Powering On

Well, it's like this: I was clipping along on this blogging gig, right? We were having loads of fun together, and I delivered deep truths which convicted you to the core. (I know. You can thank me later.) We were going places! There was only one problem. The computer I had wasn't reeeeeally suited for someone who loves to write. It was made for people who want a portal to Facebook, which also just happens to have some sort of word program thingy. (...if you like your word program thingy to be a major wisenheimer about playing the crash and burn game. Precious.) Using that squirrely computer for writing was akin to hitching a couple of teacup piglets to a yoke and expecting to plow an acre of land. Cute, but futile. I can crack the whip and “Hyah” until I pass out, but we're not furrowing one inch of soil. I tried. I really did. I girded my loins, prayed in tongues, waited expectantly for God to supernaturally change my piglets into beefy oxen. Turns out, sometimes God goes the husband-has-an-impressive-anniversary-present route instead of the Vegas-style-miracle route. God works in mysterious ways, dear people.* 

Anyway, I'm writing to you on this joyous day that is Big Blue's maiden voyage in word processing. I'll pass you a hankie. Why name my computer Big Blue, you ask? The symbolism is deep with this one, but I'll try to keep it simple. She's big...and...blue.** Besides, it (coincidentally) works well with my whole piglet/oxen analogy. At any rate, she's a beast, and I've got a lot of ground to cover. I've set hand to plow, and we're digging deep. Aren't you lucky?!

Just look at those keys! Bye-bye piglets.

Oh, I see what you did there.

Hang on, because reentry can get a bit dicey.

Hi-ho, Big Blue, away!!

Cynthia

*This has absolutely nothing to do with me gritting my teeth every time I opened that laptop.

**I never bothered to name my last computer, because we didn't imprint on each other, but before the nameless one, there was Little Blue Lollipop (You may respectfully refer to her as Ms. Lolli). Ms. Lolli was also blue and was loyal to a fault. We were travelling companions through All The Words, working side by side until I dropped a drum on her face. Sometimes I still hear her little "Squeeeetch, beep-boop". Actually, it's rather painful to talk about, and I'd appreciate if you didn't bring it up again. 

Foamy Dough, Writing, and a Weird Confession

I'm lacking in the "pictures of dough" department, 
but it'll all make sense (ish) if you're not too afraid to keep reading.
And, yes, that is pizza dough with a marinara "T C" in a heart with an arrow through it. 
Us as newlyweds was adorably geeky.

There's something you should know about me. It's something I rarely stop to ponder, but this week it has confronted me with boldness. It is only because I believe in authenticity, and also believe you, dear readers, to be grace-filled, that I risk to share.

I've never passed along Amish friendship bread starter.

And while I'm at it, any "chain" in which I am required to be an active participant is doomed. Recipe chains? No clue. Postcard swaps? Forget it. Forwarding that chain e-mail we all got in 1993?* Deleted. The only "chain" I managed to pass along was the little country phone prayer chain from my childhood. And that was out of absolute fear that if I didn't man up and call the next person on the list, that some poor soul would be prematurely struck with death, and it would be all my fault for not notifying Jane and Peggy that so-and-so had twisted their ankle.

My hesitancy is two-pronged: A) I don't want to be the receiver, because of ALL THE RESPONSIBILITY. These things are typically time-sensitive, which means that awkwardly passing something along, say, five months later (all the while acting punctual and breezy about it) is lame. Causing the entire shebang to pile up is lame. And handing moldy starter dough to someone is...lame...and also kinda creepy. B) I don't want to pick out my victims recipients. I feel like they see me coming and just know. I survived a short stint as a direct sales consultant. I recognize the look that says, "Oh goody. Here comes Cynthia to schmooze her way into my pocketbook." It looks identical to the "Oh goody. Here comes Cynthia with bags of foamy dough goo."

I don't need that kind of pressure, man.

So, you can imagine my trepidation when a dear friend** approached me about participating in a blog hop. I didn't even know what it was, but I was humbled to be included, and also, I needed a jump start. Answering four simple questions seemed easy enough. And now I actually have to do it. Preferably before the starter dough turns rancid.

1) What am I working on/writing?

This blog post. Duh. (This is why I can't be trusted with this kind of thing)
Beyond this here post, I have been refining a children's book manuscript while my mom does the hard part: Illustrating. I've also begun working on a full-length historical fiction.***

2) How does my work/writing differ from others of its genre?

I'm pretty sure it doesn't.
Is "sarcastic, Jesus-lovin', homeschooling, orphan crisis-addressing, slightly crunchy mama to a large family" even a genre? 'Cause if it is? NAILED IT!

3) Why do I write what I do?

Because it's cheaper than counseling and socially acceptable to partake in before 5 o'clock. 
I write the things that God emblazons upon my mind and ignites in my soul. I fail more often than I succeed, and my words are often inadequate and clumsy. BUT they are His words, for His glory and good purpose. If he can use con artists and hookers, then he can use the awkward words of a simple stay-at-home mom who's just trying to save a few bucks on therapy.

4) How does my writing process work?

And here's where ya'll skip straight over a counselor and sign me up for my very own comfy cell.
I talk through my writing concepts. Out loud. Not to someone. Just out loud. Oh, there are, of course, people around. They are mostly under four feet tall and some of them have banana smoosh in their hair. And sometimes when I'm especially deep in conversation (ahem), I seek solitude, which lasts until someone sticks their fingers under the bathroom door. I don't even know why these short people ask to whom I am speaking. Shouldn't they know how this works by now? Maybe a few counseling sessions wouldn't hurt...

Well whew! That wasn't so tough. There's only one problem: Big, Scary Phase Two. 

Imagine if we all gathered in a happy little room, and you spied me peeking around the door frame to verify that the coast is clear. Except you, ya' wily stinker, are watching me while pretending to read a text. You see me sneaking to a side table where I unload a box. I've even pre-taped a note to the front of the box. As soon as I beat a hasty retreat and try to act casual with a group of ladies, you saunter over to the box. Inside are bags of bubbly dough and the note reads:

Amish Friendship Bread Starter. Please take one to assuage my guilt. Or not. Whatever.

Sincerely,
Ball Dropper

So here's the tricky part: I haven't chosen bloggers to whom to pass the baton. I. Just. Can't. And apparently there's no tag backs. So, here's my box of dough. Who's going to take some home? 


Eyeing My Blogging Friends,
Cynthia



*You know. The one where the guy had a vivid and terrifying dream that his friend was going to hell only to find out after waking up that his friend had tragically died in a car accident THAT VERY NIGHT. Don't wait to tell your friends about Jesus, ya'll.
**Seriously. Skip the rest of this blog post and go read her stuff. You won't regret it. She writes like me only she's actually good at it, she affirms the sacredness of coffee and chocolate, and is practically related to me. It's only a matter of time before our hunting and pecking around Ancestry.com proves we're long lost sisters.
***Hint: My research for this book has led me to communication with the director of the Museum of Menstruation. Yes. That's a thing. 

Not Another Christmas Blog Post

I don't know about you, but I'm kinda tapped out from all the Christmas blog posts smacking us in the face. According to blogs I've read this week, I'm supposed to be participating in ornament exchanges. Or not. It depends on whether it contributes to building community or reinforces sin in my materialistic, greedy heart. 

I did not know this.

We also find Santa and his impish sidekick in the verbal cross hairs of bloggers everywhere. "Their gig is up!" cry the diehards. At the very least they should be posed in the nativity, worshiping baby Jesus and bringing him toys and doughnuts.* Also, is it sacrilegious to have nondescript tree toppers? Am I spiritually mature enough to have a Jesse tree? In addition to deep, theological discussions on greed and Santa, there were roughly a bazillion "How To" posts flooding my blog feed. This week I've learned how to cultivate gratitude in the hearts of my children, fashion Christmas tree shaped cornrows, and perfect my sugar cookies. I've been told how to make godly elf on the shelf equivalents, simplify the season and even what not to do in preparation for Christmas. 

And when December multiplies to 86 days I'll tackle the long list of crafty Christmas "How To" amazingness. Until then you'll find me three days behind on our advent activities. 

Why? 

Because I refuse to rush holiness. I will not impatiently tap my toes at the Prince of Peace, whose entirety was compressed into the delicate skin of a downy newborn. I refuse to shimmy my grocery cart alongside crowded aisles, huff my way through heavy traffic and distractedly count change without so much as a moment's glance into the souls milling about within arm's reach. 

What we do not need this season is another ugly sweater party, cookie exchange or children's play. What we desperately need is space for The Sacred. Oddly enough, what we crave is both. After all, we voluntarily fill those thirty-one squares on the calendar with...stuff.** Everything and nothing. Busyness is a temporary high to dull our senses toward The Manger. I am guilty as charged. 

Stillness.

Let this be the season we purpose to inhale the precious aroma of swaddling cloths and sacrifice. May our hearts be seared by The One born lowly and exalted on high. With souls of clay in the hands of Babe and King, may we recognize a light in each others' eyes. You've been there too. Let's raise a banner o're the unmarred and sacred space. We'll each grab a stack of invitations and take to the streets! There's always room for one more. One more frazzled mama battered with questions regarding mysterious packages from the mailman, one more delivery man working well past his son's bedtime, one more retail employee who despises their own dread of the holidays, one more pastor who fields more grief, sermons and party invitations this month than most, one more missionary fighting heartsick loneliness, one more school teacher who faces a classroom of hyper, spring-loaded children. One more...

Our presence does not detract from the hallowed. Rather, we are as glowing embers, that when huddled together become an unquenchable flame. A beacon. Peace that passes understanding is our party frock, love is our language and a surrendered heart is our currency. This is a Market that cannot fail. The welcome mat is out, and our Host insists the door remain ajar. This season, warm your spirit in the space for The Sacred. 

And if December 25th's advent craft is completed by January 1st, consider it a success.

Inviting YOU,

Cynthia

*Why don't we invite The Easter bunny, the tooth fairy and La Llorona just for cultural kicks. And while it's neither here nor there, for the record our family eschews the mythological trifecta.

**It's OK to decline some invitations and move a few parties to January. Really.

You Know It's Time To Blog When...

...Your blogging notebook is dog-eared, but hardly anything is crossed off.
...It's practically been forever two months since you last had a date with Blogger.*
...Your mom resorts to calling you to see if you're OK.
...You're suffering from Blogger's Guilt Syndrome.**
...Friends send "Did you and Blogger break up?" messages to your inbox.
...You've missed reading the spammed comments on Friday nights.***
...Family members suggest Feedly is "defective", because nothing from you is showing up in their blog list.

So if that describes you, get off your duff and blog already.


Kettle Calling The Pot Black,
Cynthia



*My last date with Blogger did NOT end well. He swallowed my entire post and left me with the bill. Not very gentlemanly. Here's to second chances, buddy.
**If you or a loved one is suffering from BGS, seek help. Reach out to someone with Wi-Fi and overcome your BGS today!
***Seriously a highlight for us around here, folks. It doesn't take much.

Questions And Comments From The Nuthouse

I receive lots of questions. I suppose because I'm a questionable person? I've decided to exact a little damage and answer some of your questions.*

Why did you start blogging?
Because there wasn't quite enough terror in this world.** Actually, my mama and hubby were the instigators. Blame them.

How old are you?
Young enough to still think cuss words are funny and old enough to grumble about disrespectful little punks. 

Will you adopt again?
More to come on this topic in the coming months. For now, suffice to say that we will stop when God tells us to stop. So, stay tuned. 

You're so fun to read! I wish you'd write a book!!
Thank you! I did, but it's not a funny book and it's unpublished. And unless you're a kid you're not my intended audience, and if you are a kid you're not old enough to have an e-mail account, so stop it and go clean your room!

Aaaaaaand...

What's your go-to dinner for your larger than average family?
Pfft. I love experimenting in the kitchen, but my go-tos are quesadillas or spaghetti or popcorn, apple slices and cheese. I just lost all respect from you didn't I? 

Lastly, is quite possibly THE SWEETEST comment I have ever received from a reader, which is found on this post:


Hi Cynthia,

i'm a friend of your friend the puppetmaker. she shared this post with me. i thanked her and now i'll thank you, too. this was beautifully written and totally made me think about my thought process. and sophia is adorable and very obviously loved (which is most important). 

a chocolate mama with a chocolate daughter go through a lot of experimentation too. my mom tried more things on my hair than i can even remember. we learn together. :)

You, my dear, blessed my socks clean off my feet.*** 



Traumatizing My Readers One Post At A Time,
Cynthia




*I'll apologize in advance for bursting your image of me.
**And I think it's actually a sign of the Apocalypse...?
***And, yes, I have a puppetry friend who is the best of the best in the puppet biz.