Favorite Things

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Only a three year old boy would have Teletubbies dance in the pre-show of his monster truck jam.

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Signs of the Time

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For several years, in the valley where I lived in my former life, there were large billboards along the freeway with a man smiling a cheesy smile as he draped his arms around the giant telephone number 222-2222. Aparently, if you were in an accident, he was going to be your buddy and fix all of your problems. What more could you want than a friendly accident lawyer who knew how to drape his arms around giant numbers? Fortunately, I never had cause to call him. But now I am curious, because on the same billboards, with the same giant red numbers 222-2222, there is a cozy little smiling family. They are smiling because they called the number to buy a house. They may also be smiling because they get to drape their arms around each other, but I'm not sure. I've thought a great deal about why a family would buy a house from an accident lawyer, and about an equal length of time wondering why an accident lawyer would change his career to realty without changing his advertising strateg...
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I think my blog is on the verge of an identity crisis. The most consistent reason new readers visit here is for the song lyrics I posted to annoying children's songs more than two years ago. And how can I, in good consciousness, continue to post on a blog titled "Life in the Slow Lane" when I've said I would do what promotes the very antithesis? (work overtime) But if I stop posting about the things of the Slow Lane, who will carry on? Who will confess to a board member stopping to comment on how she owns nail color the exact shade as I am wearing on my toes, but she only bought it because she knew she would never wear it so it could be seen? Who will instruct on the proper way to wash a car (leave it in the rain) or what to say when an eleven year old calls you to share what he is eating for dinner? Indeed, I would be tempted to stop posting altogether if it weren't for the fact that this blog is contributing to the sanity of at least one person in this great ...
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Stone of Help

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For the longest time I thought “Ebenezer” was a cup. Not just any cup, mind you, one of those old drinking vessels that might also be called goblet or chalice. My reasoning, you see, was all based on the hymn, “Here I raise mine Ebenezer, hither by thy help I’m come.” To my little girl ears, it sounded like someone was proposing a toast, glass in hand to having made it so far. I know better now, but I still feel as if I am far more likely to toast how far I’ve made it than to set a large stone on end. But truthfully, I’m not very likely to do either. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not slighting the role God has had in bringing me as far as I am. And it’s not a lack of gratitude that turns me into being one of the nine lepers who never returned to thank Jesus for his healing. (At least, not always.) Instead, I’ve found that many times I don’t want to draw attention to what God has done for me because I worry it will make others feel as if I am intimating that I am a favor...
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