All posts tagged Having Fun

What Makes Your Day?

A couple of weeks ago, my cell phone died an unexpected death and I asked, What Ruins Your Day?  Well, since then, I’ve had a bit of an attitude adjustment, and I’d like to ask a different question.

What makes your day? 

Is it the big things?  The little things?  The expected?  The unexpected?

Here’s an unexpected dose of grace that made my Friday.

To the gratest mom in the world!

From you dater Anna.

Dear mom,

I love you with my holl hart! Anyway, I’m so ecited that its Friyday, and I get to spend time with you!  When Nicks gone at his sleepover, and were here, we should think of something fun! Like having girls night out, or watch a movie.  Something like that!

Love,

Anna
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What makes your day?  Just as important, what can we do today to make somebody else’s day? 

Good News For Coffee Addicts!

I love to finish out the week with good news, don’t you?  And this little nugget of information is music to my ears.  Coffee is actually good for you!

In case you haven’t heard, a new study from the Harvard School of Public Health shows that caffeine-drinking coffee-guzzling women have a lower risk of depression.

No, I’m not making this up!

Here are some highlights from the study:

  • Women who drink two to three cups of coffee per day are 15% less likely to develop depression compared to those who drink a maximum of one cup of per week.
  • Women who drink at least four cups per day have a 20% lower risk of depression than the “one cup per week” group.

In other words, it’s better to drink four cups a day than one cup a week!

I know, I’m getting carried away.  But can you blame me?  After all, it’s Friday.

Have you had your four cups today?

[I was going to blog about prayer today, but I got side tracked.  I know.  Excuses, excuses.  So I’m hitting prayer hard next week.  Will you join me?  You can bring your coffee!]

Will We Be 18 In Heaven?

I’m getting ready for my 18-year-old niece’s graduation party.  I pull a skirt and blouse out of my suitcase.  In Ohio, I’d be trendy.  I’d even be a bit edgy on casual day at the office.

But I’m not in Ohio.  I’m in Vegas. 

Midwest hip has long been out in Vegas.  So I run to my niece and cry, “HELP!”  I don’t want to be a middle-aged aunt tonight.  So she hands me a red dress and I don’t look back.  The dance floor is calling me.

In my sister’s tiny back yard stands a wooden dance floor.  The men came to set it up today in the heat of the Vegas sun.  Nails pounding.  Sweat pouring.  But the sun is down.  The DJ is playing.  And the neighbors (and the police!) have been warned.  It’s not every day that we celebrate a woman coming of age. 

So we dance.

I look around the dance floor and I’m the oldest.  By about 20 years.  At first I feel a little silly (in my niece’s red dress and all) but then I don’t care.  I feel like I’m 18 again.  And it feels good.

My father spots me across the yard and he starts to walk toward me.  He had a bad fall today, and I know he is bleeding.  And hurting.  But his long pants are covering his fresh wounds, and I know he wants to dance.  He wants to feel 18 again too.

We both look at my niece, and she is beautiful.  It is her 18th birthday, and she is the star of this show.  And she loves to dance.  After all, it is in her blood.  So my father takes her hand, and they dance.  Together.

Mind you, he may have had trouble walking today.  But tonight he will dance.  With ease.  

Then my mother – the most beautiful woman alive – takes the dance floor.  She and my father are trying to do the jitter bug to rap music, and I’m laughing so hard that I think I might wet my pants — not a good thing when you are wearing somebody else’s dress.   And I’m reminded that these moments are gift.  These moments when we feel 18 again.

I happen to think we’re all going to be 18 in heaven.  Especially when we’re dancing.

(Kaitlyn at 18!)

Putting Out Fires And Saving Sticky Buns

The coffee is brewing.  The bacon is sizzling.  And the sticky buns are baking.

Before the fire.

If you came to my house the morning of July 4th – before the infamous Upper Arlington Parade – you would have experienced this first hand.

I set my house on fire.  And we’re not talking about fireworks.

This playing with fire tends to stress out my husband (aka the Fire Putter Outer).  In fact, even before the flames, I can see him sweating while watching my crazed multi-tasking.

I’m frying eggs in one hand and cutting fruit with the other hand.  Pouring cereal for daughter #1 (she doesn’t like eggs) while daughter #2 insists on cracking eggs herself for the sticky buns.  Of course, she misses the bowl and we pick the egg shells out of the batter with our bare hands.  It’s 7:30 am and the guests will arrive in 30 minutes.  I sigh in relief when the sticky buns enter the oven at 7:35 am.  Finally, I can chug my coffee.

Then the smoke starts.  The sticky buns are sticky.  We use real butter.  And everyone knows that real butter burns.

My husband tries to detain the smoke, but it’s no use.  The flames are upon us.  He throws water on the fire and quickly squashes it.  (He then exits stage left to get some “air”.)

I am determined to save these sticky buns.  The real butter (albeit burnt) is calling me.  The guests don’t arrive for 20 minutes.  This gives me time to clear the smoke, turn on the fans, and transfer the buns into a new pan. 

And these buns are delicious.  After breakfast, we have plenty of eggs and fruit left.  Even the bacon remains.  But the sticky buns are gone.  Every last one.

A guest remarks, “I love these sticky buns.  Can you give me the recipe?”

My husband gives me the look and I laugh out loud.

Being a mom, wife, daughter, lawyer, and writer has a lot to do with saving sticky buns.  The fire will come.  I’m convinced that we spend too much time trying to prevent the fire when we really need to prepare for the fire.

Because once you make it through the fire, you have nothing to fear. 

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Each one’s work will become manifest, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed by fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done.  (1 Cor 3:13 ESV)

Early Bird Or Night Owl?

Spotted Eagle Owl (Bubo Africanus), Natal, South Africa

Are you an early bird or a night owl?

You guessed it, I’m a night owl.  Sure, I can function early in the morning if I have to, but I’d much prefer the late evening – when my creative juices start flowing.

To tell you the truth, I’m sick and tired of all these people (you may be one of them!) who over-spiritualize the morning.  Some of them claim that all the “important” prayers and spiritual moments happen in the early morning.

Are they right?

I think not!

To prove my point, I’ll use the Apostle Paul as an example. 

Nick and I just finished reading the book of Acts, and for the very first time I noticed that Paul is known to pull all-nighters.  I’m not kidding.  According to Acts 20, he preached until midnight – which ended up turning into daybreak.  I can just picture him sitting around the kitchen table with the believers in Ephesus.  Some of them were probably thinking, “When is he going to shut up.  Doesn’t he want to get some sleep?”

I may be partial, but it seems to me that Paul was a night owl.  On another occasion, he even stayed up all night in prison – singing instead of sleeping!

Of course, those of you who rise early in the morning will probably claim that Jesus was known to be an early bird.  I can’t argue with that one.  Maybe the important point is that we need to come to God when we can give him our best – when he can have our full, undivided attention.

So when are you at your best?  Morning, noon, or night?