I’m rarely a good citizen.

Sure, I pay my taxes and vote my conscience and smile at senior citizens, but beyond that, I’m really pretty self-absorbed.

I don’t recycle.

I don’t pick up enough random garbage.

I don’t carpool. (Although sometimes Brian gives me a piggyback ride from upstairs to my home office…. Does that count?)

So I’m pitifully behind the times in fulfilling my part in the greater good.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I was Mrs. Crime Stopper extraordinaire, a super sneaky neighborhood watchdog.

So here’s what happened. I observed some criminal activity. This has been going on for a week or two and since I’ve seen other people around said criminal activity, I confess that I thought they would do something about it.

But it continued.

So yesterday, in my super stealth detective way, I jotted down a license plate number of one of the participants and called the non-emergency police line.

“I have a clue!” I said, super excited.

“I’m sorry, ma’am?”

“Oh sorry. I have a clue about some bad stuff happening and I know who’s doing it and I have their license plate and I’m calling because I’m a good citizen!”

She seemed very excited and immediately transferred me to someone’s voicemail.

Hmmph.

Well, that certain someone called me back and I filled him in on all my great detective work.

And guess what he said?

He said, “Ma’am we’ve been looking for some people, and I think you just helped us find them.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I was thrilled. My chest puffed out. My grin widened.

I wanted to ask if I get anything for my good deed. Like one of those cool Sheriff stars to pin on my shirt or maybe a reward or a meeting with the mayor or something…

“So have a nice day, ma’am. And thanks for calling.”

Wait! Wait! But… is that it? No star? Reward? No small press conference? I could totally be ready in 15 minutes to talk to any one of the news stations.

Click.

That’s it?

That’s it.

So dear friends, as I thought about this travesty, I couldn’t help but wonder if there are others of you out there,  other unsung heroes who have gone unnoticed. Everything inside of me rose up as I imagined that I might not be alone. What about my friends? What about all their good deeds?

Well, since I’m in the mood of righting wrongs, I just want you to know that I celebrate you today. All of you unsung community heroes — you recyclers and carpoolers, you snitches, neighborhood watchdogs and random garbage-picker-uppers—I see you! I celebrate you!

You rock and I am singing your tune this very second!

WAY TO GO!

Now get out there and keep saving the world….

Sometime I crack myself up.

I’ve been pondering a big change in my life and have been asking God about it. Two days ago, I was reading in Deuteronomy about the hill country and decided that yes, this change was a little bit like heading into the hill country.

So I read: “Break camp and advance into the hill country…”

Sweet! God must want me to make this change!

Then a few days later, I read: “You have made your way around this hill country long enough; now turn north.”

Oh.

So you don’t want me to go to the hill country?

No, I thought, that must not be what you mean, God. After all, I really think you are calling me to the hill country. That other thing about leaving the hill country? That was just a fluke, not a sign.

It seemed like God smiled.  See, that’s the problem with me and signs. I should really just be honest with God. When I’m looking for signs to do something, I should just say, “God, I really want to do this thing, so I am going to look for things that point to it and call them signs. If I see something that points away from it, I’ll brush it off and call myself silly for doubting what I’m certain you are saying to me.”

I thought I was seeking God’s will, but He (in his gentle way), let me know that I was really just looking for him to agree with my way of doing things.

Oh.

Sorry about that, God.

What would you really like to say to me?

Sometimes I get scared.

I’ve always wanted to get a motorcycle. I had one at 18 and loved it. Granted I starved it of oil and blew up the engine within two months, but oh wow, while I had it – I was a very cool biker babe.

I’d still like to be a biker babe, but these days I get scared. What if someone cuts in front of me? What if I slide out of control?

Maybe I should buy a station wagon instead…

I get scared for my girl. The dangers at 19 are greater than the ones when she was 2… burning her little finger on a hot stove or bumping her head on a table don’t hold a candle to what’s out there in a city at night or what can happen in today’s dating relationships.

This whole launching thing gets my tummy in knots sometimes.

I get worried when my man climbs big mountains – like today he’s climbing one that requires a helmet for all the stray rocks that come flying down. “Oh really?” I said, gulping down my nag, “Rocks fly down just like that, huh? How fun!”

Oh God, please keep him safe.

Sometimes I’m afraid of going after a goal. Like this whole triathlon dream I have. I don’t like the idea of being the last chick in the pack, huffing and puffing as people look on. “Look at that lady,” I imagine they’ll whisper, “I think she took a wrong turn on her way to the ice cream shop. Doesn’t she know we’re in a race here?”

I didn’t used to be scared about stuff. I didn’t care about what other people thought. I didn’t care about danger. I had my motorcycle, I dove off cliffs, bunji-jumped, went skydiving and tried new things just for the fun of it.

I was all that and a bag of barbecue pork rinds.

But then life came. I lost people I loved in sudden tragedies. I totaled my car. I embarrassed myself trying something new. Suddenly the world didn’t seem as kind or friendly or accepting of wild risk-takers like me.

So today I’m tempted to temper my life – to keep danger at bay.

I could take up knitting.

I could force my girl into a convent and give her a tricycle to ride.

I could give my hubby a honey-do list so long that he won’t have time to don his rock helmet to go out in the wild.

But in the end, what would that say about my God?

Yes, sometimes people laugh at you.

Yes, things get messy.

Yes, motorcycles crash and bad stuff happens.

But if I shrink back, something even worse will happen – I’ll turn into a wimpy old woman.  Even more tragic, I’ll turn into a wimpy old woman with no life, no stories to tell, no adventures to share. I’ll miss the chance to tell people how God is God even when tragedy strikes, even when things don’t go right, even when you’re the last chick in the pack huffing and puffing away.

This world is tough, but our God is tougher.

The world is risky, but our God doesn’t shy away from risk.

He proved that one on the cross.

So I will not shrink back. I will not be a wimpy old woman. I will buy that Harley Davidson one day. I will be the wild godly chick with a red leather jacket riding down the road on a purple Harley Davidson. I will encourage my daughter to pursue every last crazy dream and I will cheer my hubby on to climb dangerous mountains.

I will not shrink back because my God parted a sea, healed broken people and raised my Jesus from the dead.

Which means He’ll take care of me.

And He’ll take care of you, my friends.

No matter what comes.

So we might as well live…

BIG.

I need to dream big.

Really big.

My husband is off to climb a mountain this weekend. Its one of the tougher climbs and he’s been training like a madman. Jogging seven miles at high altitude, working out at our gym, gearing up for the big day.

I need a big day of my own, a goal to shoot for, a prize to pursue. Jagged mountain peaks are more for my man. I need something different to stir my soul.

So I’ve been doing some research. A triathlon sounds like a blast. I love to swim, love to bike and could tolerate the jogging. I could be one of those over-40 super-woman feel-good stories you sometimes hear about on the news. “Can you believe it? Elsa started out as a slightly frumpy desk chick and burst on to the triathlon scene with astounding strength and an uncanny knack for the doggy paddle! She’s amazing!”

They’d nickname me “The Colorado Paddler.”

I imagine myself, standing on the platform and ducking down to receive my gold medal, the applause ringing in my ears.

But then I did some more research and most triathlons are really long and unreasonably difficult. Crazy thing? They don’t even let you take breaks between legs. No latte before the swim, no nap before the biking.

That doesn’t seem very healthy at all.

So I tried to see if there is some kind of duo-athlon or even a pick-ur-own-athlon I could participate in. You know, where I could set my own pace, do my own thing. Swim if I want, jog if I feel like it or swing dance if I’m feeling really feisty.

Nothing.

So I guess I’m back to the triathlon, cruel as it seems to be. I’ll try and keep you updated as I torture myself into this new pursuit. And if you have a big thing you’re shooting for, let me know. Let’s be in it together.

All right, here we go. I’m off for my first jog…

(Or maybe tomorrow, after my morning non-fat caramel latte.)

I used to be a graffiti artist.

It’s true.

I’m praying that the statute of limitations on high school bathroom infractions has long past, but even if it hasn’t, I’m confessing it here and now.

It was me.

I was the one who wrote “Lori loves Billy.”  “June-Bug was here,” and “Down with physics.”

It was my first business. I charged $5.00 to each willing criminal, and then wrote their name, love interest and any other pertinent information on the bathroom wall.

I thought it was quite the creative idea for a high school kid.

But after the last two days, my whole take on creativity has expanded.

I was at a leadership conference called “Global Leadership Summit.” While I was there, I was exposed to God’s creativity displayed in people of every type.

I listened to Mama Maggie, who about sprouted wings on the stage as she humbly shared about her love for the children of Cairo. She spoke in a quiet voice but her words were bright and bold and beautiful in the heart of every audience member.

Then there was Steven Furtick, a young, passionate lover of God wearing skinny jeans and a lopsided smile. He was insatiable, contagious, totally delighted in our God. He spoke of God’s power and ability to do anything and everything. His passion geared us all up to run right out the door and change the world.

Erwin McManus is a California dude. Brilliant and passionate, he challenged us to remember the beauty of story, the uniqueness of each human life and the power of creativity.

There were lots more—loud and quiet; organized and scattered; funny and serious.

God’s graffiti—written for a far larger venue than what my high school bathroom had to offer. Each human word written with a brilliant stroke of genius. Some written in script, some with box letters and dancing lines, some in lowercase, others in all caps.

Each one an outpouring of God’s creativity.

I LOVED it… it made me square my shoulders and dimple out my smile and remember that I may not look like everyone else or think like anyone else or act like that person over there, but God made me Elsa. And I will revel in the way he has written me.

And you, my friends, just have to be you—the living word God created—unique, vibrant, beautiful you. We need you to keep things alive and interesting and good.

Lord, help us to live that today!

And Lord, sorry about the whole high school thing. That was really naughty.

Sometimes I get grumpy and say things I shouldn’t say.

Today I woke up from my nap and told my dog to “Step off!” He was chewing on my pinkie toe and I let him have it.

“Step off, mutt!”

I know. I shouldn’t have cast disparaging comments on his lineage, but that’s what happens when I don’t watch my words.

I did make it up to Max. “I’m sorry Max. I think you’re the finest pup around and I don’t even care that we have no idea who your parents are…”

He seemed okay, but you know, once you put those words out there….

My dad and I shared a lot of words over the years. Some were good, some not so much. After all, I was a mushy gooey girl, he was a stoic engineer. I was a wild, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants teenager, he was a focused and analytical dad. My room looked like a minor hurricane had swept through while he had a drawers for every single tool he owned—each labeled and in alphabetical order. By the time I drove him crazy by eloping in my 20s, our relationship was more than a little rough around the edges.

I suppose we could have stayed there.

I suppose we could have let old words sit in the air and fog up our view of one another.

I’m so thrilled that we didn’t. Oh, not that cleaning things up went perfectly. There were times I disagreed with him, and he with me. But as I grew a little older, I began to appreciate the many things he did so well. And he was able to see me beyond my childhood goofiness and teenage insanity.

Two years ago, my dad died in a sailing accident.

Eighteen hours before he died, he left a message on my cell phone.

Here it is: Final Words

I have that message on my I-tunes playlist and today it came on as I walked my dogs. My dad’s final words to me were ones of encouragement, and they encourage me still today.

I was telling a family friend about my nephew Caleb yesterday. How he was 17 years old when he died in a car accident, twelve days after my dad died in a drowning. He looked at me with eyes wide, “I’m 17,” he said.

I could see the wheels turning.

We have no idea when our time will come. We have no idea what our final words will be. For me I just pray I don’t go out saying things like,  “You mutt!” to those I care about.

Instead, I pray that I remember how words can either destroy or build up, cut or heal… and how they linger either way.

Thanks for the voicemail, Dad. It made my day. Again.

Friendly warning: This blog is slightly disturbing and may be offensive to some readers. Please read on at your own risk. 🙂

I had no clue how to work it. I mean, they never taught me about this kind of stuff in writing class. Or in speech. Or even in geography. I think they should have covered it somewhere, only because the whole thing was so downright traumatizing.

Unfortunately, it just never came up, and so I was ill-prepared.

When I went to Africa, using the restroom was the same as in America, only less water. The Netherlands and New Zealand – no big deal either. I could use the potty with ease.

Then I got to Japan. While I was on the military base, everything was fine – and quite familiar to me. Sit, do your business, flush.

Then we went for a hike in a rural area of Okinawa, and that’s when I encountered it at one of the local parks. It’s called a squatter.

The Squatter

I stood back and watched ladies go in and out of the stall. They didn’t seem to take long. They didn’t seem unduly stressed.

They were obviously gifted. That, and rather short. Which according to my calculations would make a significant difference in their targeting success.

I ventured close and peaked in. Had images of… well, I won’t take you to that part of my brain. Suffice it to say, I didn’t take a change of clothes and I thought after using that thing, I might need a new set.

The ladies with me laughed at my fears. And graciously pointed me to another restroom for us taller girls, with a place to sit and everything.

I thanked my lucky stars.

That was three months ago. I was actually going to keep the whole adventure to myself until I went to Oregon this last weekend and came across another unique potty place.

So yes. I did. I took a picture because I knew you would get a kick out of it (make sure you read the sign):

The Guitar Toilet

So there you have it. I had to write a blog and share two potty pictures. I just hope you weren’t looking for anything deep and profound today. And if so, I’ll leave you with this: If you ever go to Japan, bring an extra set of clothes, and if you go to Oregon, be prepared to pee-pee in a guitar.

Happy Tuesday!

It was perfect.

Just me and my man…

… and Simba Roo and Mad Max.

We hiked up Barr Trail (7 miles) on Friday and set up camp halfway up Pikes Peak. We almost left the dogs at home, but the sheer joy of a worn-out Max too exhausted to jump or bark or nip changed our minds.

We arrived at Barr camp around 3, set up our tent and then found a small outcropping of rocks with a view of the peak. We nibbled on some snacks and toasted our six years of marriage. Six years of companionship. Six years of laughter. Six years of ups and downs to rival any 25-year run.

We kissed.

Kissed again.

Max and Simba pretended to spot a squirrel.

We ate some dinner and climbed into our tent. As much as we’d made eyes at each other during our snack time, we were limited in any further adventures.

After all, the children were right there with us.

Brian and Max

Me and Simba

The next day dawned with a whole different anniversary to think about.  Just two years ago, on July 2^nd, we lost my dad in a tragic drowning. I traced over those events in my mind as Brian and I hiked to the bottomless pit. A nine mile hike round-trip, it gave me plenty of time to think and reflect on the day, and on my father.

Me and my dad

I thought back to when I was just a little thing and my dad took me backpacking. I remember complaining every few minutes. “Can we take a break now?” “It’s really hot.” “I think a snake just bit me, I should probably rest.”

He was so good. “Sure,” he’d say. Or “How about a few more steps? I bet you can make it to that rock.”

I think my dad would have been proud of me on Saturday. I not only made it to a rock, I climbed up a few, shimmied over another and scrambled around several more.

And I know he would have loved the view.

Coming up on the Bottomless Pit

Stunning...

Awed and weary, we spent some time resting and then headed back. By the time we made it to camp, we ate dinner and fell asleep with the sun.

Yesterday, the caretakers at Barr Camp encouraged us to check out Ad-a-man Rock. It was amazing. Off in the woods, it was a large rock set on a massive cliff. We scrambled to the top to see the incredible view. I was totally wrapped in the moment until those dogs ran around to play… every time they went close to the edge, I barked out mama words.

“Not so close!”

“I mean it, you two.”

“Max! Simba! Back up or it’s not going to be pretty.”

They happily stood at the edge and grinned at me over their shoulders.

Rotten dogs.

Brian at the top

The fabulous view

Holdin' them back

We climbed down and walked a bit more before returning to camp to pack up and head home.

So here I sit today, pleasantly worn out after traversing 27 miles with my husband. I’m finally clean (I could have planted flowers in the dirt left behind in the tub yesterday) and I’m sitting on my front porch. The American flag is flying and children are playing on our street.

I celebrate another anniversary today: Independence Day.

I find myself grateful for a country that contains such majestic beauty, such marvelous freedoms and such lovely people.

So yes, we packed it in this weekend. Deep joy, longing sadness and fierce pride – and as I wrap up the day, and I think of sharing this time with you, I am grateful for friends who care enough to read the stories of my world, who share in the joys and the sorrows – because you get it. The richness of joy, the depth of sorrow.

Friends, I pray your weekend carried more joy than pain and more love than loneliness…. And if not, that our God held you close through it all.

Thanks for sharing the journey.