This weekend we hosted another round of family here at the Morgan Hostel. I downgraded us from a hotel or motel to a hostel since our visitors have to share a bathroom with two toddlers. And one of them (WHO IS FINALLY POTTY TRAINED, PRAISE THE LORD) doesn’t have very good aim. Also, our guests are forced to eat my questionable cooking . . . which just adds to whole “I may die if I stay here much longer” feeling.
[I think she says stuff like this to frighten away future visitors.]
It has become a ritual of mine to take photos of the cemetery here on Fort Leavenworth at various times of day, in different seasons, on holidays, and under certain weather conditions. There’s something about the pristine uniformity of this military cemetery that makes it so beautiful to me. And never is that more true than when the grounds are covered in a blanket of clean, undisturbed snow.
I look at the innumerable headstones and remember that each one represents a living soul: a man, woman or (in some cases) teenager who was willing to take an oath to defend our nation against our enemies.
In an effort to evade the freezing rain in Atlanta, my parents came to town on Monday evening—two days before the day we all planned for them to arrive. Two days before the day the house would have been clean. Two days before the day the furniture would have been dusted. Two days before the day I would have had meals planned, prepared and frozen.
I know. Even I didn’t believe that last one.
Well, we had our first snowstorm of the season this week, and I can’t even begin to tell you how excited we’ve all been about it. So, I’ll show you in a photo:
If you hang around this blog for more than a minute, you’re bound to stumble on a post (or 70) about my ongoing struggle with depression. I have remained very transparent about my love-hate relationship with medications because I know that so many of my friends, family and readers have a similar story to tell. Our culture, our physicians, the entire field of psychology, and even the church (!!!) have fully embraced the idea that depression is something that we can—or should—medicate with psychotrophic (mind-altering) drugs.
It occurred to me recently that our kids have been pretty isolated this winter—what with all the infectious diseases, hazardous road conditions, bone-chilling temperatures, and 50-mile-an-hour winds.
You know, all the typical signs of the apocalypse.
Did you know that Al Gore freezing over is the 5th sign? Let’s just hope he wasn’t in Atlanta this past week or Kirk Cameron will have to make a movie about it. (In case you’re keeping track, that’s a religious, a political, a geographical, and a pop culture joke all rolled into one.)
[Please tell me she doesn’t think Kirk Cameron is representative of current pop culture.]
I just went so far off track I don’t even remember where I was going with this… Oh! Stir-crazy. That’s where I was.
I got a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law last Tuesday that cut right to my heart. Now, a two-sentence e-mail from me would mean that 1) I am sad/disappointed/angry about something or 2) I am sending the message while simultaneously wiping urine off our bathroom wall and my face (true story). However, a two-sentence e-mail from my father-in-law means something else entirely. It means that he is reaching out without wanting to seem intrusive. It means that he took time out of his work-filled schedule to let me know that he’s thinking about me. It means that I had better get back to blogging.
So, when I read, “How are you? Haven’t talked to you lately,” I knew exactly what he was trying to say.
There was a time in my life when I wasn’t easily embarrassed. I had a one woman show in middle school. I used to perform SNL skits at family reunions. Y’all, I was the ultimate grand supreme winner of the Barksdale Elementary School lunchtime “Turn Your Face the Purplest Contest”—a contest I both invented and won when I passed out into my chicken noodle soup. (Nope. Not even kidding.)
How’s that for resume material?
I had NO shame—but in a good way. Not in the People of Walmart kind of way.
Well, friends, I’m back and bedder than ever.
[Typos already. Well, that's what happens when you take two weeks off without writing.]
No, that’s not a typo. It’s an explanation of where I’ve been these past two weeks. Allow me to elaborate…
Brian gave me a Fitbit for Christmas. It’s basically a device I wear on my wrist that tracks my movements (sleep and overall activity level).
First of all, men, I need to inform you that this is an incredibly risky gift for a man to give a woman for Christmas. Particularly if she has struggled with depression.
“Merry Christmas, honey! Here’s a nifty gift that will track how many hours you spend in bed and how stagnant you are even during your few waking moments.”
I just had a flashback to the Christmas where my dad gave my mom running shoes and fluorescent jogging suits. I’ll never forget the look on her face. It’s the look that says, “I know just the perfect place to put this bleepity-bleep-bleep shoe!”