My Extra Ordinary Life

Several years ago I joined a Mothers of Preschoolers group at church. I was only half-heartedly involved because meetings were held on Monday mornings. And for no other reason than it was on a Monday, it just wasn’t gonna happen for us some weeks. At one of the rare meetings I did go to, I won a give away – a book, titled Green Sparkly Earrings by an author who referred to herself as Big Mama.

Now, I love to write, which would lead one to believe that I also I love to read. But really, I just like to read ABOUT books, buy them, start reading them months later and then rarely finish. There’s really no explanation. And it was the same way with this book…it sat on my bedside stand, with it’s cute little cover trying to entice me, but I ignored it until I went on a getaway with my hubby and needed something to read on the plane.

On the flight, I found I had a kindred spirit through the words of Melanie Shankle. Her sarcastic tone. Her ability to laugh at herself. Her capacity to see ways to smile through life’s mundane. Her loyalty to her people. Her big feelings about every day things like football, cold creams, Tex-Mex, and Netflix. For crying out loud, one of her dogs writes haikus…how can you not love someone who can relate to her fur baby on that level?

My poor husband was all but ignored that weekend while I devoured every story in that book. Sometimes I would laugh out loud. Sometimes I would cry. Sometimes I insisted that my husband listen while I read a part out loud in hopes he would have the same connection to it I did. Often times he gave me a cursory smirk and went on with his own reading. Whatevs.

The next time I went to MOPS, I told the girls at my table about the book. I said how fantastic it was as if I had found some unknown gem. Come to find out, on one of my delinquent Monday mornings, Ms. Shankle, herself, was the speaker at the meeting. How in the world did I miss the memo on that!? Someone commented, “Well, that’s why they gave away the book. As a way to entice the reader to show up at the meeting.” Doh!!!!

Regardless, I became a devoted follower of Big Mama. I inhaled her next two books, The Antelope in the Living Room and Nobody’s Cuter than You. I started listening to her podcast. I even anticipated her weekly fashion blog. Now, you know I must have REALLY enjoyed her if I was eager to read a fashion update! I felt like I needed to confess, “My name is Donna and I’m a Shankle groupie.”

In June, she announced on her Facebook page her newest book, Church of the Small Things, would be coming out in October and that she was creating a launch team. Without wasting a breath, I applied…along with a thousand other people. Lo and behold, I received an email a couple weeks later I would be part of the team. With bated breath I waited for my advanced reading copy of the book to arrive. Once I received it, I pounced on every chance to sit down and  take in more of her stories about “the million little pieces that make up a life.”

The introduction alone captured me. Quotes like:
“When we start to pay attention, we realize life is full of small wonders that make all the difference in a day, an hour, or a lifetime.”

“With every small thread, God is carefully and thoughtfully weaving a masterpiece.”

“These are the stories that, on the surface, may seem like nothing big; some are silly and some less so, but they are all about the little moments that together leave a legacy and light the way to show us what really matters.”

All that profound wisdom was in the first fifteen pages! She went on to share stories about growing up, influential relationships, parenting fails, and pursuing dreams. It was impossible to read without personally relating to each story and hopeless to not belly laugh in one sentence and ugly cry in the next.

Perhaps I was so spellbound by her insight because it coincided with the debut of my own blog, an endeavor that God put on my heart years ago which I was finally moving forward with. My writing focused on recognizing life’s stories and how they shape a person. Looking beyond the value the world places on all the fantastical, out-of-reach experiences for most common folk and seeing instead the beauty in every day encounters. Finding commonalities with unlikely people through storytelling. I felt reassured as I read Church of the Small Things that this new adventure of mine was a worthy notion. Nothing like being on the same wavelength as a New York Times bestselling author!

I finished her book on another getaway with my husband (there might be a trend here). Two days before we left (because we’re excellent planners), we FINALLY decided to stay close to home and go to San Antonio. Not only are there a million great restaurants and things to do in San Antonio, there was also an art gallery that was featuring a show by the talented artist, Heather Gauthier (see the front cover of the book). So my husband sweetly booked an Air B&B for that weekend, where we could lounge around, reading, napping, and just taking a breath from life.

Now, I knew that Melanie (I referred to her by her first name by then because I’m pretty sure we would be instant friends if we ever met) lived in San Antonio, so I felt it was rather ironic I was wrapping up her book while we were there. In the last chapter, “Beyond Measure,” she wrote about her experiences with church and how she and her husband, along with a small group of people, had started a church in their community that year. In a twist of fate, I finished the chapter on Sunday morning at nine o’clock while my husband slept in. I sat there for a moment thinking, I wonder where her church is located in San Antonio? I mean, what are the odds, in Texas’ second largest city, that it would be close by?

I quickly Googled it and was shocked to find it was literally only two miles away. My heart stopped…Would that be weird? She had written that it was a small church, so the odds of seeing her…and (gulp) meeting her were huge. What would I say, “Uh…we’re just in town on a getaway and I happen to be on your launch team and I just finished your book this morning and, and, and…” No…that would be weird and creepy and stalkery. But, in my next breath I rationalized, What if God put us here for this very thing? He is a God of divine timing you know. So I nervously woke up my husband and told him my crazy plan. He sweetly complied. Smart man.

We found ourselves with a little extra time before the service started (best to be fashionably late to church in order to limit awkward conversations…especially with your favorite author). The neighborhood where we were staying was a little swanky, so we drove around a bit looking at the pretty houses.

We came around a corner and spotted a house with two of Heather Gauthier’s paintings hanging on the back porch. What an interesting coincidence. We slow rolled by the house, a little jealous that someone had not one but two of her paintings. Then I spotted a vaguely familiar dog sleeping on the porch and things click into place: we were trolling Melanie Shankle’s house! I know this because her dog is a staple of her blog and the dog, together with the paintings, were too much to dismiss. Realizing this, we drove away not really sure if what just happened was creepy or just kismet. Naturally, we drive by again. The dog is sleeping like its her job and later that afternoon Melanie described on Instagram her dog’s explosive bout of diarrhea the night before.

It was too much. Reality set in that just because all the stars appear to align does not necessarily mean it’s divine intervention. We bailed on our plan and fled the scene, choosing to go walk around the touristy River Walk where we could blend in and no one would know how close I came to having a restraining order against me that morning.

That said, I do believe the timing of my new writing project and helping launch Melanie Shankle’s new book is not coincidental. Whether it’s just simply confirming that there is value in sharing your stories and celebrating “life in all its messy, magical, mundane and marvelous glory” or getting the chance to meet her someday and share with her how she has influenced me and my writing, there’s a reason God continues to use her to encourage me.

“But a role model in the flesh provides more than inspiration; his or her very existence is confirmation of possibilities one may have every reason to doubt, saying,                      “Yes, someone like me can do this.”
– Sonia Sotomayor

My kid is the epitome of extroverted. Most days, when he gets dressed, he adopts a particular persona and makes sure every item he is wearing or carrying reflects it. Like when he dresses like a cowboy, he talks with a drawl. And he greets everyone…everywhere. He knows the whole neighborhood (and they all know him…it’s hard to ignore the loud, friendly kid!). He likes to stop and chit chat while out riding his bike. He informs me daily of playdates that he’s added to his social calendar. And has gone so far as to ask the little old man at the end of the street if he would like to have a sleepover some time. When we are at restaurants, he orders for himself and has been known to flag down the waiter (politely) for refills. When we are at stop lights he will roll down his window to holler at people who are driving a car he likes, especially if they have a dog in the front seat. One time when he was cruising with daddy they overheard some girls singing in the car next to them. When they finished, he yelled out, “that was some good singing!” And the grocery store, well, that’s where he shines as a pick-up artist. Typically in the produce aisle.

My son has moves. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a handsome little dude with big blue eyes and long lashes that reach out and pull you in. Little pimp always chooses those giant car carts at the grocery store. As he “drives” the cart, he waves at people, shouting out “excuse me,” and commenting on what people have in their baskets. It’s *not* embarrassing at all for this introverted mama. Every once in a while, he’ll spot a lady that strikes his fancy and gets to work.

He will yell from the end of the aisle, “Hi!”

Surprised, she says hi back.

He quickly follows,
“do you have a dog?”

Shockingly, most have one!
“I do!” she says…not sure what to expect from the conversation.

Interested, he’ll ask,
“What’s his name?”

Smiling, she’ll tell him the name (or names) of her dog.
And that’s when she usually asks,
“do you have a dog?”

And then he swoops in for the kill…
“no…my dogs died,” with a sorrowful glance.

Completely melted, they usually lean in for a little hug while he smiles sheepishly.

I typically stand there, baffled by how many women he has lured in with this line. It’s hard to not wonder (and worry) what his teenage years will look like. Lord help us.

But more than anything, I am trying my best to not shush him too much or discourage his passionate spirit just because I’m huddled in the corner, red-faced and rocking back and forth.

At church this morning the worship team sang a few songs in Spanish. The pastor talked about how incredible it can be to witness other people worshipping God in another language. And although we might not understand the words they are singing, we can connect with their feelings.

So as I sat there today, listening to the worship team sing “Alabaré al Señor mi Dios”… “O praise the Name of the Lord our God,” I couldn’t help but remember the many times I have been fortunate to witness a multi-lingual church service during mission trips over the years. From Mexico and Russia to Papua New Guinea and Thailand…each service was very different, but the enthusiasm for their love of Jesus was the same.

One particular service comes to mind in Papua New Guinea. They met in a large tent. There were no chairs. There was no band. There was no set start time or end time. There was just worship and teaching and fellowship. Villagers from all over the area gathered at this church…it was the only one in a hundred mile radius. And boy did they sing! It was beautiful and inspiring. Their pure joy, expressed in their worship, was tangible. In a country where I felt very far from home, I felt united with these amazing believers.

After moving to Texas in 1981, my family spent some time shopping for a church. One day we visited a church at Big Springs Elementary called Concordia Lutheran. They had recently graduated from holding services in a local steakhouse to the school. It was a piece-meal operation every Sunday; chairs blocking off the hallways served as classrooms and we had “runners” every Sunday fleeing from the children’s room because chairs are not a fool-proof method for corralling youngsters. There was a no microphone, no projector and no big screens. Just a podium and some chairs. Oh, and we used the school’s piano to lead us through the hymns in the red hymnal (all you Lutherans out there will know what I’m talking about!). I was four, so I didn’t understand all the reasons that lead my parents to eventually choose Concordia Lutheran to be our church. In fact, I can remember them asking my sisters and me what we thought about the churches we had visited and I recall saying that I liked the Methodist church because they had a real classroom. Alas, I got trumped on that decision…and I’m really glad I did!

Concordia Lutheran ended up being our second family throughout my entire childhood. My parents were members of one small group the whole time we went there. My dad was an usher and spent his Saturdays mowing the grass and cleaning up the property before church on Sunday. My mom was a member of the Lutheran Women’s Mission League, organized church camp outs, cooked for the bi-monthly potluck lunches, and was a faithful member of the prayer chain. My sisters and I religiously (get it?) attended Sunday school so we could collect our perfect attendance stamps to put in our Lutheran Church Extension Fund books. We also had a firm allegiance to our youth groups all the way through our high school years. That church knew how to create community and was never lacking in opportunities to be together.

My mom, always the go-getter who never did any thing half way liked to keep the members of Concordia guessing about what she might do next.

Our pastor had a tendency to be a little long winded during his sermons. He always apologized but never really changed his ways. My mom, being a joker, told him that she was going to set an alarm one Sunday to help him wrap it up. He chuckled at her elbowing, “oh Vonnie…you wouldn’t!” But she did! The next Sunday, she brought her little travel alarm clock and thirty minutes into his sermon it rang. Blushing, he wagged his finger in her direction with a smile on his face and wrapped it up. I wish I could say that did the trick for his ramblings, but for that one Sunday, we made it out of there before the Baptists overtook Luby’s.

And like any small church, we had an annual talent show. My mom signed up to be the emcee that night. She could have, like any normal person, just stood at the front and simply introduced each act as they came on. But nooooooo! She decided to dress up like Cindy Lauper and sing each introduction while the audience hysterically laughed in disbelief. She hauled her organ to the church, set it up on the far left of the stage and played one or two chords while singing her made up songs. And, of course, she had on an orange, sparkle wig, fish net stockings, fingerless gloves that went up to her elbows, painted Lee Press-On nails, and the most over-the-top blue eye shadow and red lipstick you’ve ever seen! This was the complete antithesis of my mom. She typically sported SAS shoes, button down shirts and polyester pants, short hair and no make-up. But, for that one night…she was Cindy Lauper…and it was fabulous!

My favorite church memory of my mom, by far, was the time she dressed up as a trash man/gorilla for the Halloween party. I remember she dropped me and my sisters off at the church that night with some story about how she had to work, or something, and couldn’t join us. So we were on our own, off to explore the many homemade booths and games at our church Halloween carnival. Somewhere between counting how many little girls had dressed up like Mary, mother of Jesus, and winning yet another whole cake in the cake walk, I saw this big, gorilla-type figure show up to the party. It had the face of a gorilla but it’s whole body was covered in stuffed trash bags…and it refused to speak. All the adults volunteering at the party were dumbfounded by this unexpected guest. They all took turns walking up to it to whisper guesses of who it might be. It was during my fifth round at fishing for prizes that I put the puzzle pieces together of who the mystery guest was and with both horror and amusement, I smiled, because it was my mom.

She was the “fun mom” before that term ever existed. Always up to something and unassumingly funny.

I realized recently that I am repeating my mom’s approach to motherhood 35 years later. I love being able to surprise my son with adventures and making mundane life experiences exciting. I’m pretty sure I suggest we get snow cones more than he does and will jump at any opportunity to do something out of the ordinary. That’s what I remember about the mom of my childhood and I hope it’s what my kiddo remembers about his.

Being different isn’t a bad thing. It means you’re brave enough to be yourself.
– Denyelle Nelson

My sweet dad.

Former Marine Corps helicopter pilot, awarded a Distinguished Flying Cross.

Hunter. The kind who tracks his prey and makes his own arrows.

He owned a motorcycle ever since high school and could tell you every little detail about how an engine works.

To say he’s a “guy’s guy” would be putting it lightly.

I find it ironic he ended up with three girls. At one point, our family consisted of my mom, my grandma, my sisters and me, and our dog…who was also a girl. Our household was a hot mess at all times but he took it all in stride. Kicked back with his martini and pipe, while the hormones flew.

When I was in third grade, he took me deer hunting. At that point in my life, the exposure I’d had to hunting was a few trips to the gun range, where my sisters and I would sit in the car and play Barbies, while he practiced. I had also witnessed my dad process several deer in our very own garage (which is definitely a story for another time). So I was not a total novice to the world of hunting and camping…but I think it’s safe to say I was not totally prepared for the experience either.

We set out on a Saturday morning to join a few of his buddies at a deer lease in north Texas. It was only for a night, but you better believe I packed like I was going to be gone for weeks. Doesn’t every young girl travel with her diary, Lipsmackers and enough clothes and shoes to change every hour? I’m pretty sure I brought along my Caboodle for my necessities too! For those of you who weren’t blessed to be children of the 80’s, a Caboodle is basically a pastel colored tackle box for all your beauty supplies…it was all the rage.

When we arrived at the lease, my dad drove his Subaru 4WD as far as he could. We had to hike the rest of the way. We loaded up all our gear in backpacks and set out for the longest hike I had ever taken. Looking back, it was probably only a mile or so. And by gear, I mean that my dad had all the things essential to hunting and I had all the things essential to staying busy and quiet for hours on end. Things like crayons, paper, books, stuffed animals, Barbies, and snacks. I’m pretty sure I even wrote a letter to my mom while we were there. My dad graciously put it in the mail the following day on our way back home.

Now, most hunters I know use a deer feeder to lure the deer to an area, making it virtually impossible to walk away from a hunt without meat in your freezer. I mentioned before my dad was a different breed. He would scout out a location by following deer tracks and scat and that day was no different. We were all camo’d up with our hunter’s orange vests. I’m sure, at some point, he probably sprayed deer urine on his clothes too.

We sat on a rock behind a large bush, where my dad waited, poised to shoot, for about 8 hours. He keenly watched the woods around us for any sign of an unsuspecting deer ready to walk into the open. I was keen on doing what my dad did and tried to be a good little hunter, but after about thirty minutes, I was digging through my backpack, looking for something to pass the time. And wouldn’t you know, that I needed to pee like nobody’s business.

Unfortunately, I was not brave enough to venture out into the woods to squat while the woodland creatures watched, so my back teeth were floating by 3:00 pm. I can remember saying to my dad at one point, “just tell me when you’re about to shoot,” because I knew it was going to be loud and I didn’t want to be surprised into losing control of my bladder. At dusk, a deer must have FINALLY come into sight, but I had no idea because I was off in the land of “Dear Diary.” And without warning, my dad let loose on the deer and I let loose in my pants. Once I started, I didn’t even try to stop.

The expedition didn’t end there…we had to go find the deer he shot. So there I was, traipsing through the woods in wet drawers, looking for a dead deer. Once we found it, my dad field-dressed it. That’s a nice way of saying, he gutted it…which is a lot for an eight year old girl to watch. Some things just can’t be unseen. My dad got the last laugh though, because the deer he shot was full of corn! Some other “hunter” is probably still out there in his deer stand, waiting for that plump deer to show up.

It was at that point my dad decided that it would be best to leave me out there, with the dead, gutted deer, while he hiked back to retrieve the car. I’m sure he was thinking that since I was drenched in pee, and mostly over the whole thing, that this would be the easiest option (for him, clearly).

What he didn’t take into account was the fact we were in the middle of someone’s lease where they also had a herd of cows roaming about. As I stood out there in the open with our kill, the sun began to set and I spotted the herd starting to move my way. Maybe it was the fact that I was drenched in pee or it was starting to get dark or the deer’s vacant eyes looking at me, but my nerves were frazzled and I had lost all sensibility. In an instant, I found myself surrounded by the herd of beasts and all I could do was whisper scream, “Daaaaaad!”, while sobbing uncontrollably. Now, you could try to reason with me by saying something about the fact that cows are fairly harmless and it could have, instead, been some predator, attracted to the bloody carcass I stood by. But to this day, the fear I experienced in that moment is something I’ve never been able to  rationalize. To a kid, those cows were as big as (and mean as) a T-Rex and it seemed to take my dad an eternity to come back.

Obviously, he did come back and we returned to the campsite where the other hunters had gathered around the campfire to share stories. I’m sure after I went to bed that night, my dad shared our story with his buddies and they all had a good chuckle.

Looking back, he probably thought he was taking me hunting that weekend. Instead, it left me with one of my favorite memories of a special adventure with my dad.

“A great dad makes memories, goes on adventures, always puts his family first, makes sacrifices, is patient, always has time for his kids, is a great teacher, and loves his kids and their mother unconditionally.”
-Unknown