Katdish.net

Not really a post today. Sorry about that. The thing is, I’m not as strong as I think I am sometimes. I struggle. I fight with God instead of surrenduring to Him. Ask anyone who knows me well and they will tell you I can be the most stubborn person in the world. That can be a very good thing and a very bad thing.

I’m dealing with something that is very scary for me. It could be nothing, it could be life changing. All I know is I need to stop being afraid and simply surrender and trust. Because even though I understand on a head level that God is in control, I need to understand it from my heart.

Back to the regularly scheduled program tomorrow. Thanks for indulging me.

Let it Go (by Tenth Avenue North)

I’ve been holding on so tight
Look at these knuckles
They’ve gone white
I’m fighting for who I wanna be
I’m just trying to find security

But You say let it go, You say let it go
You say life is waiting for the ones that lose control
You say you will be, everything I need
You said if I lose my life it’s then I’ll find my soul
You say let it go.

Well it’s hard enough to hear
Harder still, to move beyond this fear
We know there’s nothing I can bring,
So tell me what do you want from me?

But You say let it go, You say let it go
You say life is waiting for the one to lose control
You say You will be, everything I need
You said if I lose my life it’s then I’ll find my soul
You say let it go, You say let it go

What do I love?
What do I hate?
What will I lose?
What will I gain?
How do I save my soul?
What if I bend?
What if I break?
What will it cost?
What will it take?
For you to save my soul.

You say let it go, You say let it go
You say life is waiting for the one to lose control
You say You will be, everything I need
You said if I lose my life it’s then I’ll find my soul

You say let it go, You say let it go
You say life is waiting for the one to lose control
You say you will be, everything I need
You said if I lose my life it’s then I’ll find my soul
You say let it go, You say let it go

image courtesy of photobucket.com

Several weeks ago, I received an encouraging, beautiful handmade card from a friend. She contacted me a few days earlier, asked for my mailing address and let me know she would be sending it. This card is pinned to the bulletin board in my office right next to my beloved picture of Boz Dog. Then earlier this week, as I was looking through the mail, I spyed another envelope from this lovely person.

I opened the envelope to find a note card that simply said, “@katdish ~ You are “She”. Also enclosed was a writing by Kobi Yamada entitled “She”:

She must be something special. She is. Celebrate her.
She loved life and it loved her back. Celebrate her passion.
She listened to her heart above all other voices. Celebrate her wisdom.
She pursued big dreams instead of small realities. Celebrate her priorities.
She saw every ending as a new beginning. Celebrate her resiliency.
She discovered her real measurements had nothing to do with numbers or statistics. Celebrate her self esteem.
She was kind, loving and patient…with herself. Celebrate her tenderness.
She woke up one day and threw away all her excuses. Celebrate her accountability.
She realized that she was missing a great deal by being sensible. Celebrate her spirit.
She turned her can’ts into cans, and her dreams into plans. Celebrate her goals.
She ignored people who said it couldn’t be done. Celebrate her independence.
She had a way of turning obstacles into opportunities. Celebrate her magic.
She went out on a limb, had it break off behind her, and discovered she could fly. Celebrate her faith.
She discovered she was the one she’d been waiting for. Celebrate her self-reliance.
She added so much beauty to being human. Celebrate her presence.
She walked in when everyone else walked out. Celebrate her friendship.
She just has this way of brightening the day. Celebrate her radiance.
She made the whole world feel like home. Celebrate her warmth.
She decided to enjoy more and endure less. Celebrate her choices.
She decided to start living the life she’d imagined. Celebrate her freedom.
She colored her thoughts with only the brightest hues. Celebrate her optimism.
She was an artist and her life was her canvas. Celebrate her brilliance.
She ran ahead where there were no paths. Celebrate her bravery.
She crossed borders recklessly, refusing to recognize limits, saying bonjour and buon giorno as though she owned both France and Italy and the day itself. Celebrate her joie de vivre.
She held her head high and looked the world straight in the eye. Celebrate her strength.
She not only saw a light at the end of the tunnel she became that light for others. Celebrate her compassion.
She designed a life she loved. Celebrate her joy.
She took the leap and built her wings on the way down. Celebrate her daring.
She said bye-bye to unhealthy relationships. Celebrate her happiness.
She remained true to herself. Celebrate her authenticity.
She made the world a better place. Celebrate her.

I am certainly not she. But I strive to be. And I wanted to share this with you today because I want you to encourage you as the sender of this wonderful blessing disguised in an envelope encouraged me.

Celebrate you.

Thank you, my friend.

I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again. Jon Acuff of Stuff Christians Like was the inspiration for me to start blogging in the first place. (You may send him angry e-mails at jon@stuffchristianslike.net). If Jon’s blog was just about the writing, I’d still be a huge fan, but it’s so much more than that. It’s about community. The comments section of SCL is that community, and it is awesome. One of the charter members of what I refer to as the “SCL Posse” is Becky Miller, who is also awesome:

I met Katdish on Stuff Christians Like. Then we became Twitter friends when I decided to cyber-stalk the frequent SCL commenters, figuring that if we all liked Jon’s sense of humor and perspective on faith, we’d have a lot in common.

Kathy generously invited me to guest post here to introduce my new blog, How-To Hospitality. I’m a wife and mother in New England who entertains a LOT. I’m also clumsy and easily sidetracked. This means I’ve had more than my fair share of hospitality foibles. I started How-To Hospitality to tell on myself and my hospitality fails and wins, hoping to help others in the process.

In keeping with Hey Look, A Chicken!’s skymalladocious posts, I present:

Five Ways Sky Mall Takes Your Entertaining from Everyday to Epic

Let’s face it. The people who shop at Sky Mall are better than us. They make more money. They live in bigger houses. They have cooler gadgets. It stands to reason, then, that their parties are better than ours. What are some of your parties’ problems, and how can Sky Mall meet those needs?

1. Problem: Store-bought soda is boring and predictable
Solution: Soda Maker Kits! $129.99

Make your own fresh soda with this machine. Not only will this take your beverage selection up a notch, the product description actually promises to save the planet.

2. Problem: Your fruit bowl is not tropical enough
Solution: Palms Fruit Hammock! $29.99

Your mangoes and coconuts should feel at home in an island-like environment. This product not only keeps your fruit fresher longer, it also adds that extra touch of authenticity to your luau theme. The only problem I foresee is having guests constantly ask, “What’s up with your banana hammock?”

3. Problem: You aren’t strong enough to scoop your own ice cream
Solution: Microwaveable Ice Cream Scoop! $4.97

My mom once told me about a girl she knew in high school who had a normal left forearm and a ginormous right forearm. The girl’s summer job? Working at an ice cream stand. Don’t let that happen to you. Buy this scoop today.

4. Problem: You broke your punch bowl by filling it with salad, putting it in the fridge, then later fishing for mustard on the back part of the shelf, inadvertently knocking the punch bowl out and shattering it on the floor.*
Solution: Lighted Party Fountain! $49.99

*Er, wait, maybe that was only me. You might not need this punch fountain after all.

5. Problem: Your guests don’t want to hold their own root beer cans
Solution: Tex the Armadillo Can Holder! $29.95 (each)

Supply each of your guests with one of these darling figurines to hold their beverages. Don’t forget homemade wine glass tags for each ‘dillo. Martha Stewart has some lovely ideas for making your own wine glass tags.

But that’s another post. Martha Stewart’s parties are better than ours, too.

***

To read more from Becky Miller, visit her at How-To Hospitality and follow her on the twitter at @miller_schloss.

image courtesy of photobucket.com

If you are a regular reader here, you may have read my post and giveaway for Steven Pressfield’s book, The War of Art. This book is easily one of the most valuable items in my writer’s toolbox.

As a friend of mine so eloquently puts it, “Steven Pressfield is absolutely zero bullsh*t.” If you’re looking for someone to tell you that it’s okay to put off your writing until you get your life under control, or that it’s okay to put aside your passion because you’re tired or weary, don’t read his book or his blog. Give in to Resistance and allow it to bury you and your dreams. Just don’t blame anyone but yourself because you couldn’t or wouldn’t put in the work.

Talent is so abundant it’s almost cliche’. Talent will only take you so far. If you truly believe that you have been called to your particular creative endeavor–whether that be writing, painting, music, whatever–then what are you waiting for? If you’re waiting for conditions to be perfect before you begin in earnest, I’ve got news for you. They will never be perfect. Resistance will never allow that to happen.

I recently discovered Mr. Pressfield writes a weekly post entitled Writing Wednesdays. I was particularly impressed with one called The Uses of Shame. In part, he writes:

Shame is good. Shame is a tremendous weapon against Resistance. Along with habit, momentum, aspiration, anger, eros and joy, shame can be a mighty ally in the never-ending guerrilla campaign against self-sabotage.

What is shame? Shame is the emotion we feel when we are guilty of acts that are unworthy of us.

Resistance hates shame. Because Resistance knows that once we feel shame, we are likely (goaded by this extremely unpleasant sensation) to take action. We are likely to gird our loins, put some starch in our backbone, kick ourselves in the ass–and actually start doing our work.

In this context, I agree that shame is a powerful motivator. Of course, there is bad shame. Bad shame is based on fear. It keeps victims of sexual and domestic abuse from outing their attackers. Bad shame keeps people in relationships because of obligation rather than love, it empowers bullys to continue their intimidation tactics on others. But bad shame is almost always based on lies.

Good shame motivates us to put away our excuses and belly aching and helps us move closer from the person we are to the person we want to be.

And what a shame it would be for the rest of the world if we never got a glimpse of that person inside of you…

Sorry/you’re welcome.

A recent, and very early, Friday morning:

I hear it through a thick blanket of sleep, soft at first then clearer and stronger. Not the sort of noise one fears at night. Not a crack or a thump or a ring from the telephone. But the sort of noise that makes you wonder where it’s coming from and what in the world it means.

“Free credit report dot com, tell your friends tell your dad tell your mom.”

I grab the remote control and point it in the general direction of the television, thinking that I had dozed off in the middle of whatever I had been watching three hours earlier. I wave it blindly, pushing the ON/OFF button and then smacking the whole thing against my hand because the batteries must be dead. And then I realize that the television isn’t on. The noise, however, still is:

“Free credit report dot com, tell your friends tell your dad tell your mom.”

My head raises, using what can only be described as the human equivalent to sonar to identify the source.

It’s coming from my son’s bedroom.

I pull back the blankets, schlep into the hallway, and stand at his door. The soft red light from his Lightning McQueen lamp illuminates him in his bed. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms raised and his fingers doing some sort of magical dance.

“Hey,” I say.

He jerks and spins and stares at me with a look of terror. He has been worried of monsters under his bed lately, and ghosts in his closet, and the bad guy from Toy Story. I just may be all three.

“Just me,” I promise.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re singing.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy. Nightandloveyou.”

“Nightandloveyoutoo.”

Back through the hallway, back into bed. I pull the blankets over me and roll to my side. Then, just as I close my eyes:

“Free credit report dot com, tell your friends tell your dad tell your mom.”

Sigh.

Back out of bed, back into the hallway, back to his door.

“Hey, bud,” I say.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Quit singing and go to sleep.”

“Okay, Daddy. Nightandloveyou.”

I turn to leave, satisfied that my tone of voice has said what my words did not: don’t wake me again.

“Daddy?” he says, more to the shadow I cast against the wall than to me.

“Yeah, bud?”

“Mommy says to sing when you’re scared.”

Uh-oh.

I move into his room and onto his bed. “Mommy’s a smart girl,” I say. “Maybe the smartest.”

“She says singing makes the shadows brighter.”

“It does,” I tell him. But I don’t think she meant to sing a song from a commercial, and I’m fairly sure she didn’t mean to sing in the middle of the night.”

“Do you get scared, Daddy?”

I mull that one over, biding a few precious seconds by rearranging his covers and pillow. This is a murky question, one best considered in the light of day when I’m alert rather than the dark of night when I’m-not-so-much.

I weigh my options. Tell him that I am scared sometimes, and that may make things much worse. Because if Daddy’s scared, then there must really be some bad things out there. Things worse than monsters. Don’t tell him, though, and I risk much worse. I risk lying to my son.

Because I do get scared. A lot.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Sometimes.”

“What do you do when you’re scared?”

“Pray, usually.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s even better than singing.”“Does it make the shadows brighter?”

“Better,” I say. “It makes the shadows go away.”

So we pray that the angels will chase away all the monsters. He speaks of the ones in his room, and I think of the ones in this world. Because I know the truth: the ones in the world are real.

We sit alone in the quiet stillness of his room, two people determined to find peace and rest regardless of the shadows that surround us. “It’s not so dark with a father here,” he observes. With me there beside him, rest comes easier. “Nightandloveyou,” he says, and then is asleep.

Back in my own bed, I stop to consider the shadows in our world. I am aware of many more than my son, and thankfully so. I worry about my family sometimes. I worry what will happen next. Tomorrow used to be a word of hope for people. Things would be better then. But I think that too many would rather cling to the present or even the past now. For a lot of us, tomorrow’s just too scary.

Then I remember what my son said. The darkness doesn’t seem to dark when your father is there. Yes. The shadows lessen. Rest comes easier.

I close my eyes and say my own short prayer.

“Nightandloveyou,” I say to my Father. And I sleep.

***

To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at at his website and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.

I believe this is the third time I posted the following video, and it probably won’t be my last, because it is my hope that someone will happen across my blog today that desperately needs to hear what Brennan Manning has to say here. Even if you’ve seen it before, I invite you to watch it again.

Brennan Manning said:

The Lord Jesus is going to ask each of us one question and only one question: Do you believe that I loved you? That I desired you? That I waited for you day after day? That I longed to hear the sound of your voice?

The real believers there will answer, “Yes, Jesus. I believed in your love and I tried to shape my life as a response to it. But many of us who are so faithful in our ministry, in our practice, in our church going are going to have to reply, “Well frankly, no sir. I mean, I never really believed it. I mean, I heard alot of wonderful sermons and teachings about it. In fact I gave quite a few myself. But I always knew that that was just a way of speaking; a kindly lie, some Christian’s pious pat on the back to cheer me on. And there’s the difference between the real believers and the nominal Christians that are found in our churches across the land. No one can measure like a believer the depth and the intensity of God’s love. But at the same time, no one can measure like a believer the effectiveness of our gloom, pessimism, low self-esteem, self-hatred and despair that block God’s way to us. Do you see why it is so important to lay hold of this basic truth of our faith? Because you’re only going to be as big as your own concept of God.

In the past couple of three years I have preached the gospel to the financial community in Wallstreet, New York City, the airmen and women of the air force academy in Colorado Springs, a thousand positions in Nairobi. I’ve been in churches in Bangor, Maine, Miami, Chicago, St. Louis, Seattle, San Diego. And honest, the god of so many Christians I meet is a god who is too small for me. Because he is not the God of the Word, he is not the God revealed by it in Jesus Christ who this moment comes right to your seat and says, “I have a word for you. I know your whole life story. I know every skeleton in your closet. I know every moment of sin, shame, dishonesty and degraded love that has darkened your past. Right now I know your shallow faith, your feeble prayer life, your inconsistent discipleship. And my word is this: I dare you to trust that I love you just as you are, and not as you should be. Because you’re never going to be as you should be.”

Do you believe that He loves you?

Here we are at Katdishionary Part 7. Who knew I could stretch this series out into such a never-ending fountain of blog fodder? Well, I did, actually. Because I dig made up words. In case you missed the first six installments, you can find them here:

The Katdish Dictionary Part One
Katdishionary Part Two
Katdishionary Part Three
Katdishionary Part Four
Katdishionary Part Five
Katdishionary Part Six

And now, on with the Katdishionary:

As you know, I love the twitter! Oh sure, it abounds with annoying “social media experts” and spambots who try to ruin everyone else’s fun, but I don’t follow those types. I mostly only follow cool, real, live people who actually interact with one another. If I were one to make words beginning with “tw”, I would say it’s “twitterrific”! But I’m not. So I won’t. Anyway, today’s group of words are all from buddies on twitter. And by “buddies” I mean they are in my column labeled “Buddies”. Are you in this column? Don’t know do ya? Okay, if I talk to you on a regular basis, you are.

Skymalladocious (pronounced sky-mall-a-doe-shush)

Definition: A term used to describe one of my epic Sky Mall posts as being “docious”. I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing. Not exactly sure. Perhaps Mr. Young will comment and either confirm or deny this.

Origin: Glynn Young of Faith, Fiction and Friends used this term when tweeting my post,
Backyard Oasis courtesy of the Sky Mall, Part One. Incidentally, this was the first of three in the series. If you haven’t read them, you might want to check them out. They’re skymalladocious! Or so I’ve been told…

Katrant (pronounced kat-rant)

Definition: A term used to describe my state of mind when I rant incessantly. What makes me rant incessantly? Martha Stewart, rude anonymous comments, the girl scouts, Halloween costumes, collectibles, Petsmart, Christian retail, The Giving Tree, prosperity gospel, pajama-grams, Ricky Martin keychains, exploiting the homeless, pizza, and the prayer cross, just to name a few.

I have issues, people!

(Incidentally, if you care to read any of my incessant ranting posts, just search “incessant ranting”, because I’m not going to link all of them. I don’t have that kind of time.)

Origin: Heather from The Extraordinary Ordinary whist expressing her anticipation of the next rant, or “katrant” as she called it.

Connectinator (pronounced con-nek-ti-na-tor)

Definition: Someone who connects people or groups of people to new people or new groups of people. Sort of like a Connector as described in Malcom Gladwell’s book The Tipping Point, only more intense, obsessive and adorably annoying.

Origin: Stephanie Wetzel of The Red Clay Diaries juxtiposing my description of her as a “connector” on twitter. Here’s a play by play of the action:

AHEM >RT @brandonacox: Tell me one person, on Twitter, you consider a “connector.” (however you define that)

@redclaydiaries @katdish Thank u for the connector compliment! Of course if I’m a connector, then you’re the Connectinator.

So there you have it.

This concludes today’s installment of the Katdishionary. Although I do have a bonus acronym for those of who love a challenge. The first person who correctly identifies the following acronym may choose one of the following three options:

Option One: A guest post here on Hey Look a Chicken
Option Two: A guest post written by me for your blog
Option Three: None of the above. You can simply feel superior to everyone else as you bask in your cleverness.

And the mystery acronym of the day is…

IMGNAHS

The judges decisions are final. Please, no wagering, and Billy Coffey is not eligible. My blog. My rules.

Until next time, use your words. Even the made up ones. Especially those.

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge about to jump off. So I ran over and said, “Stop! Don’t do it! There’s so much to live for!”

“Baptist”

To read the rest of this joke (and the post that goes with it) follow me over to Kevin Martineau’s blog Shooting the Breeze where I’m guest blogging today.

When I first decided to invite other bloggers to guest post here on Hey Look a Chicken, I began with my friends and cohorts from The Fellowship of the Traveling Smartypants, which I started because I had this great idea that a few of us would take turns guest posting on each other’s blogs, but that got complicated with scheduling and I’m pretty sure math was involved. How did I make the jump from rotating guest posts to a blog about nothing? I don’t know. But that’s not important right now…

To date, many of my friends have written guest posts for me already. Some more than one. But Steph, going to great lengths to prove that I am NOT the boss of her, has waited until now to send me a guest post. Was it worth waiting for? I think so, yes. But how could you go wrong with someone who writes a blog post entitled Beware the Ass Clown? I’m sure you see my point. Here’s her Oh-so-fancy and official Bio:

Writer, wife, traveler, mom, blogger, humorist, editor, Spanish-speaker, social media admin for John C Maxwell (@johncmaxwell).

And now, after the longest intro in the history of HLAC, here’s Steph:

“You bad lady! Let us do living!”

His voice carried from the front door of the bus as I made my way back to my seat. I don’t know why he was complaining. It’s not like I did what I wanted to: yank that whistle out of his mouth and ram it up his nose.

All I did was shoulder my way between him and his mark.

You know, I really like foreign travel. And I don’t think I’m an Ugly American. I don’t whine at the lack of cheeseburgers in kosher restaurants. I resist the impulse to wander in large groups down the middle of crowded sidewalks. I LIKE foreign languages and I KNOW how hard it is to learn one, so I never make fun of nationals’ attempts to speak English to me.

See? I’m mostly a delight. But I really can’t help it if I react badly to two groups of people encountered by tourists in some countries: street vendors and lechers.

Maybe it was my first visit to Mexico City. Or more specifically, my first ride on the subway there. To get even more specific, it was my first …um… contact with the local populace.

Without going into graphic detail, I’ll just say that Mexico City is the first city I’d ever heard of to have (and need) women-only subway cars during rush hour. After that first ride, I developed the following strategies for travel as a woman on (unisex) subway trains:

1. Stand in a group, whenever possible. With all the females in the center, surrounded by the guys. Kind of like how water buffalo protect their young from hyenas.
2. Failing #1, always find a wall. And stand against it. Facing the rest of the train. With arms crossed and a vicious look in your eye.
3. When entering or exiting trains (or really walking through any crowded area), pay attention to your immediate surroundings. And carry a backpack, slung low. Swinging it violently and unpredictably.
4. If contact is made, don’t even try to guess where it came from. Your stinkeye will be answered by leering – but blank – stares from each of the 15 men pressed up against you by the crowd.

By the end of six weeks there, I had the stinkeye and wall strategy down. And on my final train ride, I knew I’d perfected the backpack swing when the guy I “accidentally” hit actually said “OOF!” and stumbled backward.

My strategy for dealing with street vendors came out of a less violating experience. Unless you count being “taken” for a sarape as a violation.

(I didn’t actually ever buy a sarape. I just like saying it. SARAPE.)

Charging tourists double seems to be the locals’ entertainment in those souvenir markets. And it annoys me. What annoys me more is when they take advantage of Westerners’ general openness. Make eye contact and they descend like vultures.

So on that day in Israel when Whistle Man shoved a pennywhistle (that he was selling for MUCH MORE than a penny) under the nose of the nice older lady in our group, and she looked him in they eye, smiled sweetly, and said, “No, thank you,” I knew it was…

My Time to Shine.

With a mighty leap, I caught up. She was shuffling a little faster toward the bus, still smiling apologetically.

“Tweedle-eedle-eedle!” he blew the whistle in her ear. “Only ten shekels! You want for your kids?! They like! See? I have beads too! Three string for twenty shekels! Is good deal!”

It was after I elbowed him in the ribs, got between them, and said NO in his face with my best vicious expression that he called me a Bad Lady. But he let my sweet friend scramble onto the bus.

Personally, I think Mr. Whistle should be grateful that I wasn’t carrying a backpack.

Just sayin.

***

To read more from Stephanie Wetzel, visit her at The Red Clay Diaries and be one of her thousands of adoring followers on the twitter at @redclaydiaries.