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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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E me at katy @ ngenius.com

Wipeout (#486)

Here is is already ten in the morning, and I have no writing to show for it.

Did I dream all my words away last night? I got a little overheated in my knit jammies and thick socks and three blankets, and got stuck in one of those bizarre dream cycles in which the cast of characters included everyone I'd ever known, dead or alive, all together again, whether they'd ever been together before or not.

Dialogue involving that many characters can use up a writer's daily word count pretty fast.

At night, I am Stephen King. Plagues wipe out whole states, or at least my family; enemies destroy barns and houses and churches and the football stadiums where all the believers are hiding. There are millions of ecoli-bed conversions, which is gratifying. And when the people I resent in real life are offed in my dreams, I don't feel too guilty about it.

There is no time for profound feelings in these dream sequences--the plot must go on. Real women don't grieve, they dig graves. In my wildest dreams, real women (which is to say, I) preserve the tiny spark of life that's left, knowing full well the rest of the entire earth is probably caput by now. It is I who must save my little family from the rampant destruction that is overtaking mankind, but not only that--I must also assume the arduous task of being matriarch of the whole world, and rebuilding it after its near extinction.

I awaken drenched in sweat from the effort. (And from the jammies and socks and three blankets, not to mention the space heater.)

After all that, is it any wonder I'm wordless?

---

Be Prepared (#487)

The ad man was pitching a CD on the local am station called, "How to Prepare for a New Bull Market." It caught my interest enough that I jotted down the 1-800 number.

I scratched out the number when I heard the final lines.

"Although no one knows when a bull market will begin, historically a bull market follows a bear market."

So that's how it works.

---

Vanity (#488)

There's a pretty good chance I've broken every one of the Ten Commandments in thought, word, or deed. But I have to say that one of them, for me, stands out as awfully hard to break.

I've intended to take the Lord's name in vain countless times, with an abysmal failure rate.

I scream "JESUS!" so energetically while narrowly averting a car wreck that any listener would imagine I'm taking His name in vain, but I'm a fraud, really. Often, I add "Mary, and Joseph!" and cross myself without even realizing it, and my cover is blown.

Bidden, or unbidden, He is present, and He tacitly turns my feeble attempts at blasphemy into answered prayers.

Still, the commandment gnaws at me today. Something about it makes me seek out a second opinion, just to verify my innocence.

"I doubt the commandment has much to do with cussing. I think it's about something else entirely," Doug says.

Oh-oh.

"I think it's about presenting yourself, your words, your lifestyle and your choices to others as if you're following the Lord, when you're not. It's about attaching His name to efforts He'd rather not be associated with. It's about being presumptuous enough to believe that God himself is behind all your schemes, plans and ideas without checking with Him first."

So, I'm ten for ten, after all.

---

Caption Captive (#489)

A recent hobby of mine is to catch all the typos I can while using closed captioning for the hearing impaired. (I'm completely deaf in one ear, and hear well with the other. The captions usually help ease any strain.)

"Look at that!" I'll shout at Doug and the kids, who are entranced by the visuals and can't believe I'm hung up on a little word. "Who types this stuff? Haven't they mastered sixth grade spelling?"

In the case of the State of the Union Address, wouldn't you think the speech would have been made available to the typist even only minutes beforehand, so he could get it right? And by the morning after's news, the hearing impaired should definitely be able to count on reading an accurate version of a twelve-hour-old speech.

On this morning's Today Show, the president was quoted from last night's speech as saying, "Trusting in the sanity of Saddam Hussein is not a strategy."

The caption read, "Trusting in the sanity of Saddam Hussein is not a tragedy."

We're the targets of closed-caption terrorism, and we can't even hear it coming.

---

Just Desserts (#490)

Kev had been doing a little comparison shopping from the sounds of it.

"You know," he said to the two of us, as if he'd just gotten a heavy revvie, "you guys look pretty good for being fifty and forty-nine."

"Yeah," I said, "and we're mentally with it, too."

He hesitated a split second too long, his face a little too straight.

"So far," he said.

That's what I get.

---

Dusty Jewels (#491)

"We bow down..."

I hear Doug playing his guitar as I walk by the closed door of his office. The sound of his instrument is sweet and his voice is pure as he worships in the late evening hour.

I don't interrupt him, though. I'm on a mission, hunting down my son Kevin, determined to put him on the straight and narrow path of homework.

"We lay our crowns..."

This is a thankless job, I think. Always staying on top of the kids, their schedules, their assignments, their assorted car wrecks. Any crown I might receive for this seems a long time in coming.

"At the feet of Jesus."

I walk farther from the scene of worship, sure Kevin's around here somewhere, eluding me and his responsibilities. I bet he's taking a nap, when he knows he's got work to do.

"The wonder of His mercy and love, at the feet of Jesus..."

The music fades as I move away from it. I'm angry that he isn't responding when I call down to his room. I make a beeline back to the office now, to report my frustration to my peaceable husband, and I'm turning the doorknob when the vocal harmonies begin.

"We cry holy, holy, holy..."

I gasp, and collapse on the hard wood floor, and am silent.

"We cry holy, holy, holy..."

I cry tears of thanksgiving for a son who has chosen, like Mary the sister of Martha, to sit at the feet of his Savior.

"We cry holy, holy, holy, is the Lord."

And all my crowns lie in the dust.

---

A Real Hoot (#492)

The Independence, Missouri, City Council had their hands full this week.

They voted on whether or not Hooter's Restaurant could occupy a space in their fair town. The opposition included a conservative Christian church which happens to congregate on the block in question.

Hooter's won out. In the words of a representative of the City Council, "Morality is not a good enough reason to stop progress."

Who comes up with this stuff?

---

Baby’s Breath (#493)

A candlelight vigil was held last night, here at a church on the Plaza, to mark the 30th anniversary of Roe vs. Wade.

The NBC affiliate here called it a "celebration"--one of several planned for our area. I thought it was a strange choice of words, unless by it they meant to celebrate the millions of tiny lives who are no more.

Wouldn't "commemoration" be the better word?

The reporter got a little more specific then, and plainly stated that the candles would be lit on the pro-choice side of the aisle. They were the ones celebrating.

I was stunned. And then I remembered.

"Doug, I need you," I called to my sleeping husband of just one year. I was fourteen weeks pregnant with our first baby, a son. I had awakened from a sound sleep, drenched, and had stumbled to the bathroom in the darkness.

Doug turned on a small light, and hurried to where I sat weeping on the toilet, my fists clenched.

"What is it?" he asked, as he knelt down on the floor beside me.

Slowly, I opened one hand to reveal our baby, our little boy, who had fallen from my body in one perfect piece.

We cried together then, and held our own private vigil. We prayed aloud and gave our baby back to God.

It's been twenty-five years, and sometimes, even now, I swear I feel his breath upon my hand.

---

Old Friends, New Again (#494)

"Got a belly ring yet?" asks JoAnn, my girlfriend these past thirty years.

We haven't seen in other in quite a while. The low-rise Old Navy jeans, peasant top and stacked-heel boots must have fooled her.

"No!" I laugh, then raise my eyebrows her way. She shakes her head. The red crocheted bell-sleeved sweater and the silver and turquoise jewelry must have fooled me.

"Tatoos?" she persists, keeping a straight face. She is so like the girl I used to room with, so unchanged and unspoiled. And still unpredictable.

"NO!" I shout, and then realize the more sedate patrons of Tippin's are staring. By now we are both giggling like the schoolgirls we were just moments ago.

"Jo," I reason, "we don't even have extra holes in our ears..."

"I've heard it's a good idea," she says,"to have an extra hole in just one ear--in case you lose an earring, you can still wear the other."

She knows too well the response she'll get from me.

"I've never lost an earring," I boast. And she, I'm thinking, has lost too many to count. So why doesn't she have an extra hole, I wonder. An extra hole is just what she needs...

"And I always think I'll find mine," she deadpans. We laugh till we cry. The score is evened.

I have to say that in this friendship of a lifetime, we've both found more than we've lost.

---

Underwear Scare (#495)

It's official: I've sustained my first sports injury.

My exercise program is well into its second week, incident free. Until now.

I am careful not to compromise my already-funky knees with any jarring movements, and cautious when introducing weights because of the herniated disc in my neck. So far, my strategy had been successful.

This morning, I barely survived strangulation, though, while attempting to wrangle my way into a sports bra.

Life is frought with peril.

---

Revelations (#496)

Have you seen all the before and after photos of men and women in their skivvies, for instance the folks who have embarked upon a Body for Life 12-week challenge? Can you believe they let someone take those pictures of them, with their rolls upon rolls of globular gushiness and cellulite smeared on top for good measure, and that they then publish the images in print or on the web for God and everybody to see?

I've been married nearly 26 years, and I have fiercely clung to my dignity for each and every one of them, until today. I've never owned a pair of bike shorts or a racer-back (or is it razor-back? whatever) sports bra. Until today. I've never dreamed of requesting of my own volition that a man who still loves me photograph me in such revealing apparel.

Until today.

"Don't say a word," I hissed, as I emerged from the bedroom in my new outfit. "Just take the pictures, and fast."

"You look..." he started.

"NOT A WORD!"

He took my befores in a hurry. Front, side and back, and one extra in which I posed in such a way as to show the utter patheticness of my upper arms.

And, like the faithful man he is, he kept his lips sealed. But I couldn't help noticing he never stopped smiling.

---

Disjointed (#497)

I'm sitting here in front of the monitor with my elbow on the desk and my chin planted in my fist. It's 6:30 am, and Kev goes back to school today, so I'm up, pretending to be with it.

Doug walks in, muttering.

"I can't find where I put down my cup of coffee..." he groans.

"Yeah, well, I can't take my hand off my arm," I answer.

"You mean your head off your hand," he says.

And a new semester begins.

---

Pencil Me In (#498)

When Winston Churchill's career was going nowhere, before the events of WWII made him a hero, he took up painting. He wanted to have a hobby he could enjoy into his golden years (he was already in his fifties at the time, I believe), and something to take his mind off what he took to be a somewhat failed political life.

His paintings now sell for tens of thousands of dollars, and not just because of his name. He became quite an accomplished artist.

Writing is my primary pursuit, but most of what I'm working on is longer-term stuff, and instant gratification (or even feedback) just doesn't happen at this stage of the game. So, I've been looking for a hobby that could offer nearer-term results.

Spencerian penmanship is one outlet, and I've been using my fountain pens like crazy and with loads of personal satisfaction. Crocheting baby afghans is something to do while watching TV, and there is no one as appreciative of handmade blankies than a baby. I crank out a steady stream of those.

But today, I did something I haven't attempted in 30 years. I did a pencil drawing of my daughter, Carrie. And it turned out good.

I know they say if you don't use it, you'll lose it, and of course, they're right. But every once in a while, it's such fun to discover that you didn't use it or lose it!

Drawing Carrie was the most fun I've had in a while. I think I'm on to something.

---

Hang-Ups (#499)

Two mottos I've chosen for 2003:

"Don't believe everything you think."

"Oh, no! Not another freakin' learning experience!"

Do you have a favorite?

---

Difficult Rebirth (#500)

I thought of Nicodemus last night, and more than once.

You remember the Pharisee who took Jesus aside under cover of darkness to ask how in the world a man could go back inside his mother's womb in order to be "born again"? Jesus told him he shouldn't be so surprised at Him saying, "You must be born again."

"I have spoken to you of earthly things, and you do not believe," Jesus told Nicodemus. "How then will you believe if I speak of heavenly things?"

Last night, I went to bed with a small electric heating pad attached to a very long cord. I was freezing, and after piling on the jammies, robe, socks and blankets, it was my only recourse left. I kind of shifted it around all night to whichever part of me was the coldest. Whatever works, right?

Around two in the morning, I woke up choking for breath, and had already turned blue by then, I'm sure, although I didn't ask Doug for verification.

"Help me!" I gasped. The cord, the very one which was to deliver the warmth of life, was wrapped around my neck three times, squeezing the life out of me, with the heating pad cast over one shoulder like a forgotten placenta.

He snored in response, and I flailed around in the bed until I disentangled myself from the vestiges of a difficult birth. It wasn't pretty.

I've spoken to you of earthly things, and maybe you, like Nic at night, don't believe. But I'm thinking, as night edged toward dawn, he just couldn't forget how "God so loved the world, He gave his only Son, that whosoever believes in Him shall not perish, but shall have eternal life."

Around two in the morning, being born again is the best idea in the whole world.

---

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