Days of Our Lives


Dear Monday,

My mom says we can’t be friends anymore. She says you’re mean to me. She says I shouldn’t tell you that.
Can you keep this a secret? Please check yes or no.


Dear Friday,

My mom says we can’t hang out anymore. She says you’re a bad influence. She says I only do irresponsible things because you are here.
Do you think I’m irresponsible? Please check yes or no.


Dear Saturday,

My mom says if we’re going to hang out, we have to do something productive. She says Netflix doesn’t count.
Do you like to build boats? Please check yes or no.


Dear Sunday,

My mom says I have to be friends with you. She says that will make Jesus happy.
Do you like ice cream? Please check yes or no.



Image Source


Oh hey! You’re still here!

Ok, so yeah, January was a long time ago.

You see, I got a job.

Then I went back to school.

And things got busy.

Don’t be mad, ok?

…So, about this job.

I’m teaching science to a group of fabulous middle schoolers, at a fabulous school, with some fabulous people.

It’s simply…fabulous.

However, these fabulous people love prayer circles.

I mean, seriously.

It’s like a religion or something.

And if you happen to be one of the few lucky people who know me personally (Ok, who am I kidding? That’s most of the people who read this blog.), you know that I am really, really uncomfortable with awkward unsolicited physical contact…like, holding hands…in a circle…during prayer.


It was in the midst of one of these prayer circles that I began to think about how awkward prayer circles were. And how funny that awkwardness is. And how sacrilegious my thoughts were. And how I should really write this down.

And then I remembered I had a blog.

So, you know, maybe I have a couple days off soon. And maybe I’ll share my prayer circle story. And maybe I won’t get struck by lightening or anything.

It will be fabulous.

Sunday Morning Football

order of service

Well, it happened again.

I don’t know why I was surprised. It’s usually a theme this time of year when pro football is in full swing, and college football is in bowl season.

But for some reason it caught me off guard.

Maybe because I wasn’t really firing on all cylinders this morning.

I’m still not sure how we made the jump from I Peter to the Dolphins/Redskins game of 1983, but in Sunday School today, someone made the inevitable comparison between our fanatic excitement at a football game and our lack thereof at church.

Which always makes me giggle at the mental picture.

Can you imagine what would happen if we did act in church the same way we act during a football game??

Would we wear the jersey of our favorite soloist? Perhaps the number of our favorite hymn?

Or would it be Team Worship Music vs Team Preaching?

Would there be hecklers?

Please let there be hecklers.

There’s a kerfluffle in the sound booth and the mics aren’t hot for the opening chorus…
“False Start! False Start! Are you seeing this, ref??!!”

An usher fails to take the offering plate when it reaches the end of the row…
“Incomplete pass?!! C’mon, man! You’re killing us!!”

The soloist feels led to add two extra choruses to her song…
“Delay of game! Delay of game! Is no one watching the clock??!!”

The pastor really gets into his introduction and takes a while to make his first point…
“Seriously??!! Can we not get a first down here??!! Ten words! Just ten words! That’s all it takes!!”

A kid gets out of his seat, disrupting the service…
“Can no one stop him?!!! Whose man is that?!! WHOSE MAN IS THAT??!!”

The head deacon is called on to give the benediction, and feels the need to re-preach the sermon before he dismisses in prayer…
“Are you kidding me??!! Overtime??!!! Doggone it!! …I need another slice of pizza.”

Flight Risk

I’ve been traveling a lot lately.

Usually, I prefer to drive – not only because I like having the time in the car to think about things, or sing to myself, or talk to myself.

(Boy, am I glad Bluetooth was invented. Now other drivers don’t look at me like I’m nuts when I’m talking to myself in the car.)

But I really prefer to drive because flying makes me nervous.

It’s not the fact that I’m thirty-five bajillion thousand feet up in a lightning-attracting metal craft that is much heavier than air.

Nor is it that I really dislike sitting super chummy close to strangers that are invariably carrying every strain of flu, but insist that “it’s just allergies.”

It’s not even the fact that I’m locked into an enclosed space over which I have no control.

No, flying makes me nervous because in order to get on the airplane, I have to go through airport security.

I would love to be a confident seasoned traveler, zipping through the airport pulling my smart rolling carry-on in one hand, and confidently clutching my venti no-fat latte and boarding pass with the other.

But instead, I’m a clumsy, fumbling ditz with about as much confidence as a seventh grader on the first day of school.

For some reason, standing in the line for security makes me extremely nervous. I don’t know why. I have nothing to worry about…

…except for that full-sized bottle of lotion that I keep forgetting is in the bottom of my purse. (Only had to go through security three times for that one. And I almost made my flight!)

…or the expired license that I inexplicably keep behind my current one and will invariably pull out by mistake. (“No, my real license isn’t expired, sir. I can explain why I have two IDs.”)

…or the super cute sweater with metallic threads that kept setting off the scanner. (Don’t worry. Getting a pat-down is just like getting an awkward hug from a stranger. Only it’s not.)

So I shift my feet in line, constantly check my ID, and try to avoid all eye contact with the friendly neighborhood TSA agent, all the while chastising myself for choosing to fly.

“Why did I buy a plane ticket?” I wonder. “New Hampshire isn’t that far. It’s only 22 hours. That’s not too bad. I so should have driven!”


The Single Code

Well, Valentines Day has come and gone.

In addition to it being Hallmark’s number one overly-commercialized fabricated holiday, Valentines Day is also the one day of the year that married people feel the most sorry for their single friends.

(And the one day that single people wish their married friends would just give it a rest already. Sheesh.) Continue reading

The Truth About Teaching

A former student texted me yesterday for help on a paper she’s writing for a college class. I was immensely flattered not only that she remembers me, but also that she apparently considers me a reliable source for a literature paper.

…And then I began to miss my students.

I miss their amazingness. And their frustratingness.

I miss our class discussions and our Brian Regan marathons.

I miss challenging them and being challenged in return.

(Don’t get me wrong – I love the ministry that I am now a part of. I know I am exactly where God wants me, and I find many aspects of my new position exciting, fulfilling, and challenging. And it’s nice to leave work at work, to not bring home fifty-seven essays to be graded every evening. But sometimes…I kinda get bored.)

So, in honor of my former students (and because none of my current students follow this blog), I am going to share a bit of the mystery of teaching. I am going to reveal a secret that I – and many teachers just like me – have kept hidden for generations. Continue reading