Clean Up on Aisle Twelve

I'm thinking about updating my blogger profile to read, "My name is Katie, and I single-handedly keep security camera men from falling asleep on the job."

It was the summer after I graduated high school.  Mom and I had gone to Bed, Bath, and Beyond to pick up some stuff for my dorm room.  Among those items, plastic crates.  You know, the ones that serve almost no purpose in real life and shouldn't be found anywhere but in a dorm room.  I had three homemade wooden boxes (that leave purple and turquoise paint everywhere they sit) and opted to buy two plastic ones, too.  They were in a cute display in the breezeway between the two front doors of the store.  I grabbed two, and we kept shopping.

While we were checking out, Mom and I noticed the plastic crates we'd grabbed were less than perfect.  I took them out the door (no, the alarm didn't go off) and went to exchange them.  I set my two crates on the display and began searching for unbroken ones.  Since this was in the entryway, the automatic door opened and closed every time I moved.  Kind of annoying, but not really a big deal except for the fact that one of the crates had been displaced.  When the door opened, it caught the corner of the crate.  When it closed, it pushed the crate further out of place.  Of course, that one misbehaving crate hit the other crates in the display.  Since I kept moving, the door kept opening and closing, and the crates kept flying all over the entryway.  The entire display tumbled onto the floor creating a fire hazard and almost hitting me in the face. 

I wasn't really sure what to do.  I couldn't stop the display from toppling over just like I couldn't stop the door from opening.  I stood there with my arms in the air, triggering the motion sensor yet again.

I looked through the window to my mom and the cashier, both of whom had stopped what they were doing to search out the cause of this racket.  "And we're letting her go to school 900 miles away," I heard Mom say.

I lost a war with a plastic crate display.  A few war wounds, but I lived to tell the tale.  It has been three years and I have still not shown my face in that Bed, Bath, and Beyond again.
<>< Katie

War Wounds

Today was more of a winter day than a construction day... The banging has stopped temporarily, but I am wearing long pants and a long sleeve shirt. What the crap?

I cut the grass today for the third time since Saturday. I've come to a conclusion: cutting the grass shouldn't be this painful. It is literally painful for all aspects of personal health. Ok, maybe not relational, but then again, I've never tried to have a deep conversation on the tractor. Emotionally it's hard especially when the neighbors are those kinds of people who measure their grass with a rule and use a scissors to cut the grass (just kidding, but only a little). Spiritually it's a challenge because I listen to sermons on my iPod. Mentally it's a strategic battle because I have to make sure I'm going the right direction at the right time in order to avoid grass shavings in the trees... (Whatever you say, Dad.)

Cutting the grass causes physical pain. Our trees, bushes, etc. are taking over and desperately need trimming! Cutting the grass next to them involves scratching, pricking, and (since it just rained) wetness. It's not pleasant. Especially compiled with the fact that my "Lay on the steering wheel, close your eyes, hit the gas, and pray for the best" no longer saves me from scars.

Cutting the grass leaves me with war wounds in the same way being a witness for Christ leaves me with war wounds. Wounds from the trees are a lot more visible on the outside, but wounds for Christ hurt just as much on the inside. God's changing out lives and sometimes we have to get a little dirty in order for Him to do it. To quote Audio Adrenaline, 'Let's get dirty, let's get used..."

<>< Katie