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Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri

Katy is represented by
Greg Johnson at
WordServe Literary

Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net

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Recent Posts

• Try
• Becoming Brenda Starr
• Off Beat
• Scattered
• That’s It
• So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What?
• The Spoon
• Sciatica
• Sweetheart
• A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose
• However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time
• After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices.
• As with everything in life, balance is key.
• Slow down, you move too fast…
• Yeah, I know. I have issues.

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(No Title) (#772)

E.R. and The West Wing are always promising that if I just watch tonight's episode, it will "change my life forever." So I watch, and I wait, and I watch some more. Nothing. Sure, I'm entertained, satisfied for an hour, and maybe my belief system is even bolstered by the scriptwriters' obvious ideologies. But changed forever? Hardly. The things that change your life forever, I'm finding out, almost always arrive quietly, unannounced, without fanfare. They seldom turn out to be what you first take them for, and always end up being more than you could have ever dreamed. Chloe and Sheryl will go back home to the towns of Fintona and Sixmilecross, County Tyrone, Northern Ireland in just three days time. We've been so wrapped up in their lives, and they in ours, for these past six weeks, that I haven't once had the time or notion to watch E.R. or The West Wing. And our lives have been changed forever.

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(No Title) (#773)

So I've lost all this weight, right? Well, after months of deliberating, I finally screwed up all my courage and tried on a thong. I would have tried on a couple, but it hurt my big toe really bad.

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(No Title) (#774)

We knew we were taking a risk-- a big one. We knew that the chances of getting two really wonderful girls from Northern Ireland to stay with us this summer were kind of like partaking in the church's potluck-- we might get full fast, but full of what? And we'd probably regret it later. Still, we pushed forward to become a host family for two teenagers who were willing participants in the Children's Friendship Project for Northern Ireland, an organization which pairs a Catholic kid with a Protestant one and sends them to the U.S. for six weeks. The goal is that each pair of teens will become friends, and remain friends upon returning to Northern Ireland. And maybe even change their world. Isn't that what we're all hoping to do, really? So we took a chance, and it didn't pan out. It's unlikely we'll ever be a host family again, since the stakes are even higher now than they were when we started. Because, you see, no two kids could ever again touch our lives like Sheryl and Chloe have. Sometimes, you just have to stop while you're ahead.

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(No Title) (#775)

It's a horrifying thing to fear for one's transmission. To hear banging, clattering, thumping and scraping, and to be reasonably certain of its ominous origin. To dimly recognize noises from one's murky automotive past, and to be filled afresh with the dread and anguish of facing the thing head on. And yet face it we must. For, you see, we live in this car. It does not merely transport us from here to there. Such straightforward utility would be shallow, indeed. No, our car serves not only as transportation, but also as dinner table, office desk and daybed. Not to mention summer camp, classroom, emergency room and confessional. Within its walls, we parents have suffered through the lyrics to frightening songs on the FM, while our kids were trying to figure out how to ask us about the facts of life. Within its walls, they might have even heard us say a few choice words they didn't know we knew. Sigh. Admitting this car to the repair shop is a bittersweet affair. Who knows when we might see it again? Who knows what terrible procedure it may have to endure, and whether it will ever really be the same from this day forward? Now, more than ever, we realize how bound up our very existence is with this, our car. "Mrs. Raymond," the mechanic says somberly when he calls many tense hours later, "I think we've finally discovered the problem. It's not your transmission clattering after all…" "But, then…what?" I ask. "It's your dishes." Oh.

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(No Title) (#776)

Lately, I've taken to believing that if I just stand in a hot shower long enough, blogging inspiration will come to me. Kind of like the spring rains watering the earth, you know? Is it me, or is everyone's water bill going up?

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(No Title) (#777)

Have you noticed that life loses its luster sometimes? It plods along, moping, for weeks on end, not noticing the beauty, the growth, the joy just a few steps outside the door-or maybe even the happiness lying dormant within the walls themselves. It used to stretch elegantly for the new, the curious, and the unreachable. But now it languishes, yawns and settles-bored-into a summer funk. How about a couple of teenaged girls from Northern Ireland to polish up a life? To really enliven things, how about making it one Protestant and one Catholic, with two completely different backgrounds, ideologies, politics and cultures? Sheryl and Chloe danced into our hearts a week ago, and with a flourish. They did not hesitate to shine their lights into our small, crowded, busy darkness, beguiling us with their amazement at everything they eyes fell upon. Did they realize how immediately we brightened, how instantly we began reflecting their glow? Sheryl loaned me her nail polish for the 4th of July, replete with iridescent twinkly flecks that outshone the fireworks. "Ooooh, I love the sparkles!" I enthused, and the girls really thought we were still talking nail polish. God only knows how to put the shine back on a life.

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(No Title) (#778)

SOMETHING ELSE I WISH I'D SAID... Second in a Series "All of my dreams are waiting for me to come true."

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(No Title) (#779)

All I can think about is seeing the look in his eyes when he realizes the gift is for him. Doug and I plot for days how we will spring the surprise on Scott, our soon-to-be college graduate. We are not usually extravagant gift-givers, but unbeknownst to Scott, he's going to get a new Saturn. We contrive a perfect scenario with the car sales guy, who meets us in a restaurant parking lot across from the dealership, pretending to be a client of Doug and Scott's. Just another guy needing a website designed. The guy pulls up to the curb, hops out, shakes hands all around, and starts to hand off his folder of info for Scott's consideration. As Scott opens it, the salesman says, "Do you think you could design something like this?" Scott looks at the paper, confused, disoriented, not yet blinking. "Oh….cute…" he says, dumbly. The paper contains a cranberry colored picture of a Saturn, exactly like the one the guy drove up in, and the URL "ScottRaymondsNewCar.com." Scott's eyes still hold no glimmer of recognition of what he's about to receive. But I can't take my eyes off his. Any second now…any second! "Maybe," the salesman continues, "you need to step over here to get a better idea of what I'm talking about…" And he leads Scott, like a sheep, to the cranberry car. I stare, mesmerized, energized, as Scott's eyes register the truth. One blink, the confusion disappears. Two blinks, could it be? Three blinks, disbelief of the reality before him. Four blinks, utter joy! The heavenly Father spends eternity waiting, watching for a glimmer of recognition in His child's eyes. "Any second now," He must be thinking, "she'll receive the gift of My Son! Any second now…" And all He can think about is seeing the look in my eyes when I realize the Gift is for me.

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(No Title) (#780)

They will be watching for us, won't they? They won't need to wear purple hats or cheesy name tags for us to find them in the crowd. They won't need to call us on our cell phone to let us know they've arrived from Northern Ireland in a strange, new land, to stay the summer with strange, new people. They won't even need to wave their arms or shout aloud to attract our attention. We'll be right there, waiting, a little bit anxious, but thrilled to finally meet them. We'll be the conspicuous ones, holding the handmade signs reading, "Welcome, Sheryl and Chloe!" We won't be embarrassed to be so excited. The crowds both waiting and arriving won't faze us. We'll only have eyes for our girls. I wonder about Jesus in the crowd, sometimes. I know He's there forever waiting, waiting for me. Is He a little bit anxious, too? What's that He's holding up in his hands? It's the Book of Life, and He's pointing to my name, calling me with His eyes. And He must be thinking, "She will be watching for Me, won't she?"

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(No Title) (#781)

A COUPLE OF THINGS I WISH I'D SAID... First in a Series "Heck is where people go who don't believe in Gosh." "Chocolate: It's not just for breakfast anymore."

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(No Title) (#782)

Do you know what it's like to be blinded by the light? It must be like the morning I slept too long and too deeply, with my face bearing the strength of the sun, which by early day was streaming brazenly through the uncurtained window. I hazily dreamed of spinning, spinning, until I awakened to find the room spinning, indeed. It was as though my eyelids had offered my eyes no protection at all from the onslaught of the brightness-they might as well have been made of the finest tissue paper. For hours, while my vision was impaired, I reflected on the Road to Damascus, and poor St. Paul. Our lights went out yesterday, in a wild storm, effectively ending our various electricity-driven enterprises for the rest of the day. Just as dusk was overtaking us, and we were gathering the oil lamps, the light was suddenly back, cheerfully ablaze, as if on cue. The hair dryer was soon in full operation, meaning Carrie was leaving for the evening, almost certainly to arrive back home with the wee hours nipping at her heels. Later, much later, I prayed in silence, staring at the ceiling of our blackened room, alert. Our bedroom is so far removed from the road leading to our house that I did not hear the car edging closer. And then, finally, two fleeting streaks of light above me, the reflections of the headlights of her car. Thank you, Lord…my daughter's safely home. I know something of what it's like to be blinded by the light. And how it sometimes happens when I'm sound asleep. More often, though, I'm so desperate to see any shred of light at all that I lie on my back, in abject darkness, waiting for a shining sliver to flash across the bedroom sky. With eyes wide open.

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(No Title) (#783)

So there we were, seated around a table for seven, celebrating my son Scott's twenty-second birthday. Two of his guy friends joined us, and somehow we got talking about the runaway sleep deprivation the three of them live with. Nathan works at a men's formalwear store, and usually works alone in the suburban mall storefront. He described how he sometimes falls asleep there at the counter, in front of God and everybody. "I really hate it when I nod off in the front," he said, and I could easily imagine his chagrin. What if the store manager happened by just then, or the ever-vigilant tuxedo police busted him? "Failure to appear to be an aggressive self-starter," the citation might read. How humiliating. "So now," he went on, "when I realize I'm getting sleepy, I grab a huge pile of tuxedos and head for the back room…" "I see," I said, "to make it seem like you're doing something…" "No…to make a bed." And there it is.

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(No Title) (#784)

"Oh…is it tomorrow?" she asks. Somehow, her memory is slightly jogged by hearing my voice. "Yeah, lunch tomorrow…" I intone, wishing again, as I had a thousand times during our thirty year friendship, that she'd get a calendar. "Will that still work?" Why don't I just record this conversation and hit the play button the next time? "Oh, gee…" she hesitates, "they asked me to come into work, and my daughter has her ACTs, and I have to take her and pick her up, and then she has a dentist appointment, and it's way over on the other side of town, and I have to take her and wait for her, so…" "So tomorrow doesn't sound like it's going to work," I conclude. We only live thirty minutes from each other, but two years have passed since we've met. At one time, when we were young, we only lived three feet from each other, and two hours couldn't pass without another "heart to heart." "Katy," she'd whisper in the wee hours, as if there were anyone to disturb besides me, "are you awake?" And then she'd tell me her girlish secrets, about the "crush" who was destined to be her one and only true love, and what he had said that had melted her heart. We'd giggle and scheme and talk until morning, and then face the day sleepless, but wholly sustained by friendship. Something has changed now, though. I used to welcome the "interruption." Now, it seems, I am the interruption. "None of the tomorrows are going to work," I whisper to myself, as I hang up the phone. As if there were anyone here to disturb besides me.

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(No Title) (#785)

It's been raining almost non-stop for the last ten days or so. I don't follow the weather reports much, but when it rains torrentially, it's good to stay apprised of road conditions, cancellations and flight delays. This morning, the weather guy announced that we are under an "urban and small stream advisory." This usually happens several hours before the "flash flood advisory," and a couple days before everyone starts shipping out of their homes in row boats. We have no small streams to navigate regularly, and we heeded the "urban advisory" years ago and moved to the country. Actually, we stopped off in the suburbs for a few years, although I've yet to hear them issue a "suburban and small stream advisory." My mother is a staunch city girl, though, having lived in the same home for forty years, and refuses to budge just because of some lame urban advisory, especially if it means she'd have to relocate in a thunderstorm. I worry about her. Our grown son, Scott, talks about moving back from his small college town, into the urban core. He says tons of young people are re-populating the cities, choosing to consolidate their careers, social lives and living arrangements squarely inside the city limits. What is he thinking? Doesn't he watch the news?

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(No Title) (#786)

I've loved the word "synergy" since I first heard it used in context back in the mid-1980s. The speaker, who was expounding upon the benefits of a powerful multiple vitamin, explained how the individual components were made much more effective by being combined precisely with the remaining ingredients. "Each vitamin, mineral and herb is fine alone," he said, "but put them together, and they are EXTREME. The sum of the parts really IS greater than the math would imply, folks. That's what we call SYNERGY!" "What a concept!" I thought, and ever since that day I've strived to apply it in as many ways as possible to my own life. Today, for instance, I'm grouchy, tired, fat and hungry. Oh, yeah, and hormonal. And did I mention fat? Why is it, in my life, "synergy" ends up being just another way of combining "sin" with "energy"? Maybe I should start taking vitamins…

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