For Those Who Are a Little Bit Shy

Last night my preschooler had trouble falling asleep. He came downstairs two or three times with requests for snacks, little stories, and a few questions. The last one was this:

"Will I stay dead forever when I die?"

We looked at him for a second, trying to figure out what to say. "You get to be with Jesus forever!" I announced.

He grinned big.

"And friends and family will be there, too," I added.

He sat in happy thought for a moment, then asked, "You know how I can be a little bit shy sometimes? What if I'm a little bit shy with Jesus?"

"Oh, He made all kinds of people and lots of them are shy," I assured him. "He'll know just what to do to help you relax. Don't worry. It'll be fine, totally fine."

He giggled, tossed his head back, and let his papa carry him back upstairs.

After that, he stayed in bed, resting.

Canceling AOL

This exact interaction happened to me when I tried to cancel AOL. The apologies and statements are meaningless, as customer service reps at their call center continue with the same obvious ploy each time. I even said, "I can't say it any more simply than this: cancel my account." And still it went on another 45 minutes. I'm not tickled pink with my current services, but at least I'm finally free from AOL.

The Tan Clunker

Have you seen my stove? Of course you haven't. Well, this tan clunker, circa 1979, was in the house when we bought it. The oven door creaks open and shut. I thought we would purchase a new unit shortly after the oven light burned out--that was about three years ago, maybe four. The knobs are basic and functional, but none of the timers or clocks work. One of the stove burners takes approximately 20 minutes to reach high heat. The oven gets appropriately hot, though, and enough stove burners work so that we just keep on using the old beast out of a sense of frugality. Besides, I'm not a good cook. I don't think a new oven and stovetop will change that.

In fact, I'm so unsure of myself in the kitchen that cooking has become a source of extreme anxiety and insecurity for me. I tremble at the thought of preparing and serving a meal to guests.

The past few weeks we have been hosting my husband's sister and her son, and his mother, who live in France and Belgium respectively. I had been doing okay with meals up to that point, serving simple foods and accepting help whenever it was offered. Then one day his sister told me that a friend of hers would be driving down to spend the day at our house. She added that this friend is a professional chef.

"What?" I asked, applying a tone similar to my preschooler's philosity, "I can tell you right now I am not going to make a meal for a professional chef. I just can't. I'd be too nervous. We'll just have to bring home some Wendy's or something."

"Oh, don't worry," my sister-in-law reassured me. "We'll go shopping and ask her to cook for us!" She thought I would be delighted with this proposition, but I thought of the Tan Clunker. My heart was racing--could we order a new stove and have it delivered in a day? At the very least, I had to buy new drip pans. My existing ones were coated with gunky overflow from spaghetti dinners and morning eggs. A professional chef using the Tan Clunker? Then I thought of all the other neglected household chores and yardwork I put off, thinking I was only hosting family. Suddenly I felt pressure to weed under the trees by the back porch, mow the lawn, and accomplish several other other spring jobs I'd been postponing.

We gave up on ordering a new stove, and I didn't have time to clean the splattered, blackened oven, but I did buy new drip pans. Outside we weeded and mulched the areas most visible to us when sitting at the tables in the shade.

Then the chef arrived.

She turned out to be a wonderful, relaxed woman who sat and talked about her transition to America from Belgium, her search for a church that fit their family, and her growing business as a personal chef. After a lunch that my mother-in-law threw together, the chef and my sister-in-law shopped for dinner. Once back home and at my request, she attempted to teach me some techniques, but she was stuck using one of my inadequate knives, a sorry skillet and an unattractive, utilitarian baking dish. Oh, did I mention that her parents own a high-end, high-class restaurant in Brussels frequented by international diplomats, politicians and nobility? Yes, it's true. And she was cooking in my kitchen and serving the meal in my dining room. She didn't seem to be bothered much at all, but I was.

An expert at entertaining, she explained that the potatoes go on the left, the vegetables on the right, and the meat directly in front of you at the bottom of the plate. When setting the table (all on my own), I had placed the water goblet where the wine glass should be and at the start of the meal, she poured accordingly. Oops. Wine in a water goblet isn't too big of a deal. And anyway, I had clearly established that I didn't have a lot of experience with fine dining. Heavens, the nicest place we eat at these days is Old Country Buffet, where you pick up your plate and silverware as you go, paying little attention as to whether you flopped your blob of mashed potatoes on the left or right of the slab of roast beef. The green beans hide under the macaroni and cheese, and no one pours wine or fills water goblets while we go back for two or three desserts. Oh, I exaggerate. We eat out at nicer places than that, like Bob Evans and Cracker Barrel. But I digress.

Oh, did I mention that her spouse works for a major appliance manufacturer? I'll withhold the name for their privacy, but she has the highest end stove/oven, dishwasher and fridge, and all the gadgets a chef could dream of--usually far more than she dreams of or needs. While working on the main dish, she was using the stove. "Next time (that is, when I get a new stove someday), gas," she advised. "You must cook with gas." As she set the temperature on the oven and opened the creaking door, she peered inside and said, "Oh, I am so spoiled."

She didn't mean it as a criticism at all, but as I watched her close it quickly and listened to the hinges creak, I thought, Oh, I am so humiliated.

Duck Tragedy

On my way to youth group to pick up my nephew (he's visiting us and decided to check out the youth group while here), I saw a mama duck with her sweet little ducklings huddled in the road. I swerved and missed them, then I had a flash-thought, "I should stop and herd them, so I can keep her from getting hit." But I was running a little late and didn't want to leave my guest waiting, so I drove on. I noted a truck coming in the opposite direction, and glancing in my rear-view mirror, I didn't think he swerved to miss her.

On the way home, I didn't want to see it, but it was unavoidable. She and her babies were mangled in the road. I pulled over and asked my nephew if he wanted to stay in the car or get out with me. He decided to get out. I wanted to see if any ducklings were alive and needing help. We poked our heads in the bushes, but couldn't find any babies alive. I took a stick and gently scooted those that were hit off the road so they wouldn't be run over any more.

I felt responsible. My nephew said, "I see a lot of dead animals along the road. On the freeway, I saw a dead raccoon." I said we have a lot of wildlife and therefore a lot get hit often, especially at night. I wanted to cry, but I didn't want to cry in front of my nephew. As he pointed out, there are hundreds of dead animals along the road--why cry for these and not all?

I came home and told my husband about it. I was folding laundry. I couldn't even look at him while I told him the whole story, and I started crying and couldn't stop. In my head I can see her when I passed by the first time and honked once as a warning. The ducklings scurried near her; she may have even extended her wings a little as they huddled close to her. They came when she called, even though they were by the roadside, safer than where she was in the oncoming lane. They came to her because they believed she was safe, and I assume she believed she could keep them safe. And for that instant I had thought, "I should keep them safe," but I didn't. I could have served as protection, but I didn't.

So many helpless creatures. Sometimes I can do a small thing to help just one or two, and then I don't. I must remember that sweet mother and her ducklings, and wonder what else I'm driving past, thinking I'm in too big of a hurry to help.

Listening to "All Things Considered" this afternoon, I decided they really do consider all things. They interviewed two guys who made a video of Diet Coke spewing from 2-liter bottles after chemically reacting with Mentos mints. These guys created a choreographed video with geysers and fountain-like arcs using Mentos and Diet Coke. Funky music in the background fits with the swaying, criss-crossing, explosive routine. It only takes a few minutes to watch. It may inspire you--or your kids--to create some sticky geysers of your own in the back yard on a "boring" summer afternoon:

http://eepybird.com/

My young son, who has sat through numerous evenings of "American Idol" with his sisters, knows about contestants. Due to some digestive issues with some of his family members, he also knows about intestines.

This afternoon a gnat flew into his eye. "Is there something called an 'Eye Bug'? Because a bug just flew in my eye. Is there such a thing as an Eye Bug?"

"Oh," I answered, "those are probably gnats. They fly into your eye, but you can gently wipe them away out the corner of your eye."

"They fly into your eye?"

"Well, not inside it."

"Can they get inside and see your contestines?"

"They--" I had to stop and chuckle. "I'm sorry, I just, you said, well, they can't get inside through your eye, no, and they can't see your intestines."

"Oh. Well, this fly is in my eye right now."

"The gnat?"

"The fly."

We got it out. It never saw his contestines.