages inside the library, especially within spitting distance of the books or computers, was a sin that would at least send you straight to the same zip code as Hell, if not the precise coordinates. But since then, some genious figured out that they could make a buck - heck! thousands of bucks! - if they compromised their committment to careful preservation of their books and documents and just let people sip java while they browse. Don't get me wrong. I like coffee. I like libraries. I like to drink coffee in the library. I just see it as an interesting development.

In other coffee shop news (as coffee shops and their dynamics, social demographics, etc. positively are my favorite topic of discussion) the loathesome Starbucks recently announced that they plan on doubling their number of stores worldwide next year, bringing their empire to a measley total of some 40,000 stores. They must be stopped. With that, my lunch hour is drawing to a close and I must get back to work. More about my feelings on Starbucks later. Or, simply refer to Natalie's recent blog rant on the corporate big boys. We share similar sentiments.

I'm out. Happy weekend.