Faith like a child's

Once a month I serve on the Friendship Team for something called Lifetree Cafe. It's a conversation cafe where people from all walks of life come together for an hour to talk about topics as varied as are UFOs real to whether or not the president's faith matters. It's great because it gives me a chance to talk about things I maybe otherwise wouldn't and a chance to meet people I maybe otherwise wouldn't. I love it and if you've never come to one, you should. Sundays and Tuesdays at 7:00 pm and Tuesdays at noon at the Group Publishing building in Loveland.

Anyway, shameless plug aside, at tonight's Lifetree Cafe I made a new friend. Her name is Emily and she is 6 years old. She came with her grandparents and when the hour was over, Emily asked Mikal to announce to everyone in the room that it was a sad week for her because her cat died.

I have two cats myself - Charlie and Midge. While I often threaten to kill Charlie and sometimes even do things like throw him outside in the freezing cold because he's being annoying and then forgetting he's out there, I think I would actually be sad if one of them died. Especially Midge because she is my rescue cat and "special", like my friend Dan. So I could feel Emily's pain and wanted to be a friend to her.

I asked her about her cat, what its name was, what it looked like, what she liked about it, etc. and pretty soon we were shooting rubber bands up onto the second floor ledge and borrowing Mikal's key card to race up the stairs to find them, leaving a trail of pictures of hearts and flowers on every white board and large drawing pad we found along the way. I can't think of a better way to have spent my Tuesday night.

After awhile, I had to be a grownup again and clean up. I told Emily it was going to be a lot of work and I probably couldn't do it all by myself. She assured me she could work hard, so I let her. She threw stuff away, dumped out containers of ice and water, and even vacuumed a little bit. Plus she laughed really hard at me when I kept spilling popcorn all over the floor. I was tempted to steal her back to my house and put her to work there too.

One of the last things we do as we close up for the night is to write cards to anyone who has come for the first time or for anyone who has given a prayer request. The lady I sat with had shared a prayer request with me and then wrote it out on a card as well, so I went into the back room to write a little note to her to mail tomorrow. Emily came trotting back there with me and when she saw me writing a card, she asked if she could write one too.

I said yes and she said, "Don't look because it's for you." Then she proceeded to ask me how to spell every word she wrote down. It was unbelievably precious.

Here is the card:


It says "Dear Robin, I am thankful for letting me help you. Emily. Robin is a pretty name. I love you."

No, Emily. After getting this card, I'm the one who loves you.

This is why Jesus told us to have faith like a child. It is so sweet, pure, and wonderfully humbling when a child's love is given to you unexpectedly. I've blown it a lot already this week. I've said things I regret, haven't said things I probably should have, I've been selfish and unkind, and a whole list of other things. But Emily didn't see the junk I see in myself during the time we spent together. She just saw someone who played with her, talked with her, and loved her. For one brief moment, through Emily's eyes, I could see myself as God sees me because of Jesus - pure, sweet, whole, not burdened with the junk I carry around with me all of the time.

I like seeing myself through Emily's eyes, but more importantly, through God's eyes. I want to have faith like Emily's and a pure heart that loves sweetly and innocently, and trusts God when He says that what Jesus did on the cross was enough to make me clean.

And I think I'm going to start sending cards to more people. Who wants one?

Fencing with Girls

I'm in Canada. It's raining and cold, but that is Canada in November for you. At least it's predictable.

It's Saturday and this morning the younger boys (Dylan age 10 and Thomas age 13) had fencing lessons. Because an hour of watching fencing is not that exciting to girls, Penny and I went to IKEA for 45 minutes and then came back to watch the last 15 minutes of practice.

I noticed that Thomas' group had quite a few girls in it. I saw at least four girls in the group of 10 or 12 kids. I thought this would make compelling conversation on the drive home, so back in the car I asked Thomas if fencing with girls was different from fencing with boys.

His answer surprised me.

Well, let me back up. I expected his answer to be "yes" but the reasons he gave were completely different than the reasons I was expecting.

I thought that he would say that it's different because you have to hold back with girls, not be as aggressive in case you might hurt them where you wouldn't hurt a boy.

But instead he said, "The girls hurt me! They have no idea how much it hurts to get jabbed in the chest because they wear chest protectors! And they just jab so hard! It's so not fair. I hold back when I fence with girls because I'm afraid they're going to hurt me."

My adult mind and heart, cultivated now by years of tears, heartache, mean words said, relationships damaged sometimes irreparably, and a whole slew of regrets, instantly read much more into his simple words than he intended. After all, he's only 13 and so far carries an intact heart that hasn't been torn apart by a girl he entrusted it to. For me, I hate watching on this end knowing that it is coming someday for him.

Right now he just sees girls as those who jab too hard in fencing because they don't know how much the jabs hurt. Time and heartbreak at the hands of a girl will eventually change that. Someday girls will be feared not because they fence hard but because they jab with their words and their actions and hurt his heart. I'm guessing that there will be girls in his life who do those things who will have no idea how much those jabs hurt.

I know I've been that girl time and time again in most of my friendships and relationships through the years, but I trust that God is changing me into a woman who thinks about the hearts of others more than she thinks about her own heart. It's a hard road and I lose the way a lot.

But I want to remember Thomas' innocent words today as I think about how I care for and interact with those around me who have fragile hearts. May I not be a woman who jabs without understanding how much it might hurt the one being jabbed. I might be wearing protection over my heart, but that doesn't mean those around me are.

I'm grateful for this day and this time here in Canada for simple moments like this. I love that God can give me simple reminders on how to care for others through the casual obersvations of a 13 year old boy after fencing lesson.

And now it's time to go demolish 10 year old Dylan at a game of cards....in love and gentleness, of course...

Oh yeah, I forgot. I have a blog

I just got back from my third short-term mission trip this year. It’s been amazing to see the different things God does in my heart each time. He’s expanded my perspective far beyond my peripheral vision this year and I know life will never be what it was before the time spent in Peru and the Dominican Republic in 2011.

Each time I’ve returned I’ve discovered that pieces of my heart stay behind. No part of my personal or professional life has been immune to God. There are pieces of my heart scattered around the Amazon jungle, Pucallpa, Peru, and now Santo Domingo, DR.

I’ve seen my life become more generous, sensitive, and compassionate over the last six months. The things that seemed so important before now pale when I think about the people I know in other countries who live on much less and have much more joy than I do. I think of the children in the Shipibo village who have never seen a car, an electric socket, or a faucet of running water, and yet they smile and laugh with fullness of life. I think of my friends in Pucallpa who deal with extreme heat, massive rainstorms, limited finances to do the work God has given them to do, and yet they serve and love with all of their hearts without complaining. He’s broadened the scope of my heart through getting to know these beautiful new friends.

My most recent trip, however, hit me personally in a way that I wasn’t expecting or prepared for. I’ve wrestled a lot this year with trying to understand God’s plan for my life when it comes to my heart and its desires (am I going to be single forever?), and I have to be honest in saying that I’ve often doubted that He knows what He’s doing and that He’s in control. I’ve felt forgotten by Him. Even as I’ve seen Him broaden my heart for the world and its people, I’ve felt like its deeper desires have been ignored. But my few days in the DR reminded me that God can and will do what I am not expecting when I am not expecting it and that the most important thing I can do with my daily life is to seek Him first. He allowed my heart to be touched deeply by someone in a way that it hasn’t been for a long time and it was a sweet thing. He reminded me that He sees my heart and He has good plans for my life, far beyond anything I could think of or imagine. What I learned in the DR is that God can do the unexpected, He is fully aware of the desires of my heart, and He can be trusted completely with a future that I cannot see.

So here I am today. I’ve transitioned somewhat back into normal life as it was two weeks ago before DR. I’ve gone back to work, gone grocery shopping, cooked for the first time in a week and a half, talked through some things with a very dear friend, and my body is slowly remembering to sleep according to Mountain Standard Time again. Life must go on even when pieces of my heart stay behind. That’s one thing I’ve learned through the years.

I have no idea what God's plans for my life are but after last week, that's ok. In fact, now I think that the not knowing might be the best adventure of all. I believe with all of my heart that He is good and can be trusted with every dream, fear, desire, and longing that I have. "Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen." (Ephesians 3:20-21)

Pero, mi amor, un parte de mi corazon esta en RD contigo. Gracias para los abrazos y las conversaciones y la musica. Te extrano mucho y no te olvido. Cuando estas listo para una buena mujer, llamame :)

Eat this, Erika

The good thing about having a blog is that it gives you lots of accountability. Who knew that my laziness in not going to the dentist for years would spark such outrage, such sorrow, such a call to action? But never fear, blog readers, mainly Jessie, - you spoke up and I listened. I went to the dentist today! Don't ask me what his name was - it was very hard to understand and pronounce. I don't think his employees know what his name is either. One of them sort of tried to say it and dropped off mid-syllable and just skipped to her question instead. It sounded Dr. Krossenmaxamillion or something.

But regardless that I don't know his name, he was very kind and his minions have already coerced me into setting an appointment for six months from now to get my teeth cleaned again. They're a clever bunch at this office. No hiding my delinquent dentist past from them. They're not afraid.

It's good to have teeth because then you can eat. I suppose you can probably eat without teeth but it's not as enjoyable. Babies eat without teeth, but they don't really know what they're missing since they've never had teeth before and by the time they're old enough to figure it out, they have teeth.

Babies and eating are a good segue into something Erika suggested I write about some weeks ago, and that is the subject of why do people say things like "that baby is cute enough to eat." We all do it - I remember when loyal reader Meagan shared with our small group that she was pregnant and she said she couldn't wait to nibble on her baby's toes. There's just something about babies that make us want to eat them, and it's kind of weird.

Maybe it's just because I've been thinking about this subject of why we think that when babies are cute they ought to be eaten, but I found myself saying it just the other day about a small child in my neighborhood. I was driving home and this little girl was walking down the sidewalk in front of her house. She had on cute little pink pants and a cute little pink shirt and these little pink sunglasses that were lopsided on her face. She was all sassy and cute at the same time and when I drove by I said to myself, "She's so cute I could just eat her up." And then I gasped in horror! I wanted to eat an innocent child because she was cute! This is not ok!

Eating people is no laughing matter. If you don't believe me, just watch the movie Alive, although it's not for the faint of heart. I watched it once and was so appalled that I had to watch it a second time. I've been thinking a lot about it recently again, but I think I'll refrain from watching it a third time. If you've never seen it, it's about a Uruguayan soccer team whose plane crashes in the Andes mountains and they end up having to eat each other to stay alive. Hence, why the title is Alive. It's based on a true story because you can't make stuff like this up.

I've been thinking about it because I've flown over the Andes mountains four times in the last four months. Fortunately, none of my planes crashed and I didn't have to eat anything except the little sandwich snack they offered onboard, which was made out of turkey. But every time our plane passed over those peaks, I thought of those soccer players and how awful it would be to find myself in that position. I bet that little neighborhood girl is glad she wasn't on the plane with me and that we're not Uruguayan soccer players.

The other phrase I don't understand is akin - "eat your heart out." No thanks. I'd rather eat the little neighborhood girl because she's so cute than eat my own heart. That's too Indiana Jonesy and the Temple of Doom to me.

My conclusion is this: English must be a hard language to learn. Probably all languages are really hard to learn, but as far as I know, I've never heard any Spanish speakers talk about eating cute babies. At any rate, Rosetta Stone hasn't taught me how to say that phrase yet. And that's probably for the best.

At least my teeth are clean.

Estoy en Peru

Hola amigos! Estoy en Peru ahora!

I'm sitting in the Lima Airport waiting for the rest of the Lifetree Adventures team to arrive, drinking a white chocolate mocha from Starbucks and acting very American. I'm actually sitting at the exact same table that Jeff, Christina, Ryan, Amy, and I sat at on the day we left Lima back in June. I'm nostalgic that way.

I wish I could say my Spanish has dramatically improved in the last three months, but dramatic would be an overstatement. I'm far from fluent and get confused very easily. However, I have managed to live most of the last 12 hours pretty much only using Spanish, which is an exciting thing. I've been able to avoid taxis, walk to the hotel, check into the hotel, sleep, eat breakfast, get a massage, ask how to connect to the internet, check out of the hotel, walk back to the airport, ask Peruvian Airlines where the heck the flight was that my friends were supposed to arrive on, and order a grande white chocolate mocha from Starbucks all in Spanish.

Mostly I just nod and say si and then things magically happen around me. Like just now, my lunch appeared that I apparently ordered in Spanish.

Also, I've decided I might love Peru almost as much as I love Canada only because on my flight down here yesterday I sat next to this Peruvian guy who now lives in Oklahoma but was on his way to visit his mother and he made my day. He asked me what I was going to do in Peru and I briefly told him and we then had the most awesome conversation about God that I've had in awhile. And by "conversation" I mean that he spent about 45 minutes telling me what he believes about God and the ways he has been hurt by church and Christians but that he really wants to still believe in God. It was an honor to get to listen to him and ask him questions and be his friend.

Then he told me I was lovely, which was kind of him, and that I shouldn't wait around long for guys who can't make up their minds because I'm lovely and kind and someone will see that someday and make a wife out of me. This is what I love about Spanish speaking cultures - they are very frank and don't hold much back. He's married and he was definitely not hitting on me, but there's just a general way of uncensored speaking that I love and appreciate about Spanish speakers. Sometimes it's nice for a single and sometimes lonely girl to hear a man tell her she's lovely.

But the best moment was when we started talking about part of Lima called Miraflores. I said the word "Miraflores" to him and he busted out laughing. This was the first Spanish word I had said to him in the whole 6 hours we had been sitting next to each other. I asked him why he was laughing and if I had said the word wrong and he said, "No, no, no - you said it perfect. Your accent is perfect - I just wasn't expecting you, a white American girl, to have a perfect Spanish accent." Then he said it with a bad American accent and said "That's how most Americans would say it."

So I'm grateful to be here and grateful that God put he and I next to each other for 6.5 hours yesterday. I usually don't talk much to people on airplanes but I'm glad for the conversation that was had and the way God used it to encourage me and hopefully to encourage him.

Please be praying for us this week - for health, for safety, for my Spanish abilities, for humility, for productive work to be done. Pray for Ricardo and his family and the ministry he does among the Shipibo people and for the visit to Flor de Ucayali village that we will make on Wednesday.

Please also be praying for the Cox family. Derek went home to be with Jesus this morning. There is never anything easy about death even when we know that the one we love is whole and perfect in God's presence now. I'm grateful for the amazing witness Derek was to Jesus throughout his battle with cancer but grieved that we have temporarily lost this brother for the rest of our earthly lives.

So we meet again, malaria pills

I'm going to Peru on Friday for the second time this year and I'm really excited about it. Partly because I'm hoping my Spanish is way better than it was in June (Segundo will tell me straight if it is or not) but mostly because our team will get to take a fast boat into the jungle in the middle of the week and go visit Flor de Ucayali, the Shipibo village we stayed at in June when we lived on the riverboat when there were more of us and we were building a church. This time around, we'll spend most of our time in Pucallpa, helping to repair a home for a needy family and sharing God's love with them, and they will be sharing it with us too.

But the not fun part of going back to Peru is that I get to welcome my old friend malaria pills back into my life for the next 10 weeks. I took the first one today. It would have only been six weeks except that then I go to the Dominican Republic while I'm still taking the Peru pills and my doctor thought since I'm already taking them, what's another four weeks to cover my DR trip as well. Awesome.

As I discovered the last time I took them, I am apparently one of the only people in the world who actually experiences their side effects. My June team had no issues with their pills, other than Jim not being able to remember if he had taken his for the day or not, resulting in lots of time spent counting pills every morning. Maybe it's because all of them took the daily malaria pill but I take the once a week pill, because I'm special. At least that's what my doctor says.

What side effects, you might ask. Well, mainly that I hallucinated. Twice. And then had lots of really vivid dreams most of the rest of the time.

The first hallucination may very well have been a dream too - it happened at night while I was in my bed on the first day of my new adventure into the land of malaria pills. In my hallucinogenic dream state, I sat up in my bed and proceeded to claw my face off. Because I didn't have scratch marks all over my face the next day, I'm inclined to think I dreamed it, but it was the most vivid, scary dream I've ever had.

The second hallucination came when I was wide awake a few weeks later and cooking dinner. I had a small pan sitting on the counter and when I went to pick it up, it turned about 180 degrees all by itself. I just stood there and stared at it, hoping that maybe it would start singing and dancing too, but it wasn't so inclined.

So who know what the next ten weeks hold in store for me. All I know is that by the time we hit December, I will have been on malaria pills for four out of the last six months, which I feel guarantees me an automatic "get out of jail free" card for any weird or erratic behavior, comments, and actions you may experience from me during that time frame.

I hope I really wrote this. I think I did. It feels real.

Why I love Canada, eh?

It’s slightly horrifying to me that I’ve had this blog for three weeks and five days now and have yet to blog about Canada. This is a cultural faux pas from which I may never recover. Also, what's a blog about Canada without mentioning Aaron LeDuc in the first paragraph? Don't worry, Aaron, you might hate Canada but Canada doesn't hate you, eh?

My history with Canada is a long one, spanning almost a decade of annual visits and nearly two decades of close ties with a very dear Canadian family, but it hasn’t always been fun and games for me when it comes to Canada and Canadians.

Like all great stories, this one begins with a prayer and ditching math class. (Don’t worry, math friends like Randy, Phil, and Brian - it only happened once.)

My first brush with Canada came when I was a 14 year old freshman (or a Grade Nine Baby, as Canadian band Bare Naked Ladies would put it.) It had been a rough few years and my life was very quickly careening off into the wrong direction. I’ll spare most of the details here but I knew enough at age 14 that my patterns of self-destruction, if they continued, would lead to injury and possibly even death by the time I reached senior year.

I didn’t really know if I believed in God anymore at that point. I wanted to but didn’t seem to know very much about Him or think that He cared at all about me. But one night, I scrawled a little prayer in my journal that said, “God, if you’re real, you need to bring people into my life to show me who you are because I’m not going to make it if you don’t.”

Little did I know that before I had even written the words, He had already brought the answer to my little home town of Los Alamos, NM, all the way from Canada with love. Actually more like Loves. As in Sean and Penny Love. Penny was a recent PhD Chemistry grad doing her post-doc work at the Lab, and Sean was her new husband and substitute teacher extraordinaire. They also quickly became the part-time youth directors at the Episcopal Church I sometimes went to.

I remember the first time I met them. I was the snobby 14 year old girl who hated adults drinking kool-aid after church in the basement one Sunday morning and they were the cute Canadian newlywed couple clutching each others’ arms and introducing themselves to all of the snobby looking teenagers they could find. They invited me to Bible Study. I smiled and said “maybe”, while on the inside rolling my eyes and swearing I would never go.

As luck would have it, about a month later, I walked into Geometry class to discover that Ms. Shockey was absent that day and subbing in her place was one Mr. Sean Love. I turned to my friend and said, "Leave your backpack in the hallway. I'm getting us out of this class."

On rare occasions, I turn on the charm. This was one such occasion. I hadn't seen the man in a month, but I waltzed right up to the desk and said, "Mr. Love! It's me, Robin, from church! How are you? Do you have any pictures of your wife?"

Now, Sean had been married for less than a year, so not only did he have a picture of his wife, he had more like 20 pictures of his wife that he started digging out of his wallet. I oohed and aahed, especially at the picture of her in her wedding dress, and then casually went for the kill. "We left our books in our lockers. Can we go get them?" I asked nonchalantly. As Sean tells the story, "I said ok and they put their backpacks on their backs and walked out of the room, never to return." But really we had left our backpacks in the hallway, so don't believe anything Sean says about this particular story.

I had never ditched a class before, mainly because I didn't want to get in trouble. But this seemed like a brilliant move on my 14 year old part. Mr. Love wanted me to go to youth group! There was no way he would turn me in because then I would never go. It was a win-win situation, eh?

But you can't trick Canadians that easily. They are a clever bunch, and full of integrity. When Sean realized we weren't coming back, he weighed the choice between doing the right thing (turning me in) and trying to make me like him (by not turning me in). He chose wisely, I suppose, in reporting me to my teacher. At the time, though, it really pissed me off, especially when I was reprimanded with two days in detention. Oh, Canada! What have you done to me?

So I served my two days in detention.

And then I didn't go to youth group.

And whenever Sean was calling youth to invite them to some activity, he would hand the phone to Penny when he got to my name on the list and make her call me instead.

We probably would have gone on like this for the next three years except that my mom signed me up (behind my back) to go to camp that summer with the Loves. I had kept the little ditching/detention episode a secret from my parents and she had no idea that World War III, involving only America and Canada, was secretly brewing in a little northern New Mexican town.

This story is long, so I'll cut it short. I begrudgingly went to camp with Sean and Penny that summer and saw someone in them who I had never seen before that closely and genuinely - Jesus. It would take me several more years, lots of Bible Studies, youth group (yes, I started going to both after camp), and living part of my senior year of high school with them to really grasp that the way Sean and Penny loved me was only a fraction of how much God loved me.

Year after year since I was 14 years old, they have never failed to hold me accountable for my actions, house me, encourage me, support me emotionally and financially, teach me about God and how to drive a stick shift, and play Rook with me. When they moved back to Canada in 2002, it only made sense to visit at least once or twice a year. I make my 12th voyage to the great north in just a couple of months. As Jeff so aptly put it, Canada is now my heart's home.

So why do I love Canada, Aaron? Well, other than cool things like Tim Horton’s, socialism, maple leaves, and the word “eh”, I love Canada because it was Canadians who introduced me to Jesus. So is my confusing, unpatriotic, awesomeness going to continue to light up your facebook world? Why, yes it is.

P.S. I never ditched a math class again after that and I even got a B+ in Calculus my senior year!
P.P.S. Sean likes to introduce me to new Canadian friends as the girl who ditched his class.

Because he told me to too

Today is my friend Dave's birthday. He would be turning 49 today except that he died from acute myelogenous leukemia almost 18 months ago. He is missed.

I wrote him a lot of letters while he was in the hospital that year. I can't keep it brief when I write most of the time, so he got a lot of very long letters from me. But I guess when you're stuck in a hospital all day every day, long letters aren't the worst thing that can happen to you.

He told me a couple of years ago, "If you're ever thinking of switching careers, writing would be a good route for you to take. I love your letters! You should write." To which I told him, "I don't want to write yet. Maybe someday. But for now I write for you."

I was in a meeting earlier this week when the theory was thrown out that the USPS is going to be obsolete in another year or two. Letters will be a thing of the past. I think about how every letter I sent to either New Mexico or California was a little lifeline for the 11 months Dave fought cancer and it makes me sad that there might very well come a day when no one writes letters anymore, just emails or blogs or updates facebook statuses.

When Erika told me to start a blog, I wasn't really sure if I was ready to write again or to write for more people than just one. But it seemed like good timing, and I know if Dave was here he would say, "Robin, you should write!"

I'm grateful and amazed at how God can heal, how He can restore and make all things new. I remember the extremely sad and brokenhearted woman I was a year ago and am so grateful for how He has put me back together again. He is a good God and I write for Him above all others.

But I also write for Dave because I miss him and because he told me to too. Happy birthday, Dave! You are missed and not forgotten. And don't worry, I'm writing :)

Bull sharks turn up in the dangdest places

Yesterday I spent $8 and went to see Shark Night in 3D. Don't judge me. I am bizarrely intrigued by sharks and spend way more time than is really necessary reading books about them, watching documentaries about them, and working comments about various facts and habits of them into normal conversations that have nothing to do with sharks.

For instance, I had this conversation with Jessie while driving to Alex and Laura's wedding last year:

Jessie: "There might be elk out now since it's dusk."
Me: "Sharks like to feed at dusk and dawn. You should never go in the ocean during those times."
Jessie: "That is the second time in like an hour that you've worked sharks into the conversation. That's really weird."

Anyway, I don't really recommend Shark Night to anyone else because it was a really dumb movie and portrayed sharks in a really bad light. For the record, they kill about 11 of us every year - we kill about 40 million of them in a year. Really sharks should be making movies called Human Night in 3D, if we're being honest with ourselves. Also, I went to the 4:20 show. Seriously? Who thought that showing a 3D movie about sharks at 4:20 was a good idea? That's just asking for trouble. That's not why I went, though. I'm not that kind of girl.

The highlight of the movie for me was when the redneck bad guy says, "It must've been a bull. Bull sharks turn up in the dangdest places." Amen to that, brother! That's one thing Shark Night in 3D got right.

It's a little known fact that bull sharks can actually survive in freshwater for 3-4 years. Bull sharks are also the most aggressive shark towards humans, not the Great White as myth would have it. Bull sharks have been found thousands of miles inland in the middle of the Amazon River. Thinking about going for a dip in the Mississippi River, Tom Sawyer? Think twice - there might be a bull shark waiting for some dinner. All those ferry crashes in the Ganges River where they write off the missing bodies as "drowning"? Doubt it - they were devoured by bull sharks. The story that inspired Jaws was actually based on a likely bull shark attack in a New Jersey creek. That's right - a creek.

All this talk about Shark Night and Jaws and freshwater reminds me of the screenplay I'm going to someday write called Shark Attack in the Poudre River. Now, I don't want to give too much away, but it's going to be about a shark attack in the Poudre River. It will follow a Larimer County Ranger, portrayed by Nicholas Cage, who begins investigating mysterious tubing deaths in the middle of a quaint town in northern Colorado. It doesn't take long for him to recognize the killer as having the same handiwork as the shark who killed his lady love years ago while rafting in the Mississippi River. But no one in the town believes him that there's a rogue bull shark hunting in the Poudre, except his new lady love Ranger Robin. Together they will save the town from the bull shark by catching it and then releasing it back into the ocean. It's going to be in 4D, because by the time I write it, 4D will have been invented.

I'll end with this - all of my crazy fascination with sharks has actually made me extremely terrified about going in the ocean. Like I almost paralyze myself in fear and drown whenever I try to swim in it. I still do it, but every time I get in, I think about how most shark attacks occur in less than 3 feet of water and that my splashing arms and legs make me look like a turtle or a seal to a shark. And then when I'm snorkeling around, I'm just waiting for a bull shark to appear out of the murky waters ahead, because, after all, bull sharks turn up in the dangdest places. But at the end of the day, I love sharks. A lot. Just as long as I stay on the land and they stay in the water.

Blogging is hard

This week has been brutal, mainly because I've only been home long enough each day to sleep and change my clothes. I don't like living life this way but sometimes that's just how it goes. In the words of Ed Powers, "It is what it is."

Now that I'm a blogger and have five loyal followers, my extreme busyness is going to take its toll on all of you as well, since blogging is hard to do when you're never home. I'm sorry. I like writing for you, really I do, but sometimes sleeping and changing my clothes is more important. And showering. That's pretty important too. Definitely more important than blogging. But I haven't forgotten you!

In fact, while I was sleeping last night, I dreamed that loyal reader Michele had her baby! Let's hope that dream comes true soon!

In the meantime, I will leave you with this tantalizing list of blog topics I will someday write about when I am not so popular: sharks, automatic sinks in bathrooms, my BFF Gwennie, sharks, Eli Manning, knitting, my cat Midge, and sharks.

Remember the Alamo! and Amelia!

I'm going to interrupt this regularly scheduled blog that was going to be about sharks to instead focus on remembering the Alamo. This shouldn't be too hard for me to do since I was just there about 4 hours ago and I still remember my visit, plus I just watched the movie The Alamo starring Dennis Quaid. I also read a pamphlet about the Alamo and saw a diorama of it in the gift shop. The combination of all of these things, especially the diorama, now make me an expert on remembering the Alamo. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that I will never forget the Alamo.

I have to admit that based on the 2 hour movie, I didn't really like Sam Houston until about 1 hour and 52 minutes in. I actually thought he really bombed it for Texas and the Alamo since he didn't come to their rescue in time when they sent for help. But when he turned around and defeated Santa Anna's army in 18 minutes right at the end of the movie, he redeemed himself and I understand more now about why we're not supposed to mess with Texas and why Texas grocery stores sell boxes of Texas-shaped crackers that are described as "Crunchy, Spicy, Brave, and Delicious" on the box. Those brave crackers are remembering the Alamo every day in their brave little boxes while they sit on shelves waiting to be eaten, giving their little brave cracker lives to satisfy the cravings of gluten-hungry Texans. So proud of you, crackers! Keep up the brave work! Remember the Alamo!

I love heroism and standing up when the odds are against you and believing in something enough to risk it all. That's why I play fantasy football every year and draft Eli Manning. But there was something powerfully poignant about walking through the Alamo this afternoon and knowing that every man who stayed behind to fight knew he probably wouldn't make it out alive but still gave it his all anyway. I want to live more of my life that way, but more out of wanting to be like Jesus, not just a patriotic Texan.

Remembering the Alamo also makes me remember Amelia, partly because a lot of the letters in her name are also in the word "alamo" but also because she stood up for me and made others give me a chance years ago that continues to pay off in my life.

When I moved back to Santa Fe almost 9 years ago after a brief foray in Atlanta, I was 23 years old and the only job I'd ever had out of college was working for Young Life. I had an English degree and no real skills, but she convinced La Posada to take a chance on me and hire me as a concierge, not unlike Davy Crockett and all of those other Alamo guys urging the men to risk their all and take a chance on Texas.

Because of that concierge job, I would later get my job at Private Escapes and because of my job at Private Escapes, I would eventually land at my current job with Lifetree Adventures. I owe a lot to Amelia, just like Texas owes a lot to the Alamo. Maybe someday I'll go visit her again or talk to her on the phone. Or at least put post-it notes on my desk at home that say "Remember Amelia!" If only I could make some little gluten-free crackers shaped like her face.

While I work on that, I'll leave Texas with this one critique: probably you should have named the whole state Houston, not just one city. Based on the last 8 minutes of Dennis Quaid's moving portrayal of Sam Houston, I think it would make more sense to rename the city of Houston Texas and rename Texas Houston. So it would be Texas, Houston not Houston, Texas. Jk....I'm just messing with you, Texas ;)

Don't mess with Mark

Today’s blog is brought to you by Mark who wrote in to say, “I think you should blog on people who when they go to get on the highway, they think that the other lanes of traffic have a yield sign (despite just passing on the way down the on ramp.)”

Mark, I’m glad you brought this subject to my attention because I have to admit that I’m one of these people. I’ll come back to this in a moment, though, because I think it’s important to first talk about why blogging for Mark or doing anything Mark asks, including not being dumb when entering the highway, is, in fact, a good idea.

Here’s the deal. Mark used to be a Navy SEAL. He’s hardcore, and one of my favorite people in the world, even though we’re not supposed to have favorites. Mark is the first person I call when anything around my house breaks. He’s also the first person I call when I need a bodyguard, like when I’m riding my bike on the Poudre Trail and meet scary people who shout obscenities at me. If I feel like shooting a gun at a target in the middle of the eastern plains of CO, you got it – I call Mark. When I needed a place to live 6 years ago when the girl I was living with went crazy, Mark and his wife Stephanie took me in, and since Mark owns more guns than I have fingers, I always feel safe in his house. Mark is a master of survival due to his naval training and when the world comes to an end, I’m going to spend my last days taking shelter at Mark’s house, but only if he’s going to be there too. The bottom line is you don’t want to mess with Mark.

However, I will point out that I am far superior than Mark at paintball. I’m not sure how fate played this card on my behalf, but it’s true. When we last met on the paintball field back in 2008, not only did I track Mark to his secret hiding place in a treehouse, I shot him not once but 72 times before he screamed that the game was over and my team won. I think the game might have been over before I started shooting at him, but really it doesn’t matter at this point. After all, paintball welts heal whether you get them legally during the game or illegally after the game is over when Robin ambushes you in the treehouse.

I’d like to take a break now, and give a special shout out to my faithful reader Lynsey, who graciously hosted me in Cyprus this summer and reminded me just this morning that in my blog’s 48 hours of existence, I have yet to mention her by name. Sorry about that, Lynsey. Lynsey, Lynsey, Lynsey. I hope all is forgiven now, Lynsey. Also, since all things concerning my blog must somehow be related back to Erika, I’ll also mention that Lynsey taught me how to play the board game Ticket to Ride while I was in Cyprus and I just discovered that Erika loves this game and she’s promised to play it with me sometime soon. Good things come to those who blog. Lynsey.

But back to Mark’s compelling topic of why people think that they have the right of way when entering the highway from a ramp. While I can’t speak for all drivers, I can certainly tell you why I feel like highway traffic should yield to me when I enter the highway. See, I have to enter the highway at a certain speed or I risk being run over by traffic. When going from 0-75 mph in my new-to-me shiny red 2008 Mazda 3, I don’t have nearly as much control about where I can move on the ramp as the traffic in the highway has. They see me coming. A lot of times, they have the time and space to move into the other lane to let me in, and therefore, they have the responsibility to move over and let me in. I think it’s more important to ask the question, “Why does highway traffic not move over into the left lane when they see a car coming on the ramp to enter the highway?” It seems kind of selfish to me, really.

And yet, Mark could probably dismantle my car with his pinky finger while under water, so it might be worth it for me and all drivers everywhere to consider thinking about others as more important than themselves. So, ramp driver, slow down, look around, and don’t assume you can just barge in front of someone on the highway. And highway driver, if you see ramp driver coming and you can move into the far lane, don’t be selfish. Move over for a few seconds. Let’s share the road, everybody. Let’s keep Mark happy.

I was just trying to pass on the left

Sometimes God seems to be playing a game of chess and I am a pawn in His game. What I mean by this is not that God is sitting up in heaven moving people carelessly about for fun but rather there are definitely moments where I am compelled to go somewhere or do something and looking back afterwards, all I can think is God was moving me around in order to do something that only He really knows about. Probably I'm not the only one who has felt this way, but if I am, I'm ok with it. I'm down with being God's pawn.

Before Erika made me start this blog, I would have these moments and not have any way to share them with the general public because a facebook status is too short. But that was before last night. Subsequently, this issue has resolved itself in the past 24 hours due to my succumbing to Erika's literary demands and needs. And now I have a way to share my story of Monday night to all of my loyal fans (four and counting!) I owe it all to you, Erika. Thanks.

It started at work. About mid-afternoon I had this insatiable urge to ride my bike on the Poudre River Trail. You'll be glad to know that I decided to keep working until 5 even though it took a lot of willpower. But as soon as I got home, my bike was in my car and I was on my way to the trail.

In the parking lot, someone made fun of my bike for having a kickstand. This is completely irrelevant to the rest of the story, and I only share it because it just goes to show that while man may look on the outside (kickstands), God sees the heart (of the rider) and He doesn't care if a bike isn't cool because it has a kickstand. He had a plan for my kickstand bike. I hope that guy reads my blog. I forgive you for making fun of my bike.

Anyway, I started my ride and it was quite lovely. There was a carnage of dead grasshoppers strewing the path, so it felt a lot like hanging out in my house. I don't want to brag too much, but I am a model citizen when it comes to alerting pedestrians and other bike riders that I am about to run over them if they make any sudden moves to the left. I always call out "On your left!" before flying by them, like the wind through the trees (Emily, if you're reading this, that one's for you.)

About 10 minutes into my ride, I came across a young woman jogging and listening to music. I don't care if you have earplugs in and you're not going to hear me yell "On your left," I'm still going to yell it at you anyway just to be safe. So I did. I told her I was on her left.

Apparently, that is not what she wanted to hear because she threw her hands in the air and started crying and screaming obscenities at me, something along the lines of "Don't talk to me! Don't f...ing talk to me! Leave me the f... alone! I don't want you to talk to me." Wow. Ok. I was just trying to pass on the left.

Anyway, this is the part of the story where I became God's pawn. I kept riding because I know better than to try and talk rationally with someone who is irrationally screaming and crying at you for no good reason. Avid reader Jessie and I both have some experience with this kind of thing and we know that conversation will not go far nor go well and you may as well just not even bother having it.

Instead, I warned the next person I saw, a pedestrian headed her direction, to be careful because she was a little volatile. Then I rode over a bridge and got confused about which way to go and ended up on this little dirt path. One thing to know about me is that when I end up on little dirt paths that I don't know where they are headed, I usually just keep following them. It would be a disaster if I ever got lost in the woods.

But, since God was pawning me by now, this little dirt path dead-ended into a parking lot where there was a ranger. On a bike. Hmmm. That's convenient. Clever move, God. I told the ranger about said crazy girl and asked him if he would go check on her. He said he would, so I rode the little dirt path back to the main trail and kept going the opposite direction of the girl.

Then there was a fork in the path and I got confused AGAIN and ended up in a paved parking lot. It was starting to get dark so I decided to just turn around and head back to my car. Good thing I did, because I found the ranger riding back from looking for the girl. He hadn't found her and when I told him where she was, he realized he hadn't gone far enough. After I went into more detail about the encounter with her, he decided it was actually very important for him to continue looking for her to make sure she didn't hurt herself or anyone else.

I rode behind him for a little while but he was slow so I told him I was going to pass him. On the left. He did not shout obscenities at me, and I was grateful for that.

Sure enough, I saw the girl sitting on a bench close to where she decided I was her sworn enemy. She seemed not as distraught but I still wasn't comfortable stopping to talk to her without someone else there. And I knew Ranger Dave was on the way.

You might ask yourself, wow, how is Robin on such good terms with the Larimer County rangers? Well, it may not be common knowledge around these parts that I'm a Volunteer Ranger Assistant on the side. Sometimes I patrol and I get to wear a cool ranger vest and hat and nametag. I will tell you to put your dog back on its leash. Don't think I won't.

But even in this small detail, God clearly used it in his pawning scheme for the evening. Because of my VRA status, unlike you regular Fort Collins residents', I have ranger email addresses at my disposal and was able to check the next morning that Ranger Dave found the girl, helped her, made sure she wasn't a danger to herself or anyone else, and sent her on her way. It was good closure for me to see that God was looking out for this girl. I don't know what's going on in her life and I doubt I will ever see her again, but for whatever reason, there was a 20 minute period of time where God chose to directly involve me in her life through finding help, protecting other trail users from her, and praying for her as I rode the rest of the way back to my car. I can only assume that because of the great care God took in orchestrating things the way He did that He cares very much for this girl and the distress she's in is very important to His heart.

So if you find yourself on your bike this week and you need to pass someone on the left, would you pray for this girl while you are passing on the left? Pray for peace in her soul from whatever is wreaking havoc there right now. And be willing to let God use you as his pawn sometimes.

Erika's Field of Dreams

Everything and everyone has a birth story. Some are dramatic and scary and loud. Some are quiet, sweet, and could almost go unnoticed. But everything living is somehow born, and sometimes even non-living things are born, like this blog.

My friend Erika told me I should start a blog. I hate jumping on bandwagons and I sort of feel like blogging is the current cool bandwagon to jump on. I waited 8 years to read Blue Like Jazz (I just finished it last week, actually). I'm waiting another 5 years or so before I read The Shack. I was still on Myspace when everyone else was facebooking it up. I haven't been to the dentist in four years. I hate skim milk. And soy. I just started eating Sushi last summer. And I'm planning on getting my first smart phone sometime around 2032. So I'm already annoyed by this blog, but I love Erika and she promised to read it if I wrote it. Sort of like Field of Dreams. This is Erika's Field of Dreams.

I have built it; now she will come.