I used to be an avid reader. I devoured books. Inhaled them. I would stay up all hours of the night to finish just one more chapter, which, in actuality turned into reading the entire book in one sitting. I loved books. When I was a little girl, my mom would take me to the library, and I’d max out my library card on Nancy Drew mysteries and Sweet Valley Twins volumes. In high school, my obsession with Mary Higgins Clark novels led me to read every single book she ever wrote. In college, I read anything and everything I could get my hands on.
Then I went to seminary, and my days of reading for pleasure ended abruptly. I had no time to read for pleasure after I finished reading for class. And let me tell you: there was lots of reading for class. We read books and wrote reviews to sharpen our critical thinking skills, and apparently those skills needed lots of sharpening, because I read hundreds of books and thousands of pages for my classes.
During each semester, I compiled a list of books that I would like to read, if only I had the time. But I never had the time. I always imagined that after graduation I would pick up where I left off in my love affair with books.
But it seems that books and I are still taking a break in our relationship. I honestly do not remember the last book I read from cover to cover, and that’s a shame, because we really did have a good thing going back in the day.
I’m trying to repair our broken relationship, but it’s not easy. My attention span just isn’t what it used to be, and sometimes taking a nap is a lot more appealing than opening a book. But I’m trying. I started by purchasing one of the books on my wish list: The God I Don’t Understand, by Christopher Wright. And I’m making progress. Just last night I turned the page on chapter five.
In addition to actually purchasing a book, I have also signed up as a reviewer for Book Sneeze, a book review program offered by Thomas Nelson. Basically, I receive free books in exchange for blogging book reviews. I like free books. Don’t you? I should be receiving my first book soon. Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it later.
Reading is a discipline that I have neglected lately, but it’s a discipline that’s absolutely necessary for any writer. All good writers are voracious readers. That’s just how it is. You cannot be a good writer unless you are first a good reader. I’m afraid that the drought in my writing life is directly tied to the drought in my reading life. Reading introduces me to fresh ideas and even sharpens my critical thinking skills.
I guess the professors knew what they were doing when they forced us to read.
But I will never forgive a certain church history professor for making me read all 736 pages of Creeds of the Churches. Never. I’m just saying.
All of this thought about books has made me wonder what everyone else is reading these days. What’s on your nightstand? What should I add to my reading list? Go on and tell me. I want to know!
Until next time, grace and peace.
{image credit here}
My baby girl turned 10 months old Saturday. As she gets older and starts looking more like a little girl and less like a baby, it’s the little things I want to remember.
This excitable nature.
And this sweet little spot on the back of her neck.
This innocent delight.
And, of course, these bright blue eyes and two tiny teeth.
I could go on and on. At 10 months old, Micah has a fearlessness that I envy and a mischievousness that gets her in trouble. She plays peek-a-boo with us, crinkles up her little nose and snorts at us, follows us, and climbs all over us. She’s on the verge of walking and takes every opportunity to practice standing up. Though she started out as a picky eater, now she’ll eat anything we put in front of her, but she has a fondness for Cheerios and bananas that can’t be beat. She’s sweet and funny and easy-going and happy and as delightful as a little girl can be.
As she grows up before my eyes, It’s the little things I want to savor and remember. Soon her mouth will be filled with lots of tiny little teeth. That sweet spot on the back of her neck will be covered with blonde curls, and the chub will fall off her little legs. But her eyes will always be bright blue. And I pray that she’ll keep her innocent delight and sense of adventure. Right now, the little things are the precious things in our lives.
Until next time, grace and peace.
Yesterday, Micah and I traveled to the big city so I could shop for a new swimsuit. Let’s just say that after giving birth to a child, my old suits are a little {ahem} inappropriate. It was time for a new swimsuit.
I hadn’t exactly been looking forward to the task, but white water rafting and log flumes are looming in my future, and it was now or never. I chose now.
Because I had to return a pair of sandals to Target, I decided to start there, and after getting Micah settled into her stroller, I promptly selected about 207 items to try on my post-baby body. I made my way to the fitting room, where the attendant looked horrified at the mountain of clothes I had piled onto the stroller’s handles. I assured her that I would only take six items into the room at a time. She handed me my number tag, and I wheeled the stroller into the narrow walkway between the dressing rooms.
Which is where I discovered a few things.
First: the stroller wouldn’t fit through the stall door.
Second: if I somehow managed to wrangle the stroller through the door, I wouldn’t fit in the stall. Which would defeat the purpose of getting the stroller into a fitting room.
Third: the handicapped stall was occupied.
I decided to wait it out. When a little blonde girl about as big as my pinkie finger finally left the handicapped fitting room, I wheeled the stroller in and settled into the task of finding a flattering suit. Imagine my shock when the first tankini I tried on was a winner! I was even more pleased to discover I needed a smaller size.
I flipped through the pile of swimsuits I had hauled into the fitting room to find the smaller size {because I always take at least two sizes of the same item into a dressing room with me}, but I was out of luck. So, I pulled on one of the swimsuit coverups I had selected, left behind my clothes, and strolled out of the dressing room. I quickly retrieved the size I needed, made my way back to the fitting rooms, wheeled the stroller into the hallway, and opened the door of the handicapped stall.
And startled a half-dressed college girl.
Oops.
I quickly closed the door and asked tentatively, “Umm…are my clothes still in there?”
“I guess so,” she replied. “I’ll be out in a minute and switch to another room.”
“I’m so sorry!” I answered. “I didn’t realize you were in there.”
And then the awkward silence followed, during which I wondered, “What is it with these girls taking the handicapped stall??”
When she hurriedly exited the stall with an armload of bikinis, I avoided her eyes and scurried back inside the only room that would hold both me and the stroller. I shed the too-big suit and tried on the smaller size.
It fit! Yay for finding an appropriate swimsuit so quickly! But I had other items to try on, so I took off the suit and laid it on the bench.
Which is when I discovered the poor girl’s undergarments. That’s right. Undergarments. Plural. Bra and Panties.
As if I hadn’t already exchanged enough awkwardness with the girl, now I had to tell her that she left her underwear behind.
Who in the world tries on bikinis without their underwear?? The thought makes me shudder. Seriously. Who does that??
The crazier thing, when I knocked on the girl’s stall and told her she had left her underwear behind, she denied it!
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “I’m wearing my panties.”
Umm…no you’re not, I thought to myself. I know because they’re in a pile in my dressing room.
“Maybe I left my bra in there,” she said.
Yes, you did, I thought. And your panties!
“Well, you’ll probably want your stuff before you leave. Just wanted to let you know that it was in there,” I muttered.
I tried to finish up and get out of there before she did, but I was unsuccessful. When we met in the hallway, again, I stepped aside and let her grab her undergarments. Plural.
Funny thing. The panties that weren’t hers disappeared from the bench.
Now why would she go and take someone else’s underwear?
I’m just saying.
Don’t you wish you were me? Needless to say, when I got home, I promptly threw my new suit into the washing machine. Wouldn’t you?
Until next time, grace and peace.
In case you haven’t noticed, I have a daughter. A little daughter. A daughter who is nine and a half months old and checks in at barely 15 pounds. She’s tiny. Tiny people require carseats. And carseats with tiny people in them are heavy. Really heavy. Even if you only have to haul them around for a few minutes.
I love the job that carseats perform, but they’re such a hassle. It takes so much time to strap Micah in and out of her seat that if I’m only going to be out of the car with her for a few minutes, I roll up my sleeves and take out the whole carrier. Because it’s easier. And faster. But heavier.
So when Senojal Designs started booming and the orders rolled in, I consolidated my trips to the post office as much as I could. I was grateful for the business, but I hated the six-mile roundtrip trek to the post office, hauling Micah in and out of the car in the aforementioned carrier, standing in line, juggling packages, and wasting 30 minutes of my day on such a mundane task.
I started looking for solutions.
Many etsy sellers choose to use the integrated shipping option offered by PayPal, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. Have you ever gotten a package with a PayPal label taped to the front of it? They’re ugly, no? I want my packages to be pretty, just like the stationery I sell, so PayPal shipping was out for me.
Other etsy sellers recommended using stamps.com for shipping, but since I’m cheap frugal, I refused to pay the monthly service fee. I don’t need all the bells and whistles that come with a service like stamps.com. I just wanted to print postage like the post office. I wasn’t interested in big labels or tracking packages. Just postage, please.
I ordered a kitchen shipping scale from Amazon and continued to research my options.
When I first stumbled upon Endicia, I dismissed it as I had stamps.com, but when I revisited the site, I found what I had been looking for all along: printable postage with no monthly fee. I couldn’t have been more excited. I downloaded the software, ordered some postage labels, and waited anxiously to try it out.
Y’all, it couldn’t have been easier. So far, I’ve shipped four packages using Endicia’s free service, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. No more trips to the post office while lugging around a heavy baby carrier. Only a walk to the mailbox while Micah naps.
As with all things that seem too good to be true, there is a catch. For one thing, you can only print first class postage for packages that weigh 13 ounces or less. If your package weighs more than that, you’ll have to either take it to the post office, or use a Priority Mail flat rate box {Endicia does print flat rate Priority Mail postage}. The vast majority of my packages weigh less than 13 ounces, so this really isn’t an issue for me. I don’t mind going to the post office occasionally, I’m just not interested in going two or three times a week.
Before you sign up for Endicia’s printable postage, you should know that you can only print the postage on labels supplied by Endicia. I paid roughly $20 for 124 labels, which is a negligible cost for me. It’s worth it to avoid the post office.
If you’re running a small business from home and looking for an inexpensive shipping solution, this is the way to go. Seriously. I wouldn’t lie to you. See for yourself, and let me know what you think!
Until next time, grace and peace.
I grew up eating watermelon and shooting fireworks on the Fourth of July, but when I married Dennis, I was introduced to another brand of Independence Day festivities. What could be more exciting than watermelon and fireworks, you ask? Catfish and turtle races.
Every year, the fine people at Cato Baptist Church host a catfish fry and turtle race to celebrate the Fourth of July. It’s always an event to remember. Not only is the catfish amazing {so I hear, I’m not a catfish connoisseur}, the turtle race is also a source of delight for both kids and adults.
The hunt for turtles begins weeks before the race. In years past, my father-in-law has been known to drag the pond to catch a slew of turtles. For a couple of years, the Jones family supplied many a kid in Cato with a turtle to enter in the race. We always had a winner, since we held a couple of practice rounds in the yard before we headed off to the race.
That’s not cheating, is it??
But this year, there was no pond dragging. Micah and her cousins had one turtle to share between them. Lauren {my niece} dubbed him Rufus. We painted his name on his back, loaded him in a bucket, and headed off to church, sure that he would give the other turtles a run for their money.
Not so. Rufus didn’t move. At all. The race began, and other turtles scurried to the edge of the circle. But not Rufus. He stayed put. Never moved a muscle.
So much for our winning streak.
There’s always next year, right??
Until next time, grace and peace.
