The following post has been going around Facebook over the past couple of days, and it is wrong on so many levels that I hardly know where to begin.

Shame on you America: the only country where we have homeless without shelter, children going to bed without eating, elderly going without medical needs & mentally ill without treatment-yet we have a benefit for the people of Haiti on 12 stations. 99 percent of people wont have the guts to copy & repost this.

Let me rebut this point by point:

1.    America is NOT the only country with people who are homeless, hungry, and uninsured. This is so blatantly false it would be laughable, if it wasn’t so scary that anyone actually believed it. Yes, we have our societal ills, but the United States has one of the highest standards of living in the world. There are many, many, many worse off nations where legions of people have no food, shelter, or medical care, with governments unwilling or unable to provide for these basic needs.
Edit: A family member pointed out that what this may be saying isn’t that America is the only country with these societal problems, just the only such country that held a benefit like this. Even if that interpretation is correct, it’s still a false statement. There is NO country free of such social issues, yet America wasn’t alone in hosting a benefit. The rest of my argument stands.

2.    Homeless shelters and food kitchens abound in this country, and no one who shows up in an emergency room will be denied basic medical treatment just because they can’t pay for it. Yes, there is a tremendous need in our country, and we are doing far from a perfect job of addressing those needs. I heartily applaud those who recognize that. But the fact remains that resources are there for those who truly need them in a way that they simply aren’t in many less developed nations.

3.    Some who are expressing so much concern for the poor in America right now are the very same people who complain bitterly about using tax money to pay for programs to help the underprivileged. They accuse such people of being lazy and living off the hard work of honest people. They want nothing to do with paying for legitimate assistance programs to aid those in need, just because some freeloaders may take advantage of the system. In my very humble opinion, this smacks of hypocrisy.

4.    What’s wrong with having a benefit for the people of Haiti in the midst of a national disaster? Haiti is a country with less than nothing, one of the poorest countries on the planet. They’ll never recover without the generosity pouring in from other nations. Besides, no one can say we haven’t done the same for our own people. There were similar benefit concerts following 9-11 and Hurricane Katrina!

When, oh when, did Americans become such elitists? God didn’t command us to only love other Americans. And He didn’t create the artificial international borders that we now use to insulate and isolate ourselves from the rest of the world. We’ve been blessed with so much. Why shouldn’t we share it with those in the most need, in a time of crisis? Where’s our Christian compassion?

Shame on you, America. Indeed.

The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of
the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

—Matthew 25:40

She’s an interesting specimen, this creature known as the Papaya Monkey who lives in our home. We’ve been studying her in her native environment for the past 11 years, and our findings are puzzling. What follows are our extensive field notes.

Infancy:

From the moment of her birth this strange new breed of offspring captivated us, starting with her sweet smelling newborn breath. It’s an intoxicating scent this researcher still remembers, even now. No one had ever prepared me for that specific slice of Heaven on Earth. It was just the first of many ways in which the little creature surreptitiously captured our hearts. Despite frequent shrill wailing noises, the subject quickly endeared herself to those around her, as evidenced by cutesy nicknames applied by the researchers such as Maia Papaya and Monkey Maia, later morphed into the more common scientific nomenclature, Papaya Monkey.

Personal Hygiene:

Despite the maternal researcher’s early infatuation with the Papaya Monkey’s breath, over the years it has—how shall I delicately put this—not remained quite so sweet. She’s a pre-teen, and, um, she smells like one. It may be a form of reverse evolution, but we’re hopeful that this aversion to hygiene is only a temporary developmental phase. In a strange contradiction, we have noted in our field observations that when the Papaya Monkey does choose to bathe, she seems to enjoy the experience—at least judging by the extended length of time she is willing to subject herself to the flow of water from above. It is too early to draw a firm conclusion, but this behavior suggests the possibility that the subject believes length of  hygiene efforts can compensate for their infrequency. Her awareness that freedom from dirt and odor is directly correlated with daily cleansing may not yet be fully developed.

Personal Habitat:

The Papaya Monkey’s personal living space suffers considerably from the subject’s lack of attention. All available evidence points to a pervasive disregard for closets, drawers, shelves, and clothing hampers, with her bedroom floor being the location of choice to store all her personal belongings. We therefore regretfully conclude that tidiness may not be one of the Papaya Monkey’s dominant characteristics.

Dietary Habits:

The research subject exhibits low tolerance for foods that hold actual nutritional value. If there is any truth to the saying that you are what you eat, then the Papaya Monkey is unequivocally destined for a future as a chicken nugget.

Family Bonding:

The Papaya Monkey is a loving creature who freely dispenses hugs to her family members. She is particularly well bonded with the paternal researcher, who is nearly always willing to act as the subject’s playmate. The maternal researcher, when not assuming the role of disciplinarian, also enjoys close bonding time with the subject. Though the Papaya Monkey has historically had a close and protective relationship with her younger male sibling, she  currently exists in a state of occasional antagonism toward him, as well. The researchers believe this to be a symptom of adolescence and that she will eventually outgrow this undesirable behavior.

Peer Socialization:

The Papaya Monkey displays curious social habits when among peers. In a recently observed rare overnight gathering with other females similar in age—intended to celebrate the addition of another year to the Papaya Monkey’s life—researchers noted an excessive amount of giggling and generally high volume communication. The creatures also appeared to enjoy grooming each other by applying colored enamel to the nails on each others’ fingers and toes. All of which was extremely foreign to the Papaya Monkey’s younger male sibling, who complained frequently of the noise.

Adult Socialization:

In positive findings, our extensive research shows that so far the Papaya Monkey appears to have been properly domesticated with respect to adult interactions. The researchers frequently get glowing reports about her attitude and behavior from teachers, church staff and volunteers, and other parents. She is nearly always described as respectful, helpful, caring, and easygoing. Close observation reveals that the subject is also extroverted, confident, and a bit on the theatrical side. She is something of a ham, and not at all afraid to hold a conversation with adults.

Intelligence:

As the only specimen of the breed, we are still evaluating the Papaya Monkey’s full intelligence potential, but the data so far is encouraging. Reports from school are overwhelmingly positive, and she is particularly fond of social studies. The Papaya Monkey makes a “dream student” (according to the latest field information from her educational instructors) and appears to be particularly well informed in the history of explorers and conquistadors. She brings home straight A’s on her report cards, which suggests that she is more than adequately prepared for the academic rigors she faces. She has also demonstrated a consistent talent for winning a million dollars on the Nintendo DS version of “Are Your Smarter Than a 5th Grader.” She’s pretty smart, for a monkey. And for a 5th grader.

Conclusion:

All things considered, I think we’ll keep the Papaya Monkey. She’s a highly entertaining specimen to study, and she is evolving into a lovely young monkey, I mean lady. The researchers agree that she shows tremendous potential for a happy and productive (if cluttered) future. What more could a Papaya Monkey breeder ask for?

Well, it’s all official, I’ve gone and created my own publishing company.

Technically, I created and named Inheritance Press when I self-published my blog book earlier this year. But in recent months I’ve been branching out. I’ve formalized Inheritance Press as a business entity, sought public input on my logo design, created a website, and signed my first author—none other than fellow blogger Paul Nichols of Writing From the Hip. We’ve been working on formatting his book, Growing Up in the 1950s…Just Seven Blocks from the Mexican Border: A Southern Arizona Memoir, scheduled for release on September 5. Stay tuned for an official announcement of availability!

For those curious about the meaning behind the Inheritance Press name, it’s twofold. First, it represents that the first book published under this brand was my own legacy to my children. I hope it’s an inheritance they will treasure forever. Second, it represents my personal faith and the promise that we will inherit eternal life.

The logo is dear to me because it captures both of these meanings. It is a family tree, with the two doves representing my two children. It is also the tree of life, with the doves adding just the right note of Christian symbolism.

As a print-on-demand publisher (albeit a very small, very independent, and very part-time one), I hope to be producing books on topics of personal interest to me. For now, that includes the disparate genres of personal memoirs, workplace learning, and Christian living/spiritual growth. If you know any aspiring authors writing in these genres who are looking for more personal assistance than self-publishing alone provides, feel free to put them in touch with me or direct them to the Inheritance Press website. I’d love to talk with them.

And to stay up to date on new releases, become a fan of Inheritance Press on Facebook!

Hi, my name is Monique, and I have an addiction. But it’s not what you think. Really, it’s relatively harmless, as vices go. I’m addicted to Smartfood, and the only casualty is my waistline.

Want to know how deep my obsession runs? Last week on my way home from work, the gas light blinked on in my car, signaling the need for fuel. But my brain immediately buzzed in Pavlovian anticipation of a different type of fuel. “Yay, it’s time for more Smartfood!”

This instinctual response is the result of frequent associative conditioning, as any clerk at my friendly neighborhood Mobil station can attest. Case in point: a few weeks ago I was making my regular Smartfood purchase while gassing up the car. When the clerk asked the customary “Will that be all?”, the associate at the next register over answered for me. “That’s all she ever gets.”

Ha. I beg to differ. Sometimes I vary the size bag I buy.

Well, who could blame me? Smartfood is nothing less than manna from Heaven. It may claim to be a simple snack in a homely black bag, but inside that bag is magical fluffy popcorn dressed in a heavy layer of white cheddar cheese goodness. The kind that demands licking every last scrumptious, delectable, cheesy, heavenly, perfect morsel from your deliciously cheese-plastered fingers.

Not that, um, I would ever exhibit such a gauche display of bad manners. At least not in public. Provided, of course, that we agree to exclude actual public places from the definition of “in public.”

Okay, okay, I confess. I have abandoned all pretense of sophisitication and social grace, proudly licking my Smartfood coated fingers in front of all the world. I stand no chance against the siren lure of this savory snack. Resistance is futile.

Sometimes, however, resistance is forced on me through competition to get my hands on the stuff. Where I live, Smartfood is a hot commodity whose demand occasionally exceeds supply. I plead the fifth on whether or not 80% of that demand comes from a single, unnamed citizen. But as a result, I am sometimes stymied in my attempts to acquire a fix. And I wonder if it’s wrong to feel ire at the greedy people in my town who keep buying up all the Smartfood and depriving me of my fair 80% share. So if you ever catch me cleaning out the inventory in the grocery store, I’m merely stockpiling my personal stash to get me through the dry spells.

A final word of advice to those around me: I guard my Smartfood ferociously. Don’t ask me to share. The answer is NO. Get your own bag! But please, oh please, do not buy it at my gas station or my grocery store. Or at my backup dealers, for that matter. You’ll force me into withdrawal, and I’ll have to retaliate by disowning you as my friend.

“Hmm, that’s strange, it smells a little like something’s burning,” I thought vaguely to myself, then quickly dismissed the fleeting notion as I went back to wiping out kitchen cabinets at our friends’ house, while Kent helped load their moving truck.

Moments later, I really smelled smoke.

What happened next was over and done in mere seconds, but the series of events is indelibly etched in my brain. It happened like this:

• I turned around to seek the source of the acrid odor, and at that instant, the mountain (it seemed) of packing paper which had been sitting on the stove ignited into flames. I wondered, bewildered, how the paper was on fire.
• Then I noticed that the knob for one of the stove burners was boldly set on Hi. For what seemed like eternity, but could have only been a split second, I puzzled over how that could possibly have happened when I was alone in the kitchen and hadn’t touched the stove.
• It felt like impossibly slow, muddled thinking as I finally understood that a flap on the box I had slid out of the way a few minutes earlier must have caught on the burner control. It was a simple act of inattentive carelessness. It was my fault.
• As panic battled with the unfolding confusion for attention in my brain, I picked up a stack of the burning paper and tried to blow out the flames, which was a little like trying to blow out a Duraflame log. It wasn’t happening. Even if it had worked, there was still more paper incinerating itself below.
• Adrenaline pumping, I yelled in full panic mode, “Fire! Fire!” as I dashed back and forth to the sink three or four times to throw every shred of the flaming paper under water.
• Just when I thought I was done, I noticed that a lone sheet had dropped to the floor, still ablaze, and threatened to engulf the dish rag hanging on the front of the stove. I dove to capture the stray offender and save the imperiled dish rag, along with anything else flammable in the vicinity.
• At some point Kent and our friends arrived on the scene, but I already had things under control. Kent patted me on the back saying “good job, ‘Niquey, good thinking.” He told me later that he didn’t think I even knew he was there, so focused was I on dousing the burning paper. But my senses were hyper-aware. I took in everything in more detail than seems possible, just like in the movies when things happen in slow motion. Slow motion is exactly what it felt like.
• Finally, realizing I was shaking, I sank to the step stool I had been standing on when it all began, burying my face in my hands out of sheer relief that I had not actually set my friends’ home on fire, while they consoled, “It’s okay, Mo. It’s okay.”
• As I surveyed the charred paper that littered the floor, I felt simultaneously thankful that no damage had been done (except to my psyche), grateful for incredibly understanding friends, and guilty that the extra time I would now have to spend cleaning up the mess meant that much less I’d get done in the rest of the house. So much for “helping.”

I always knew I was a menace in the kitchen. I just always thought it only pertained to actually cooking. So if I ever offer to help anyone move, you might want to insist that I bring along my own personal fire extinguisher. Just in case.

It’s no secret that I’ve always been the shy girl, so it should shock exactly no one that I like being an anonymous customer. I just want to get what I came for and go, with as little human interaction as possible. I bristle when the checker at the grocery store gets nosy about my purchases. I’m irritated by the restaurant server who wants to engage in friendly chit chat when it’s clearly interrupting the conversation I’m trying to have with my dining companions. I dread the sales associate who hovers when I am shopping for clothes. I want to flee from the mega-emporium employees who interrupt my browsing reverie to ask if I’m finding everything okay (except when I actually need their help, at which time they mysteriously disappear). And I’m embarrassed that the clerk at my local convenience store is on to my Smartfood addiction. If I could shop draped in Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak—so I wouldn’t have to fend off uncomfortable small talk with these well-meaning service providers—I probably would.

But a few nights ago, something happened which taught me that sometimes, being noticed has powerful benefits.

For the past three and a half years, I’ve been meeting regularly with my sister-in-law, Angie, for a biweekly Bible study. The vast majority of those meetings have taken place at a Chipotle restaurant we selected for no other reason than we both love Mexican food, and it happens to be more or less equidistant from our respective homes. For at least half that time, there has been one particular employee who has been there nearly every Sunday night. We chat with him regularly as we pay for our food, and he knows us by name. He notices when we miss a week. He’s been known to comp our sodas. Somehow, despite my best efforts at anonymity, I’ve become a regular. One might even go so far as to say that Angie and I are the Cliff and Norm of this upscale fast food joint. And it’s unfamiliarly reassuring to be on a first name basis with the guy who takes our money week after week.

What we didn’t know until this past Sunday was that he’s been paying attention to the purpose for these weekly visits. Our friendly host isn’t necessarily the kind of person you’d expect a pair of minivan-driving moms immersed in Bible study to have an impact on. With stretched earlobes, multiple facial piercings, and spiked beard, his alternative look might be more likely to inspire one to cross to the other side of the street than to strike up a conversation about God. But it would be a mistake to judge this book by his cover, because tucked into his unique brand of self expression is a sweet, quiet guy with a steady work ethic. I’d be willing to bet that this unlikely face of our Chipotle experience is very loyal to the people in his life.

So we were pleasantly surprised the other night when our Chipotle friend approached first Angie, and then both of us, with a prayer request. He said he hasn’t always been someone who prayed, but he is trying to pray for his girlfriend about a personal difficulty in her life. He asked if we would pray for her too, and also for him as he encourages her. Apparently he has been working up the courage to bring this up with us. For me, that’s a strange role reversal. Usually I’m the one standing in those shoes, wondering how to introduce a potentially awkward topic of conversation. I’d find humor in the irony, except that I recognize it as a universal feeling of self-consciousness. I know exactly how he felt.

Angie guesses it must be the subtle pink streaks she recently added to her hair that finally made us seem approachable. She may be right. I also think it’s no coincidence that this prayer request came on the very night we were studying from the book of Ephesians on the topic of—you guessed it—prayer. But whatever the reason that inspired our favorite cashier to open up, this small step has started a conversation we can now continue.

I learned from the encounter, too. Looking back, I feel shame that when Angie and I first began our meetings, I was bashful about studying the Bible in public. I am so thankful now that we persevered anyway, that I have not been invisible at Chipotle after all, and that our new friend there knows our names. I will honor his prayer request, and I will add to his petition the prayer that through our example, maybe he will come to truly know the most important name of all.

Last night, Noah decided he needed to know how old Kent and I are. After much teasing, we finally settled on the truth that Kent is 42 and I am 38.

Noah then looked at me and said in all seriousness, “So you’re older than Daddy?”

Anyone wanna buy a kid cheap?

Dear blog readers,

I interrupt regularly scheduled vacation blogging to bring you this critical news flash.

Some of my regular blog readers know that I have had plans for quite some time (first documented here) to self publish my blog writings in the form of a book, for my children to read and share with their own children someday. Well, I am ecstatic to announce that the book is a reality and is officially available on Amazon! Click here, or on the book cover image below, to see for yourself.

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Thanks so much to all of you who read my blog, whether regularly or just occasionally. Though I don’t blog as often as I did when I started, your continued kind comments and positive feedback have encouraged me to keep going. My children will thank you some day for giving me the support I needed to keep writing for them. And keep going I will. This is only Volume 1 of what I hope will eventually be many.

And by the way, this is in no way a sales pitch. Especially since my regular visitors have read most of it already. It’s just an expression of my ecstatic joy at seeing my name on Amazon. It was a pipe dream. I never really thought it would happen.

Observations for today:

1. It was a beautiful day to be outside. So glad we postponed the 2nd day of our Colonial Williamsburg visit to avoid trudging through rain, lightning, and mud.
2. We started today with the Capitol and the jail. Trials were held 4 times per year, so accused criminals could be incarcerated for months before their rights to a “speedy trial” were exercised.
3. Dined in a historic Williamsburg tavern for lunch. Fun!
4. Today we learned about the following trades: wigmaker, apothecary, silversmith, milliner, weaver, and wheelwright. We missed the basket maker and some re-enactments, but otherwise successfully covered everything we set out to see.
5. The kids roamed the hedge maze behind the Governor’s Palace before we called it a day. They boys won, with many accusations on both sides of cheating.
6. Noah: “I come in peace, yo.” I have no idea what it means, but he’s been singing it over and over tonight. Silly boy.

Observations for today:

1. Cherry blossoms swirling in the wind look like snow. Beautiful!
2. Noah: “If you’re going to throw up, throw up in the bag in front of you.” Said as the kids recreated their own version of Mission Space while we waited to get into the U.S. Capitol Visitor’s Center. Well, it’s true that Mission Space is the only ride at Disney with barf bags…
3. At the Capitol they made us throw away every bit of food we had before we could enter, even factory sealed packages. That makes this one of the least family friendly places I’ve ever visited. Wish we could charge them for the kids’ snacks we later had to buy to replace the ones they made us throw away.
4. Most eventful occurrence of the trip so far: We got evacuated from the Capitol just as we were learning about Senate history. Apparently it was a fire alarm, but it’s hard not to think of 9/11 when being evacuated from a federal building. Or maybe someone got caught sneaking in dangerous contraband food.
5. The infrared camera in the spectroscopy exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum confirms what I’ve always known: I’m freezing. My family’s hands were glowing all sorts of warm shades of yellow, orange, and red. Not a spec of a cool color in sight. My hands? Solid, deep blue!
6. I really still wish my family would quit rushing me. There just isn’t enough time to see everything, especially for someone like me who wants to read every sign.
7. At the Jefferson Memorial, I was pleased with the inscriptions that reinforce the faith of our founding fathers.
8. Overheard at the Vietnam Memorial: “It’s just a bunch of names of people who died.” I’m speechless. Tell that to the families of those named on the wall. I was moved to tears by the flowers and personal notes left there, and especially moved by an elderly couple who appeared to be honoring one specific name. A son, perhaps?
9. Other sites we visited: Lincoln Memorial, WWII Memorial, and the Washington Monument.
10. Yay for empty trolleys!