best April Fool's joke in church

Our new preacher likes to shake us up a little so he had us stand up during his sermon and move to sit next to someone we wouldn't normally sit by. No spouses together either. Surprisingly uncomfortable, but we all participated to the best of our ability. No problem was detected until the children returned from children's church. I wasn't paying attention until the lady sitting next to me started giggling. I looked around and noticed all these puzzled three to six-year-olds. "I see grandma, but what happened to my mommy?" Oops. Only one child was traumatized but we passed the basket for her future therapy.

You just don't get to have that much fun in church very often although if you're a lifer like me, you can probably dredge up a story or two. I loved it back in 1970 when a long-haired hippie walked down the center aisle of our church during the sermon and just took his seat on the steps leading to the podium. I can remember our white shoes, white belt, Brylcreamed haired preacher, somewhat at a loss. They had a civil interchange and I don't recall any of the details, didn't matter, that was the coolest church service of my life to that point.

Church

A friend's son turned four years old and they decided to give him an allowance for doing a chore. His very first week he picked up all his toys and his mom carefully counted out five dimes to him. She enjoyed the beaming smile on his face. "What do you plan to do with your money?" she asked. He became thoughtful for a moment and replied, "I think I'll buy that snack at church." Puzzled since they don't sell snacks at her church, she realized he was referring to communion. After all they always pass the collection plate right after. Not bad logic for a four year old.

Grandmother

This first year of being a grandmother has been absorbing. I find that I am endlessly interested in this developing little person, in a way which is similar to my feelings for my first child. I have diverse demands on my time so that there are natural limits to my interaction with John. I have more knowledge about child development now than I did 26 years ago, but it makes not a scrap of difference. No child has ever been so clever or so beautiful as this little boy. His every movement and mood fascinates me. I love to watch him play, to watch the choices he makes, to note the expressions of interest and joy and anger and cunning on his face. When he shrugs his shoulder and looks at me, coyly, inviting me to join in his world, I am ready to drop everything and leap.

I am in week three of a neck/shoulder injury and I would just like to say, Ow. I went to the chiropractor for the first time in my life. Interesting. It has definitely helped me. I would say the pain is about on a level three, down from a solid nine. (one being a mosquito bite, ten being child birth)
The neighbors are getting a new roof today. It sounds like a giant making popcorn on his stove. These sorts of things make me nervous, that is homeowners repairing and maintaining their homes. I feel like a failure because I have no money to keep up the house and I don't work hard enough to do everything that I can do. Maybe I can at least do my house work this morning. That might make me feel better. Couldn't hurt.

Stacked and Piled

Stacked and Piled by Nancy Thomas

My life is full of children wild,

they run and play,

in carefree ways,

and always in the kitchen now,

dirty dishes, stacked and piled.

In single days, my mother smiled

to hear me say,

“Order is the parents' way.”

but these days I must wade and plow,

through toys and tots all stacked and piled.

My hair has not been washed or styled,

my nails are bad,

my wardrobe sad,

and ever, always, mounds and mounds

of dirty laundry, stacked and piled.

Children won't be stamped and filed

sticky messes

tangled tresses

but always at bedtime now,

hugs and kisses, stacked and piled.

If Bosnia were home.

I enjoyed a visit with my friend who lives in Bosnia. We went to Walmart for last minute treats to take back home. She is very sad that she can no longer take her genuine Dublin Dr. Pepper on the plane with her. She said it was a good thing she wasn't flying on the day they made everyone dump their liquids. They wouldn't have been able to pry her D.P. out of her hands and would have had to take her to jail. Not the best reference for a missionary.

Interesting thought: what would I take to Bosnia if I had a fifty pound weight limit. She took mint chocolate chips, canned biscuits, powdered Gatorade, cornbread mix and frozen cookie dough. Also Community brand coffee for some Louisiana ex-pats. On some trips she has taken Pace picante sauce, and a tortilla iron(a true act of love since it weighs about 8lbs. all by itself). I'm not sure what I would take but I have a feeling chocolate would top the list. I know people love the chocolate of other countries, but I dance with the one who brung me. Hershey's milk chocolate is the flavor of my youthful Trick or Treating. Also the once-a-year-impulse-purchase of a fourth of a pound of chocolate stars at the Montgomery Ward candy counter. Of course, Nestle when it has to be Crunch. And keep your traitorous raisins away from my chocolate, and my cookies while we're at it.

My life is a saga

My life is a saga, or perhaps a series of unfortunate events, or maybe more like Keystone Kops. I have children, four boys and a girl. I have 86% raised them(the youngest is fourteen). I know what to do with children. So when my friend needed someone to look after her two boys aged 2 and 4 for an afternoon I was happy to volunteer. The boys, Small and Smaller, came to my house and we proceeded to explore the outdoors. We fed the fish in the pond and I sat in the gazebo and watched them romp in the puddles in the grass from the recent rain. After an hour or so it occurred to me that I didn't really have permission for them to get wet. I herded them in for a sip of juice and a quick bath. At this point I noticed that Smaller was wearing an orthopedic device on his foot. Rats! It appeared to be okay. I hastily cleaned and dried it. I put the boys into t-shirts and sent them upstairs to play. I threw their clothes into the wash and started on the shoes. I can't explain what happened next except to say that I temporarily lost my mind. I put the shoes into my brand new dryer without first scraping the mud off of them. My son then came to inform me that Smaller perhaps wasn't finished with his toilet training. I raced upstairs to find the boys playing happily amongst a rather loose stool. I grabbed a towel and gathered up Smaller for his second bath of the afternoon. Back upstairs to try to clean up the rest of the mess. Paper towels, Lysol, some carpet cleaner, the t-shirt was beyond salvage. Then it was time to get the shoes out of the dryer. I opened the door and saw a fine thin coating of mud baked onto the entire surface of the dryer. And still damp shoes. I pulled the shoes out and fetched more paper towels, Lysol, bleach, possibly muratic acid. I was able to get them back into their own clothes but when they requested a movie, I totally caved. I don't intend to use t.v. as a babysitter, but I was exhausted.

Family bits

I have eccentric antecedents. My grandfather used a divining rod to find water, unsuccessfully as far as I know. His grandfather and his uncle were friends of the James brothers. Jesse and Frank used to visit their farm in the summer. Granny Petty made them stay in the barn in case the law came calling. Manon Petty insisted that he saw Jesse on the street of a Texas town, years after his supposed demise. Manon said Jesse was living incognito as a banker. Makes perfect sense.

Get me out of the poll pot

I have heard enough polls to last a lifetime. I'm tired of listening for ones that reflect my opinions. I'm tired of getting angry about how stupid America has become. I'm beyond weary of having to remind myself that they only poll the relative few who don't have caller ID and a life. I will now go on an aggressive program to live poll free. It will mean for the most part avoiding "news" sources since none of them seem able to report a story without revealing the dreadful truth of how we all feel about it. I anticipate that this will mean an upturn in my mood and outlook. I will enjoy the smiles of a grateful family.

I don't get out much

So I'm not actually like, agoraphobic or anything, but I'm thinking of developing it. I do know a thing or two about phobias having had a panic attack of my own upon ascending higher than the third rung of a ladder. Once when my two sisters and I set out to attend a funeral we had a lovely time trading phobias along the way. It went something like this.
Sister One(we'll call her Better-than-nan or BTN for short.)
BTN: I can't remember, do we go over that bridge or exit first.
Sister Two(we'll call her The Usurper or TU for short)
TU: I don't know but I think I'll recognize it when we get closer. Can't you see the church from the freeway.
Nancy: Yeah. Its a really big bridge though.
BTN: Its getting kind of dark, I'm going to have to let one of you drive.
TU: I'll drive, but let's pull off the freeway to switch.
Nancy: anybody need a Diet Coke while we're stopping
BTN: Nah, let's wait 'til after the funeral
Nancy: Hey I think we have a left exit up here.
BTN: No we veer right.
TU: Uh oh, its starting to rain. I can't see in the rain.
BTN: Well veer right and then we'll stop again.
Nancy: I'll drive, just help me find the exit.
TU: Okay do we know the name of the exit
BTN: No, it doesn't match the address of the church.
Nancy: Hey there's the bridge. I don't think I can drive over it.
TU: Its still raining, can't help you
BTN: And its still dark
Nancy: Well we'll just have to pick a church on this side of the bridge and do our praying alone.
TU: No its okay I see the church, we don't have to cross the bridge.