A Toolbox for Christmas

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I eased up on the gas pedal as I approached the stoplight. A choice lay before me. Turn left and drive north toward the airport where I could board a flight to anywhere. Turn right and follow my husband and son south toward home where I’d be forced to deal with the horrors dealt to me.

Her words were grinding in my head like oil and vinegar swirling about in a food processor, mixing together but not blending, and separating again due to their inability to stay conjoined. It’s December twenty-third and Christmas shopping isn’t on the agenda today. Or wasn’t until the doctor suggested it while sitting on the bench outside the elevators.

She spoke matter-of–fact after the grueling six-hour mental health evaluation, “On your way home today, stop by the department store and buy one of those heavy-duty, red, metal toolboxes. Keep it on your kitchen counter. Lock up everything you consider a weapon. Wear the key on a long string around your neck twenty-four hours a day so you can control its access.”

Gripped in fear, I clung to the steering wheel, systematically considering the weapons in our home. My husband’s hunting shotguns are securely locked in the gun safe in our garage. Knives, not of the hunting sort, but rather paring, steak, and serrated ones lay in the drawer above the dishwasher. Scissors rest in my computer desk drawer, in my bathroom vanity drawer, and in the gift-wrap closet. Hammer, screwdrivers, and pliers gathered in a plastic bin in the laundry room cabinet as well as on the garage workbench. Nail files and clippers, knitting needles, pens and pencils, shoelaces, angry hands. Weapons galore in my home that had gone unnoticed before today’s mental health evaluation.

The doctor just kept blinking and looking at me, our knees almost touching as our conversation continued on the bench. Questions rose in my mind. How will we live this way? How do I explain the new protocols to the younger kids? Will I ever sleep again? My head was spinning. We waited four long months for this appointment and we’re leaving with more questions than answers.

“Growing up, I remember hearing about people, getting, you know,” I stumbled over the words, aware that we were no longer sitting in the doctor’s private office. I lowered my voice and said, “committed.” The doctor, with the sought-after degree, full of wisdom from years of listening and prescribing, listened as I grappled with the idea, “Isn’t that what happens to people with severe, mental health issues that need round-the-clock supervision? Weren’t they committed, in hospitals, with staff and medicine, to keep them and others safe?”

Her mouth opened and I focused on her moving lips as she spoke, “I must have a crime to commit.”

Images flashed through my mind, my body paralyzed. “You need a bloody crime scene before we can do anything?” I blurted out. “You’ve just spent six hours evaluating him. Aren’t your findings evidence enough to get him, us, help?”

She stood up from the bench, alerting me that this disturbing, off-the-record conversation was coming to a close. I mirrored her movements as she took small steps, moving us near the elevator.

“Call 9-1-1 anytime, day or night, if you feel threatened. Just tell them his behavior frightens you. The authorities will take him to the emergency room and admit him for at least twenty-four hours,” she handed me her business card while delivering more rehearsed advice. “Let the hospital know that we have his file. If there’s a bed available on site with us, we can admit him into our behavioral and mental health division for seventy-two hours or longer if needed.”

I couldn’t help but ask, “In the meantime, we’re supposed to lock up our life in a toolbox and wait for the inevitable?”

Without responding, she depressed the elevator down arrow to summon my descent into the pit of hell*.

*It’s been nearly two years since this doctor’s appointment and certainly, there’s more to the story both before and after this particular day. Each time I hear of a tragedy at the hands of evil, I’m taken back to that bench by the elevators, wondering how many families, like ours, are sent away without real solutions. Our story is marred with dead-ends, county court, financial sacrifice, and unanswered questions. It’s also full of God’s grace and peace, and us yielding to His will. If you’re willing to go on the journey with me, I’ll courageously take you with me through a series of blog posts to follow.

Things I’ve Learned on the Ranch

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Dream of owning a ranch? Wish you lived amidst a picturesque setting with 360 degree mountain views? Know what it takes to maintain 99 acres? Here’s what I’ve learned seven months into our ranch ownership journey:

  1. 99 acres seem small when you’re driving but much larger when walking.
  2. My kids hate when community members tell them that ranch work builds character.
  3. Bats are black, creepy, milking mammals, live 20+ years, migrate south in August.
  4. Critter guy that eradicates bats, mice, and cluster flies is my new bestie.
  5. The night sky is void of city lights but full of star lights.
  6. It’s a myth that mountain homes don’t need air conditioning.
  7. Shooting at targets, still or otherwise, is fun.
  8. Morning baths are futile whereas evening showers are necessary.
  9. Draping a steel rope across our ranch entrance does not deter former guest ranch customers from trespassing in search of breakfast.
  10. Our Maltese and Yorkie, previous yuppy city divas, love romping on the ranch.
  11. My ATV needs more storage compartments for my phone, tissues, bug spray, bear spray, sunscreen, cucumber scented wet wipes, flashlight, tools, work gloves, snacks, thermos.
  12. Pushing a lawn mower in the city isn’t fun. Pulling a 52″ brush cut mower behind an ATV is rockin’ fun.

    Unloading my brand new brush cut mower

  13. Cowboy hats, jeans, and boots are our protective friends.
  14. 12-year-old boys love getting dirty. 13-year-old girls are stronger than they thought. 18-year-old hired summer ranch-hand boys are determined to get a college degree.
  15. Make-up is unnecessary.
  16. If a neighbor goes into town, they call to find out what we might need and bring us the local paper upon their return.
  17. Rain is a hug from God.
  18. UPS and FedEx deliver to me. USPS doesn’t know I exist.
  19. Fellow ranchers commend our burn piles and comment about their own. We all await three feet of snow and volunteer fire department bonfires.
  20. With dirty faces, tanned arms, sore muscles, and cold beers, we proclaim happiness.

Honey, Grab the Checkbook

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Gut-wrenching. Peace. Torture. Peace. Heart-break. Peace. I’d describe 2011 as the year that God swaddled me in His peace amidst gut-wrenching decisions, physical and mental torture, and complete heart ache and heart-break. The year 2011 bore much pain within our family, yet, the most miraculous thing occurred in my husband’s heart. He decided to test God according to Micah 3:10. “Bring the whole tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. Test me in this, says the Lord Almighty, and see if I will not throw open the floodgates of heaven and pour out so much blessing that you will not have room enough for it.

My husband has been a small business owner for our entire marriage. We do not receive a bi-weekly paycheck. We do not receive a monthly paycheck. For many years, we scraped by on very little so we could re-invest back into the company. When you’re unsure about the timing of your next bank deposit, it’s hard to commit to ‘bringing the whole tithe’. We’ve discussed tithing to our church over the years but didn’t see eye to eye on the issue. Without my knowing, my husband had asked several Godly men in his life for their insight on tithing. Sadly, their responses left him feeling even more confused. We read 40 Days of Purpose together and discussed in agreement that everything belongs to God. He understood the premise but it hadn’t translated into an action.

Then, January 2011, during yet another tithing discussion, I gave an analogy that twisted his thoughts upside down. To this day, I don’t recall saying it, nor considered it any great spiritual insight but it stuck with him. Ever have that happen? It’s almost like someone else is using your mouth to speak their truths…hmm? Anyway, he came to me several weeks later proclaiming that we were going to tithe 10% of every dollar we brought in. No matter what. He asked me to keep him accountable and keep the checkbook in my purse so he’d never have an excuse not to write out the tithe check at church.

As fate would have it ordained, hubby hands me a very large paycheck within days of his proclamation. With only a glance exchanged between us, it was obvious he’d calculated the amount of tithe we’d be paying. I was so excited to fully give back what was already God’s. While writing out the date on the bank deposit slip, I was reminded that we had quarterly taxes due the following week. Taxes would eat up most of the check and tithe would finish it off. Silently, worry set in. Maybe this tithing commitment was more about my heart, not his.

Sunday morning arrived. Exhausted from the week, suffering from a mild headache, I lay in bed hoping, maybe, that we’d skip church. Two hours later, sitting in the theater seats of one of the largest churches in our county, my husband wrote out the tithe check for a full 10% of his paycheck. Gross pay. No taxes withheld. No, the tax checks would be mailed separately next week, my mind kept repeating. He folded the check in half and dropped it into the velvet green offering bag. I prayed, unsure:

When will we get paid again?

How soon does the church deposit tithe checks?

Will God prove faithful?

Do I really believe? In God? His promises? His word?

Yes, oh yes, I do believe. All of it. Not because my husband’s company enjoyed sales increases amidst a slumped national economy. Not because my husband’s paychecks increased as his heart lovingly tithed His savior. Not because the God of the Old Testament proved himself faithful to New Testament believers. God opened up the floodgates of heaven and poured out so much blessing on our family that my soul didn’t have room for it. Peace. All the money in the world can’t buy it. Happiness doesn’t bring it. The world doesn’t give it. God grants it.

God required obedience in one area of our lives and then heaped blessings into and over all areas of our lives. In preparation for a difficult 2011, God’s living spirit, the wonderful counselor, prompted submission over our checkbook so He could receive the glory for the abundance. The gut-wrenching decisions remained. The pain our family bore remained. But for the first time in my Christian walk I experienced God’s blessing of peace. Deep breathing, sleep giving, soul filling peace. And the most miraculous thing happened in my heart.

Clean Traveler

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Geez, Louise, I’m tired. I don’t even know a Louise but I’ve referred to her for years. Why am I tired? I’m 72 hours away from boarding an airplane and traveling puts me in a tizzy. Well, not the traveling, but the leaving, the preparing, the cleaning, the getting things in order before I travel.

Prior to every trip, I prepare my home and my life as if I’ll never return to it. Am I crazy? I do it to myself every time. I want everything in order. I want beds made, bills paid, dry cleaning dropped off, bathrooms scrubbed, items returned to stores, credits issued, filing done, magazines sorted/recycled, laundry washed/dried/folded/hung, floors swept, flowers dead-headed, fridge shelves wiped clean, rugs vacuumed, burned out light bulbs replaced, socks darned, blankets knitted, the homeless fed, healthcare reformed, everything in its place. Every time. Every trip. Without fail.

My motive is morbid. If I were to die in a car accident, plane crash, or drowning, I don’t want my family and friends to have to come in and clean my house. Not really, but really. Along with leaving behind a legacy of wonderful virtues, I’d also like to leave a clean house in my wake. Honestly, it’s more than wanting a clean house. It’s crossing things off of my procrastinated list. I’ve admitted to procrastinating. It’s no secret. So I use travel to create deadlines for myself to get things done that have been put off for too long. Here are my repeat offenders:

Returns – dread doing them. Before we leave on a trip, I force myself to take/ship back unwanted merchandise.

My closet – the pile of clothes in the floor. Before we leave on a trip, I hang and fold everything and organize by color leaving my closet looking like an upscale boutique.

Refrigerator – the unrecognized produce in the back of drawer two. I pull everything out, condiments, jellies, coffee creamers, leftover containers, shelf by shelf and drawer by drawer. After cleaning the blank shelf/drawer with a warm, soapy cleaning rag, and wiping down each jar, I replace the items that will cheer upon my arrival back home. As for the food that won’t keep, it gets disposed into the trash and the container recycled or washed for another use.

Email inbox – the ignored, low-priority messages finally get answered prior to my departure. Sometimes I’m unable to complete this task completely before leaving the house and bend my own rules a bit. I use airplane “offline” time to respond to emails, delete expired coupons, and clean up my inbox. When I’m reconnected to wi-fi, the swoosh sound settles my soul as my pending messages find IP permission.

Thankfully, I’m not a million miles air traveler so these rituals only take place quarterly in my home. If I traveled more often, I suppose I’d resort to staying on top of these things monthly, weekly or even daily. Ugh. Who does that? I travel just enough to keep my house in order, my mind rested, and my body bathing-suit conscience.

There. I confessed. Am I weird? Are you weird? Do you practice healthy, procrastinated ritual cleaning? Should we form a group? Do some people actually leave on a trip with clothes on the floor, returns piled up, inbox overflowing, and expired food awaiting their return? Should they form a group?

In the meantime, the clock is ticking, my list awaits and I’ve got a plane to catch. For ten glorious days I’ll read on the beach, drink overpriced resort drinks, rest beneath palm trees, and chat poolside with fellow foreigners. Who knows? I may finally meet Louise! Geez.

Love Me a Campfire

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I can’t recall a vacation doing anything other than camping. My earliest memories include camping. Two weeks. Every summer. We’d load the car, hitch up the pop-up camper, and drive from the Dallas heat and humidity to a national forest campsite in Red River, NM or Southfork, CO with no electricity, hand-pumped water, no showers, and no flushing toilets.

My dad worked full-time. My mom cleaned houses. Camping was their answer to relieve life’s stress and unplug. It’s funny to think that my parents felt the need to unplug back in the late 70′s and 80′s. I mean, really, what were we unplugging from? Three channels on the television? The record player? Lights? Mostly, I remember the trauma of not being able to plug-in and blow dry or curl my hair. In the 80′s, those devices were high-tech.

My dad would level the camper, mom and I would roll the sleeping bags over the beds, we’d set up the camp stove on one end of the wooden picnic table, haul drinking water from the communal spout, and settle into our campsite. My family didn’t hike. We didn’t fish. We didn’t ride bikes. My dad would read or photograph hummingbirds. My mom would walk to each campsite and introduce herself. My younger brother and I hung 2 liter plastic bottles just inches off the ground, cut an opening on one side, filled the bottom with bird seed and peanuts, and lured chipmunks into the spinning contraption for hours of priceless fun. We would also skip rocks across the river or throw driftwood into the flowing water and follow it downstream. Oh, we unplugged.

It’s no secret within the family that camping doesn’t hold the dearest of memories for me. It was cold crawling out of bed each morning. I’d get dressed and walk to the community outhouse then return to the campsite and help make breakfast. Next, boil water on the morning campfire so we could wash dishes. Then, boil more water so we could semi-bathe in the camper. Next, help make lunch and clean up. Help make dinner and clean up. Make several more trips to the community outhouse. Then crawl into a cold sleeping bag at night and do it all over again for the next 14 days. It was a lot of work.

Evenings without electricity were a drag. Once the sun set behind the mountains, the stars appeared in the night sky and a dark campsite leaves a lot to be desired. Unless you have a roaring campfire. For me, the campfire was the highlight of the day. I looked forward to building the evening campfire and assumed fire tending responsibilities as a young teen. Frankly, it was something to do. I liked the challenge of producing flames not smoke. I liked using our Frisbee to fan oxygen into a dying flame. I liked keeping everyone warm. I liked staving off the idea of crawling into that cold sleeping bag inside the camper.

Now with kids of my own, I’ve often felt guilty for having not exposed them to camping. I’ve considered taking them from time to time. There is nothing like spending your days surrounded by God’s creation, breathing in fresh air, and unplugging from life’s stress. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve decided I want to enjoy the camping activities with running water, showers, flushing toilets, electricity, and a warm bed to sleep in at night. It’s easier.

Our ranch offers me the best of everything. We can cook and eat outdoors and then put the dishes into the dishwasher. We can wash our hands or our bodies under warm, running water. We can flip a switch and have lights. I can blow dry and straighten my hair. But, most of all, I can build a big, roaring campfire each evening knowing my warm bed is waiting for me inside.

We closed on our mountain ranch in January 2012 and I’ve been patiently waiting for the thaw. Boy, did April deliver. The blanket of white snow rolled back to reveal a fire ring surrounded by rocks and beckoning dry wood. We spent a week at the ranch during Easter and I was determined to build a long-awaited campfire. No, we weren’t camping in the truest sense but sitting on 99 acres surrounded by mountains and a crackling wood fire is certainly more camping than sitting around a gas fire pit in the city.

I gathered the wood and leaned the pieces at 45 degree angles forming a tee pee shape in the center of the fire ring. I struck a match and lit the kindling perfectly centered beneath the cone of wood pieces. At first, smoke appeared. Shortly afterward, my efforts were rewarded with flames. I leaned back into my red Adirondack chair, stuck my hands in the pockets of my down jacket, and smiled. Words cannot express the feeling that runs across my body when I gaze into that yellow-orange flame. It’s soothing, calming, peaceful. The day’s cares rise into the air. Tomorrow’s worries are veiled.

My vacation memories haven’t changed. I’m still not a fan of camping but oh do I love me a campfire. I like the challenge of producing flames not smoke. I like fanning oxygen into a dying flame. I like keeping everyone warm. It’s still the highlight of my day.

Sorting through Social Media

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Facebook. Twitter. Pinterest. Linkedin. Blogs. Social media. What? Are you lost? Confused? Wondering when to use what, with whom, for what purpose? I’m no expert but I’ve been immersed in social media since the 80′s. You know, back when social media meant going to the movie theater (media) with a group of friends (social). Now it means sitting alone (social) in front of your laptop (media). Go figure. Here’s how I see it:

  • Blog: An online journal or record of one person’s thoughts – a web log. I visit blogs to learn something about anything I’m interested in. Photography, interior design, adoption, home school, recipes, crafts, social media, technology, product reviews, movie reviews, book reviews, ranching, travel. You name a topic, Google search it, and presto, a blog appears. If I’m going to buy a new camera, I prefer to read a blogger’s opinion on cameras, not the manufacturer’s sales page. Bloggers are real people using real products visiting real places and talking about it. When I find a blogger I like, I follow them. Life is a classroom and I want to learn something all the time about things I didn’t know anything about yesterday!
  • TwitterTwitter: A little birdie told me about your blog using 144 characters. Yes, it’s self-promotion at it’s finest. Twitter is a public relations firm, a marketing firm, an advertising agency all wrapped up into one place that you can manage yourself. Are you an author? Tweet about your latest book. Are you a singer? Tweet about your new song on iTunes. Are you a blogger? Tweet a link to your blog post. Are you making and selling something? Tweet about it. Are you the CEO, CFO, OREO of a company? Tweet about your leadership style and what sets your company apart. If you are selling something, Twitter is invaluable to you. If you like to buy things, Twitter is fun for you. If you don’t do either, Twitter is lack luster. Twitter is an interface for sellers to get consumers to like them because people buy from people. I use twitter to promote my blog in hopes of growing followers that may one day buy a book I’ve written. Follow me on Twitter – https://twitter.com/#!/natalielewis

pinterest nwf

  • Pinterest: An online bulletin board to push-pin all the things you dream about into organized categories. Pictures galore. Pictures of food. Pictures of places. Pictures of clothes. Pictures of art. Where do all of those pictures come from? Blogs, of course! You see, websites aren’t enough anymore. If I’m selling jewelry online, that’s two-dimensional. Consumers want to know how to wear it, where to wear it, who’s wearing it, what to eat while wearing it, and what inspired the seller to make it. So the jewelry maker/seller integrates a blog on their website full of pictures that they can promote by pinning pictures on Pinterest. Buyers can pin pictures of their favorite jewelry on Pinterest. Followers can re-pin pictures of that same jewelry on Pinterest and each time someone clicks on that jewelry picture, they’re redirected back to the blog. Voila! Sellers using another avenue to direct consumers to their blog, site, check-out cart. I use Pinterest to find bloggers I like and keep my finger on the trending pulse. Follow my Pinterest boards – http://pinterest.com/lewisstyle/
  • Image representing LinkedIn as depicted in Cru...Linkedin: A virtual networking group. Looking to make a career change? Looking to hire someone? Need a recommendation or referral? Linkedin has you covered. It’s the six degrees of separation mentality. It’s all about connections, resume’, experience, who you know, and putting the word out that you’re on the hunt. There’s even a clever way to hunt anonymously so your current boss, who may also be one of your Linkedin connections, doesn’t know you’re testing the new job waters. Or, worse, your current boss can hunt anonymously for your replacement. Ouch. Honestly, I like my job and don’t need a new one now but I never burn bridges. Connect with me on Linkedin – http://www.linkedin.com/profile/edit?goback=%2Enpe_*1_*1_*1_*1_*1_*1&trk=tab_pro

Image representing Facebook as depicted in Cru...

  • Facebook: Purest form of social media for personal interaction, authentic feedback, and validation. If you use Facebook to keep track of long-distance friends and family, maintain local friendships, and develop new friendships, then the payoff is huge. If you use Facebook to bully, make passive-aggressive remarks, or continually whine, you’ll be disappointed. I absolutely love reading my friends’ status updates on my timeline. My friends are not celebrities but many of them are doing great things. Some days I scroll through my timeline and laugh. Some days I cry. Most days I comment. I ‘like’ lots of status updates. I opt not to debate anyone’s opinion. Most days I update my status. Every day I’m challenged to pray more, read more, listen more, speak more, help more, love more. Facebook is where the stories behind the faces come alive. Sometimes the stories are pretty but sometimes they’re not. Life is hard and Facebook normalizes my circumstances and makes them bearable. Facebook is the only social media platform where I have ‘friends’ not ‘followers’. Personally, I ‘like’ the idea of walking through life with friends beside me, not followers behind me. Become my Facebook friend – http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=770374189

So there you have it. My take on social media. If you ‘like’ this post, share it on Facebook or Tweet about it. Pin my picture on Pinterest with a caption about my blog. If you want to hear from me more often, follow my blog and hopefully you’ll learn something about things you didn’t know anything about yesterday.

Finding Myself at a Book Signing

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Sometimes, you just gotta indulge yourself. And I did. One Saturday morning a couple of weeks ago, while watching The Pioneer Woman cook before me on The Food Network, appeared a TV commercial advertising her book signing appearance that afternoon in Denver. No Way, I thought. Today? I had no plans. Why not?

Frankly, I didn’t know a lot about her, this Pioneer Woman. I’d recently begun taping her cooking show on Saturday mornings but didn’t visit her blog/website until that morning. I browsed through her blog posts providing myself the necessary information to call myself a fan. Turns out, Ree Drummond and I have a lot in common: we both live on a ranch, we both have four kids, we both blog, we both homeschool, we’re both married, we’re both women. We are soul sisters, soon-to-be best friends.

I hit the shower, mapped the location, and insisted that my own two homeschool kids tag along for the adventure. We drove 30 minutes to the West side of Littleton and entered the bookstore 1 1/2 hours before her appearance. The organized bookstore staff assigned me a group number and line number upon my arrival. Group ONE, number 78.

“How many people are y’all expecting today,” I asked, looking around the store.

“Several hundred,” the clerk replied.

The 77 place holders before me gathered around the two large screens set up in the center of the store, each holding hardbound books. I was empty-handed. Heart racing, I grabbed one of her cookbooks, her real-life romance story, and her recently released children’s book, Charlie the Ranch Dog, and scooted into the crowd facing the screens. With nothing but time on my hands, I sat on the cold, concrete floor and thumbed through the cookbook making small talk with ladies around me. As I flipped the full-color cookbook pages, one particular woman beside me reviewed each recipe aloud over my shoulder often referring to yummy concoctions in Ree’s other cookbook. With time on my side, I switched out the children’s book for the other cookbook and returned to my concrete seat, thankful I had arrived early as newcomers held numbers in the 600′s.

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