Quite a Little Adventure

Cheerfully we trooped out to the van on errand day, little knowing what lay ahead of us...or what any of us were going to have to say about it.


There are two stop lights within a block of each other and wouldn't you know it--the light in the furthest intersection turned red and the traffic was backed up so much that we ended up stuck in the middle of the second intersection but too far into it to be able to turn right.

 "Well, this is awkward," remarked the little man.


Sometimes as we travel along our merry way we have deep discussions about topics of significance and relevance. This was not one of those times. We were discussing some of the different euphemisms for "restroom."

me: When the British are talking about the restroom they say 'the W. C.'
little man: When the Indians are talking about it, they say 'behind the tree.'


Usually it takes the little man quite awhile to make up his mind what he wants to order when we stop for fast food. So I make certain to give him plenty of time to think it over.

me: Were you considering ordering a chicken snack wrap?
little man: Last time I checked my brain, I wasn't.


Sister was graciously getting our drinks and asked me if I wanted Dr. Pepper or Coke. I replied, "D.P." Her shocked face upon my reply revealed to me that she hadn't heard my complete answer.

Her comment: "Mom, we don't say that word in public!" was a perfect echo of my words in times past.


During our meal we asked little man to get us a refill of our drinks.  We appreciated his willingness to serve us but I cannot find the words to describe the feeling when one takes a swig of pop only to find out it is not what was expected. Lesson learned: do not send the little man to get refills as he will return with mixed drinks.


After our meal, I was appalled to discover that my keys were not in my purse...or in my jeans pocket...nor were they in anyone else's purse or jeans pocket.

me: I think I locked my keys in the van
sister: You know that's illegal, don't you?
me: I don't think it's illegal, I think it's stupid

Illegal or not, when we looked through the van window we could see the keys swinging merrily in the ignition so we enjoyed an ice cream cone while waiting for big sister to come rescue us.  Soon we were once again on our way but not before little man observed brightly,"Well, that was quite a little adventure, wasn't it?"

Child of the Covenant

Child of the covenant,
Known before time;
Loved in the darkness
No merit of mine.

Child of the Covenant,
By faith I believe--
His offering of blood
My redemption achieved.

Child of the Covenant,
And child of the King,
Only by grace
Am I under His wing.

by Karen Nilson
(all rights reserved)

t.y.o.b.

Scene: Skateboard park in South OKC

Cast: Inumerable crazy young men
one slightly nervous mom
one aspiring skateboard star known as t.y.o.b. (ten year old boy)

Props: skateboard and helmet

t.y.o.b.: Thanks for taking me skateboarding, Mom! (as we pull into the park)
mom: be careful, ok?
t.y.o.b.: ok

t.y.o.b. tries one slopes and jumps off the skateboard before he gets to the bottom, then tries it again with same result. He then spends some time watching the other guys, adjusts and readjusts his helmet, finds another slope, gets in line, adjusts his helmet, gets on skateboard, falls, scrapes his elbow a little, gets on again, jumps off again, adjusts his helmet, leaves the skateboarding area and decides to try his skateboard on the sidewalk that has a little slope to it. I sit on the bench in the sunshine watching all the crazy people then notice the t.y.o.b. as he comes limping back without his skateboard.

mom: where's your skateboard?
t.y.o.b.: I'm bleeding, Mom.

Evidently a bleeding person cannot carry a skateboard and this particular bleeding person needs some ice on his wounds

So we pack it up for McDonald's. He licks his wounds (figuratively) as I order a Wildberry Smoothie and a coke with a side of ice. The ice soothes the sting a little but he is finished with skateboarding for the day so we hop into the van.

t.y.o.b.: Mom, where are we going?
mom: home
t.y.o.b.: oh, I thought we were going to the hospital.

I am sure there are no broken bones and I am certain our first aid kit will be sufficient for his needs so we continue to head towards home.

t.y.o.b.: I didn't cry, Mom.
mom: I know...it really hurt, didn't it?
t.y.o.b.: yeah, but I didn't cry.
(long pause)
t.y.o.b.: thanks for taking me skateboarding, Mom.

Four Years ago

Four years ago I was the mother of an enthusiastic Tiger Cub Scout.
Four years ago Monday nights were the highlight of his week.
Four years ago I volunteered to help our cub scout leader so we could continue meeting.
Four years ago the helper became the leader.
Four years ago I thought I would just finish out the school year until they could find someone else.
Four years ago it was a duty, an obligation so my son could go to the meetings he enjoyed so much.

Today it is a joy.

And I am still the mother of an enthusiastic Cub Scout.

Just a little nostalgic right now. Last night was the Arrow of Light ceremony for the oldest Cub in our den. Before the ceremony we worked on our last project together as The Three Musketeers. If I think about it very much, I just might cry.


When I took on the challenge of leading little boys, I didn't think I would like it. I am more into arts and crafts than sports, more into sewing than leatherwork, more into reading than chemistry, more into Mozart than "Shark Attack."

I thought I enjoyed girl talk more than jokes about body chemistry. I thought girlish giggles topped fist pumps. I thought little girl hugs were sweeter than high fives.

But I was wrong.

In the last few years, I have learned to appreciate sports (a little bit, anyway), to let boys run and wrestle (preferably outdoors), and to laugh at their jokes (or at least smile).

I have learned not to get *too* mushy with them, although there are times when I just want to squeeze their little cheeks or grab them and give them a big hug. I have learned not to talk "at" them too much but to ask them questions and let them talk. I have learned that a snack at the end of the evening is pretty much a requirement.

I still roll my eyes at their corny jokes. I still flinch when they do a face plant on the floor. I still wonder how in the world they can eat that much. In short, I am still amazed at how different they are from little girls.

My little boys are turning into little men. Sometimes even little gentlemen. (I really like this part!) And they need to be with older guys. They need to see older Boy Scouts leading and learning. And they need to learn to lead.

And so, too soon, I will watch as the rest of "my" boys step into the ceremonial teepee, trade their blue uniform shirts for khaki uniform shirts and cross over into Boy Scouts.

One William Wallace

King Edward of England had long been eying Scotland and had positioned himself to be her overlord. But the king overlooked the fierce nationalism of her citizens and was completely unaware of the existence of one William Wallace. As the second son of a minor nobleman who was to inherit neither title nor land, William was preparing himself for a life in the church until the day his father was killed by the hands of the soldiers occupying his country. It changed the direction of his life.

Seen as a rebel and an outlaw by the English, yet a hero and defender by his countrymen, William steadfastly defended the sovereignty of Scotland. A ferocious defense to be sure...warfare in medieval times was harsh, merciless, unfair, and brutal...as was life in that era. Recruiting like-minded citizens to his cause, Wallace soon had an army of volunteers, all as passionate for freedom as he.
"We come here with no peaceful intent, but ready for battle, determined to avenge our wrongs and set our country free." William Wallace, before the Battle of Stirling Bridge-11 September 1297


In defense of his actions, Wallace asserted that he had never been a traitor to the king of England because he had never been Edward's subject and had never sworn fealty to him. Indeed, Edward was only the king of the nation that had invaded his country. Likewise, as Christians, we have not bowed the knee to the despotic prince of this present world, satan.


Wallace's only response upon being accused of treason against King Edward: "I can not be a traitor, for I owe him no allegiance. He is not my Sovereign; he never received my homage; and whilst life is in this persecuted body, he never shall receive it."
Braveheart's cry of "Freedom!" echoes down through the ages and we hear it even as we struggle for the territory satan is seeking to invade. He already has a toehold in the media, in the government and in the justice system: every vile word broadcast in the guise of entertainment, every unborn child killed legally in the name of convenience, and every oppressive, ungodly ruling handed down by liberal judges is testimony to that toehold.

Gather your band of like-minded revolutionaries... storm the castle of Lochmaben and capture Stirling Bridge. Repudiate the enticing offers of amnesty from the prince of the powers of the air. With strength of purpose and unswerving dedication, vow to never surrender. At the end of the age, the battle will be ours and we will have freedom!

This Battle

I never thought I would be in this battle. Innocently I believed that there was a "no tribulation zone" and that I was stationed there. But honest motives and all the best intentions cannot shelter or inoculate anyone from the fiery attacks of the devil.

Satan has an impressive arsenal at his disposal and most of his weapons don't appear to be such at all: music that sends false messages, media that glorifies wrong values, advertising that appeals to the flesh, worldly friends that lure us from our First Love, and pastimes that promise to be so much fun... satan lurks in the shadows, practicing guerrilla warfare. A dart of temptation here, an arrow of suggestion there. And it isn't long until hand to hand combat ensues. Or until one surrenders to the enemy...who really didn't seem to be an enemy...at first.

Paralyzed by Perfection

I dream of the perfect room: floral chintz sofa, plump battenburg lace pillows, white rocking chair, wild flowers tumbling out of a milk glass vase, filmy white curtains billowing in the breeze, buttery yellow walls, Queen Anne table with a softy glowing Victorian lamp and me, sitting in this charming room, sipping a cup of steaming, fragrant tea.

Not so charming reality intrudes--shabby burgundy couch and chair, dining table turned school table, bookcase overflowing with books, heavy drapes, a filing cabinet and an old brass lamp. I haven't vacuumed in awhile and the school books are scattered carelessly across the table. The windows are streaky and the window ledges dusty.

Feeling defeated, I gaze around the room again--where do I start to turn this space into the room I dream of? Because it is so far from what I want it to be, so far from the perfect room I keep in my head, paralysis sets in and I'm unable to do anything. Even simply cleaning the room seems impossible. I'm paralyzed by the perfection I demand of that room.

Here and there, one can catch a glimpse of the vision I have for my living room: the teacup and teapot collection, silk flowers in a yellow and blue vase, a pastel quilt draped across the back of the couch, an antique end table topped with a crocheted doily and lace panels behind the drapes.

Encouraged by these little vignettes, I banish the books from the table, and thin out the bookcase. Brass cleaner soon has the lamp gleaming and Windex makes the windows sparkle. I drape a doilly over the lamp shade and replace a modern picture with an heirloom portrait. I tie one of the drapes back with a fluffy tassle and the sunlight streams in. The whistle of a teapot calls me and soon I am holding my cup of steaming tea. Maybe this isn't the room of my dreams but it is the room of my reality. Today, I'm ok with that. And tomorrow, maybe I will figure out what to do about that couch...