6710 Grand

It’s Holy Week.  I remember being confused by so many pieces of Easter when I was young.  Why was it called Good Friday if Jesus died?  Wasn’t that BAD Friday?  Why did we eat so much fish?  Ick.  Why did it always seem to be a gloomy, rainy, week?  Did God do that on purpose?  How could Jesus ride into the city of Jerusalem with such fanfare on Sunday and be beaten so brutally just 6 days later?  As I’ve grown in my faith and age, I understand so much more.  When Mel Gibson’s Passion of the Christ played in theaters, I went to see it.  My sobs could hardly be heard over the sobs of others.  This wasn’t a movie where you munched on popcorn and sipped a soft drink.  This was a chore—a duty as a Christian to come face to face with the brutality endured by our Savior.  To come to terms with what He experienced so that I could, what?  Show up late to work with no excuse?  Watch movies with foul language?  Tell the occasional lie and not suffer the consequences?  Was it worth it?  What jus

 It’s the question I hate, and yet, it is asked of me at least 4 times a day.  What’s for dinner? Why does it bother me so much?   I think it’s because I hear it more than anything else.   Hi mom, what’s for dinner?   Where’s mom?   What’s for dinner?   Is mom down there? What’s for dinner? I’m reduced to a single purpose—feed the hungries.   And I know I’m so much more.   Sometimes, I fantasize about being simply, not available.   No food in the house.   Nothing is for dinner.   Someone else needs to answer that question. I realize my hatred of this question is irrational and impractical.   I am the only one who can answer the question.   Afterall, I plan the weekly meals, do all of the grocery shopping and cooking.   Dinner is my jam! Yet, I still can not stand being asked.   So, how can I avoid the question? A dry erase board.   I bought one specifically for this purpose.   It has the days of the week and I populate it with each nights dinner plan.   There is space for o

  Every Monday I drive to work.   I stop on the way to a grocery store that donates near expired produce 3 times a week to the sanctuary.   I load up sometimes 400 pounds of produce into my car—apples, bananas, greens, tomatoes, melons, squash, peppers—anything and everything.   When I get to work, I drive it out to Duncan’s barn.   Duncan was a 1200 pound pig who passed away almost 2 years ago.   He was about 12 at the time—quite elderly for a pig.   The barn carries his name as a tribute.   Everyone loved him, including my son, who met him when he was almost 2.   He would crawl into Duncan’s bed with him while he napped, press his face to Duncan’s snout and just jabber on about whatever he wanted Duncan to know.   In his wisdom, Duncan would snort, open his eyes, snort a bit more, sniff and snort some more, just taking it all in.   I miss him. The boxes of produce are sorted into what can and cannot be eaten and placed in a tin-lined closet.   Every Monday, without fail, as I’m sor

Inhale exhale. Inhale exhale. Inhale exhale. Ok, now I’m not quite so frustrated or angry anymore. Let me explain: I don’t like to brag, so I’m not bragging.   I am a highly educated, highly qualified, professional non-profit fundraiser.   I have 2 bachelor’s degrees, an executive MBA, and a certificate in fundraising management.   My brain is worth $200,000 and I have the student debt to prove it.   I have been doing what I’m doing for nearly 20 years.   I’ve raised tens of millions of dollars for national and local organizations.   All that to say, I know what I’m doing.   And yet, every so often, I recognize that it’s helpful to get an outsider’s opinion.   Someone who’s never heard of me or my organization.   Someone who has experience in a different area of business or fundraising or non-profit management.   I don’t pretend to know it all.   I felt this way about my recent effort to seek corporate support for our fall fundraising event, ThanksLiving.   It’s, without

 "Oh, MOM, you look like a troll!"  Any other time, I'd be insulted but seeing as how it was super windy, my hair was standing on end and Trolls was his current favorite movie, I took it as a compliment.  Call me Princess Poppy! Trolls is entertaining...the first 3 or 4 times.  But after a weekend camping with no internet and only one downloaded movie, it was all that was available for the long drive home.  So Ike watched it.  And watched it again when we got home.  And again the next morning.  And again.  And again.  And again.  I noticed at the end of the week that Trolls was listed as number 4 in movies that day. "You know that's because of us, right?"  Nick said.  He might be right.  "I'll bet we're up to number 3 by the end of the weekend." Well, wouldn't that be something.   Trolls remained a favorite for quite some time.  The daily "how was your day" turned into "are you feeling like Poppy or Branch?"  And the

His photo is on my living room wall.  I see it everyday.  I find that I'm drawn to him and wishing that I had the confidence to get closer to him without getting hurt.  I know he'd never hurt me on purpose.  But I don't know him well enough to read his body language.  But I hope, with these words, that you can understand just how majestic he is and how amazing all cows could be...if only they were allowed to live. You’ve only seen them from far away.  Driving down the highway or on a back country road.  A herd of cows.  Lying in a pasture or grazing—they’ve always been quickly passed by.  Fleeting.  Just in your vision long enough to recognize their shape.  But now, now, the being towering beside you is anything but far away.  He is close and he is big.   Nearly 6 feet tall and 3,000 pounds, they said.  You reach out a hand, wrist down, knuckles first, giving him a chance to smell you.  He lets out a huff and his wet nose touches your skin.  And then a long pink tongue eme