To Lester, On Veteran's Day

It was sometime in the winter, probably around 1994.  

I was a freckle-faced preteen searching for food and water after church.  I left my sisters behind and made a beeline for the table next to the back wall.  It had all the good stuff on it: the brownies and the cookies and the cakes that my mother refused to keep in the house.  I had to take advantage of the treasure before she could stop me.

I had just loaded up the small paper plate when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't my mom, though.  It was my granddad.  He knew me well enough to know my antics. He also knew that he was the only one who could tell me to lessen my sugar intake without me arguing.  He shook a playful finger at me, had me put a couple of items back, and steered me back toward my family.

My grandma was talking to another man who was about my granddad's age.  On paper, the two men looked similar. Both were probably a little less than average height, with graying hair, glasses, and dark eyes. But anyone who knew them knew they were completely different. My granddad was quiet and playfully grumpy. The man my grandma was talking to always smiled and exuded joy wherever he went. He and my grandma had grown up together, had graduated high school in the same year, class of '42.  

"Hi Lester!" I greeted with my mouth full.

"Heya, kiddo!" he replied, offering me a high five.

That was Lester: always smiling, always full of joy.

~.~.~.~

It was 1997. Ish. 

Mr. Einrem, our Social Studies teacher, had just flicked on the lights.  I was only partially relieved as I stretched and turned to look at my classmates, who were unusually silent. The images of the nightmare we'd finished on VHS still lingered in my mind, and they were probably lingering in theirs, too. 

The "Memory of the Camps" documentary was infamous at our school, mostly because it required a parent signature in order to watch, which automatically sensationalized it, of course.  And though I'd been adequately prepared for the content, the video had still made me feel sick. To be honest, learning the entire unit about the Holocaust had been harder than I'd ever imagined.  

I'd been an idealist even then, had an acute sense of right and wrong, and simply didn't understand evil.  I wasn't sure I ever would. The Holocaust, when read about in textbooks, was comfortably far away. The video of skeletal men, of bodies being dragged through the dirt, however, made it too real for me to remain unaffected.

After going home from school, my mom checked in with me to see how my day went. I told her about the documentary, about the images that had disturbed me the most. "I can't believe they let that happen," I'd told her. "And do you know some people are denying it even occurred?"  

My mom shook her head. "Yeah, I heard something about that.  It's a good thing you guys are learning about it." She paused. "You know who you should talk to?  Lester Becker.  He liberated a camp, you know."

My jaw dropped. "Lester?" But that was impossible - had to be.  A black-and-white documentary had made me lose hope in the world. How did he witness hell-on-earth and come out one of the happiest men I'd ever met?

Partly because I loved history, and partly because I loved Lester, I asked him if I could interview him about his experience. He was more than glad to, was excited that a person my age was taking an interest. I walked up to his house - a brick ranch with a meticulously kept lawn - and knocked on the door. Despite knowing how depressing the subject manner was going to be, Lester welcomed me in with his ever-present smile. He brought me to a dim room full of piles of newspaper clippings and articles from his military days. I distinctly remember a thick binder full of his memories. We spent over an hour discussing each page in it.

He told me stories, and I listened raptly, though I couldn't tell you anything about them now. I'm embarrassed to admit that I don't remember a single detail. I only remember seeing tears in his eyes when I asked the hard questions, and seeing a smile on his face when he'd follow up with the good things that happened, too. He had been especially proud of his army buddies, the ones he fought alongside with to save innocent lives. 

He kept reminding me of the good he'd experienced after telling me a stories about the bad.

It takes a great man to leave an impression like that.

But that was Lester: always smiling, always finding joy.  

~.~.~.~

It was April 2001.

Cheap, shiny streamers were draped over wires that were suspended above our heads in the high school gymnasium. Some gaudy, six-foot, centerpiece that had something to do with a theme I can't remember was standing a bit more limply than it had just hours earlier, when all of the couples had posed for pictures next to it.  Confetti dusted the floor, but despite the filth, I kicked my shoes off. My feet were still hurting from wearing heels the night before.

Prom had been a success, one of the last rites of passage that I would go through as a high schooler. I wasn't necessarily sad about it; I was the kind of girl who would miss the pasture parties, Friday night football games, and bonfires way more than any formal. 

And I did end up missing those things, but I missed moments like this, too: the day after the dance, when our local FFA Chapter held an honorary dance for the elderly: a Senior Citizens' Prom.

Despite the aging population of our town, only fifteen to twenty people had shown up.  About as many teens did, too.  Believe it or not, volunteering was kind of "the thing" in my class of over-achievers. At this event, we didn't have a lot to do, because the decorations were already put up, food was already out, and Lester Becker was enthusiastically choosing which music would suit the audience.

The job suited him well.  He made the drive to Sterling, Colorado - almost an hour away - every Saturday night to dance to this kind music: Big Band, he called it...it was even older than the "oldies" music on the AM radio station.  He was energetic, definitely in his element.

We made eye contact. He gave me a wide, toothy grin and left the music table, making a beeline toward the gray folding chair that I was occupying. Swifter than most men in his seventies, he extended a hand out to me.  "Well, let's see what ya got, kiddo."

I returned the grin and accepted the challenge. That night, we laughed as he tried to teach me the jitterbug and an extremely basic swing.  I sucked, and he knew it.  But he'd find some way to compliment me, asking me if I thought I could play part of the tune on the same trumpet I had used to play the taps at our military funerals. 

He did it because he was the kind of guy who laughed, who was nice for the sake of being nice.  And he loved that I valued him enough to learn something that made him happy.

That was Lester: always smiling, always showing joy.

~.~.~.~

It was June 2015.

I was on one of my brief trips to my hometown. With two kids, a part-time job, and a novel to write, I relished my weekends at my house, so my trips to Chappell from Denver were becoming quick overnighters. Some would say that it wasn't worth the money to travel and only stay a night. But I needed a small-town fix. And not just any small town: I needed my small town.

I had a to-do list when I got there: see my parents, maybe get hair done, see my sister, let kids play with their cousins. But most of the time was spent at my granddad's.  He was over ninety, and Grandmom had just lost her battle with cancer a few months earlier. I didn't want him to be lonely, and loved my time with him, anyway. I spent most nights at his house, watching a game or a movie and listening to his stories. But I didn't really get out to see anyone else.

For some reason, I chose to dive into Burgie's real quick one morning. Burgie's is truly a small town gem: part bowling alley, part restaurant, part flower shop...and at one time it was a part fitness center and dime store. That day, it was part coffee shop.

I entered the building. A bell chimed with my arrival, and familiar faces greeted me and asked how life was going. I answered their questions and asked a few of my own, letting my heart rest in the comfort of country-goodness. 

I saw Lester across the room. I rose and walked toward him. He smiled broadly as I approached.

"Lester!" I exclaimed.  "It's so good to see you."

He grinned even wider, but tilted his head a little bit.  "Now remind me who you are..." he said.

I paused, but just for a beat. My mom had told me his memory wasn't very good. I'd have to feed him the information.

"I'm Amanda Green," I prompted, using my maiden name.  

He was still happy, but studying me intently.

"You know, Lester," I said, taking a seat."You used to dance with me."

"You don't say," he said.  He looked at the man on his left for verification. The man nodded, bless him. He probably didn't know if it was true or not.

"I do say," I replied, laughing. "You were amazing! I wasn't very good, but you were patient when you tried to teach me." I quieted my voice.  "You taught me about the war, too, you know."

"I did?"   

"You did." I grabbed his hand. "And you know what?" I said quietly. "You were a hero." He looked at me incredulously. "You're still one," I added.

He grinned sheepishly. "Well, isn't that somethin'.  I don't remember doing any of that." He sat a little straighter. "But I'm sure glad you told me that today." 

And he smiled again.

That was Lester: always smiling, always joyful... even if the cause of his joy was muddled.

~.~.~.~

Now, it's November 2015.  Tomorrow is Veteran's Day, and it's for this reason - I think - that I felt compelled to write about one of my favorite heroes.  Lester is a veteran. He's lived through experiences my civilian-self wouldn't be able to comprehend, and somehow, he came out an even better man because of it.

I see old veterans, now hunched over with canes, rather than marching with strong backs, and I think of the life they've embraced after war. I think of the history their lives hold, the beauty they've created, even when our world got ugly. Some, like Lester, have lost precious memories of the kind of men they once were.

And I want to tell them, "You were a hero. You're still one."

And I see new veterans, who still have their strong backs but nowhere to march, who are trying to cope with the things they've witnessed and try start their new life over as a civilians. They bite their tongues as we complain about first-world problems and fight enemies we will never understand in nightmares we will never experience.

And I want to tell them, "You were a hero. You're still one."

I see children who have only seen war through the television, who have hidden fears of what this world will be like when they are old enough to run it.

And I want to tell them, "You'll be heroes. You come from them."

Remind our heroes that they're not forgotten, today and every day. Their memories of war- whether old and dormant, or new and threatening - need to be recorded. And their commitment to thriving in this country after the war is over needs to replicated.

We're blessed to live here, in a country where that's possible, surrounded by quiet heroes like Lester. It's because of him - and of people like him - that we all have the chance to have lives where we smile, full of joy.

To The Other Woman

There is a woman who I've competed with for well over a decade.  She had my husband's love before I did, knows him in an absolutely intimate and familiar way that I never will, and he thinks she's perfect in every way.

Thankfully, I'm not talking about a woman my husband's age.

I'm talking about my mother-in-law, who embodies the picture of perfection in her son's eyes.

The very nature of her relationship with my husband, the way she has familiarized herself with his temperament, the way she has seen him - and loved him - through every stage of life... It's all something I will never be able to compete with. I will never receive the same level of adoration that he has in his heart for her. Their bond is unique, untainted by time or distance, and unbreakable by the presence of new women in his life: like me (his wife), or even his young daughter.

From the moment all of our husbands were born, there was an unmistakable bond between mother and son.  I don't think I truly understood this bond until I had a son of my own.  And naturally, jealousy occurs, comparisons are made, and feelings are even hurt, but truly, no matter how close we are (or aren't) to our mothers-in-law, we should always be thankful for the following three things. 

Always.

To my mother-in-law:

#1: Thank you for raising the man I love. 

Raising kids is hard.  It's the hardest thing I've ever done, and sometimes when I'm at my wit's end, I picture you, decades earlier, going through the tough times and doing the hard job of parenting. I recall your stories of sleepless nights, caused by anxiety and worry and sickness.  I think of you handing out consequences that tore you up inside so that your children would learn a lesson. I remember how you went without so that your children could have a better life, how you sacrificed so much of yourself to ensure they had things that you didn't have.

And because you did all of that, I ended up with the amazing man I did.

Did you make mistakes? Undoubtedly.  I know I have.  I know I will. But even the fact that you made mistakes soothes my soul, because I know that even though you worried about your mistakes (as I worry about mine), your boy ended up being an incredible man. It shows me that I can give myself grace, that I can love my children and do my best and that they will be amazing.

#2: Thank you for spoiling my husband from time to time. 

Okay, all of the time. 

And admittedly, I hated this at first.

The first time I met your son, I heard stories about you, and I thought they were legends.  Who could prepare such meals?  Who could keep such a house? Who could adhere to the needs of all of her children and make them each feel incredibly special? 

And then the inevitable follow-up question would come: 

How will I ever be able to compare?

The truth is, and always will be: 

I won't. 

I won't ever compare to you.  

I won't ever be able to stand next to you on the highest pedestal, the one my husband placed you on so very long ago.   

And that's okay.  Because I was not made to be that person.  God's intention for our relationship is completely different than the intention he had for yours.

But because you honored my husband the way you did, I am reminded that I should honor him, too. And although I may not do it as often or even to the degree that you did, I am thankful for the reminder that I should love and respect him - and yes, even spoil him - every chance I get.

#3 Thank you for raising a provider, a protector, and a partner.

Thank you for teaching your son that women deserve to be loved and respected, and that he should be a warrior for that battle until the end of time.

Nothing pains my husband like the thought of someone hurting the women he loves.  He will go to the ends of the earth to make sure that I'm safe, that my daughter is protected, and that you live your life unharmed.

And the tender love he shows us - the endless and bountiful protection his arms provide - all started because of his love for you.  From the moment he was laid in your arms as an infant, he adored you above all others. He wanted to give you his best (remember those dandelions he'd pick for you from the yard?), stand up for you, and learn from you as well.

That intense love has spilled over to the life we share together, and I reap the benefits of it daily.

You have done so much for me, mother-in-law.  You have given me advice and recipes and home remedies.  You have encouraged me in my own pursuits and have trusted me to raise your grandchildren safely, with sacrificial love and endless understanding.  But the biggest thing you ever did for me, and for everyone who knows him, is raise an incredible man who I'm honored to call my husband.

And that is something that I will always - ALWAYS - thank you for, no matter the circumstances.

"Rivalry" aside, I will always be thankful that you are the "Other Woman".

For Ian, Rest in Peace

It was 2008, and the school year was going great. It was a once-in-a-lifetime class for me: no parent complaints, amazing students who were respectful and eager to learn, and not a single bullying issue. It was the year that teachers dream about, the year that gives us strength for the harder years that seem to take up most of our career.

I had an amazing group of boys that year, smart and kind and funny and thoughtful: boys you knew would grow to be phenomenal men.

One of those boys was Ian.

I'd known Ian for quite a while because I'd taught his brother my very first year of teaching. As a first grader, Ian would trip over his own feet trying to catch up with his brother, and his big blue eyes and freckled nose melted my heart to mush. I'd seen him grow through the years and was always hearing about how gifted he was from his prior teachers, what a great heart he had.

And I got to see his amazing heart in action throughout his fifth grade year. I still remember vividly how - upon hearing that a child with disabilities was getting teased - Ian teared up. He internalized everyone's sorrow and heartache.

He wanted to make this world kinder.

I also remember him writing hilarious stories, his nose crinkling as he smiled when reading them aloud in class. He'd be so excited to tell a joke that he'd start laughing before the punch line.

He wanted to make the world happier.

He'd invent solutions to problems, and his thought process was so transparent that I could almost see the neurons firing in his brain as he discovered something new.

He wanted to make this world better.

And he did. He made it beautiful.

For awhile.

But Ian was diagnosed with osteocarcoma (bone cancer) in 2012.

And Ian died of his disease in 2013, when he was just 15.

For those few months, Ian suffered. I watched his round face grow thin, and his healthy body become bone. Watching him battle the disease tested my faith in a way it had never been tested, and one day I prayed about it.

But it wasn't exactly a reverent prayer. It was an angry one, full of accusations and hostility and bitterness and utter despair and helplessness.

But God - being His amazing Self - put a peace on my heart as I meditated. And He did it through a story: one I had to write immediately, although Ian was still with us.

And it was one I had to write from his parents' point of view.

At the time, I was a new parent, and I struggled with my sorrow regarding my love for this boy, but also struggled with the "what ifs" that I had as a parent. What if that were me? What if my baby - my heart - had to leave this world? How could I possibly be strong enough?

So God inspired me with words, and after writing the story, I sent it to his parents, who were - and still are - close friends of mine.

They identified with the story and asked me to read it at his funeral, which I did with honor.

Today, though, I'm sharing it again, because I find myself lost in this crazy world. And for some reason, the story grounds me. I'm sharing it with the blessing of Ian's parents.

If you're lost, feel free to read it, too.

God bless. And rest in peace, dear Ian. I miss you.

The days were getting shorter and the temperature colder as I began my nightly ritual of cozying up on the couch. I threw the blanket over me and grabbed the remote, turning the channel on the TV to my favorite news station.  Opinions were being shouted across the desk about the current governmental authorities. Images were popping up, showing my comfortable self at home pictures of soldiers running toward gunfire, children rummaging through rubble to try and find loved ones, and riots brewing in foreign streets. They seemed to jump off the screen and float into my living room, a constant reminder of the evil that coexists in this world with us.

A commercial comes and I turn my gaze away, subconsciously seeking happier thoughts. Chasing them, of course my eyes land on a picture on one of our end tables. It has bright, beautiful colors and is encompassed with a tasteful wood frame. I pick it up and immediately smile.

The person in the picture is a boy, more precious than any other I’ve ever seen. His brown, shaggy hair hangs down, covering his forehead as he proudly showcases the latest style. His pale face is masked with a thousand freckles sprinkled over the top of his nose, and his blue eyes sparkle as if he alone knows the meaning to some inside joke. His upturned nose crinkles with the laugh, and it’s almost as if you can hear it: the joke he’s told, the chime of his laughter, the pause he emits as he waits for others to get it.

Tears well up in my eyes as I hug the picture to my chest. The picture of the boy, so happy and so, so, incredibly good, brings about only positive emotions at first. But, as always, sadness quickly follows, and the picture is yet another reminder of the despair that is omnipresent in our lives.

“Why?” I ask myself again. I think back to the images on the television. “Why, with so much evil in the world, did God have to take something so incredibly precious? So incredibly good?” I close my eyes. The picture of the boy still pressed to my chest, I think of him, remembering how kind he was. And my god, was he funny. He was always cracking up. He was smart, too: intelligent beyond his years, always questioning and always creating. During the all-too-short time I had with him, he amazed me every single day. He brought nothing but happiness into the lives he touched, nothing but good to the world.

How could God take away something so good for me?

How could He take away something so good for the world?

How could He ignore my prayers?

How could He? How could He? HOW COULD HE?

I think back to those last weeks, when we’d found out our days with him were numbered. I’d pled with God. I’d told him I needed him, that I would switch places with him, that he would bring far more to this world than I ever could.

But God did not answer that prayer, and my boy was gone before I knew it. My own heart had been ripped out of my body.

I lay there on the couch, hating the world, sadness overcoming my body with wracking sobs. Over and over again, I repeat the words to myself: How could He? How could He? How could He?

I’d been faithful. I’d prayed so hard. I’d gotten second, third, fourth opinions. I’d asked that God work through those doctor’s hands.

How could He?

Suddenly my mind feels heavy – numb - after being shocked with the jolt of emotion that coursed through it. I allow my head to lower and my eyes to close.

And the scenery changes around me. I’m surrounded by complete…nothingness. I turn around quickly but only whiteness surrounds me: it’s not bright, just a muted colorlessness. I sit across from another person. Oddly enough, I know who he is, even though I’ve never laid eyes on him.

 I glare at him, hoping that he crumbles under the force of all my anger.

“How could you?” I ask again, this time aloud. Again, I spew my thoughts from before, my reasons for the man standing before me being unjust. I make my points by ticking them off my hand with my aggressive pointer finger, making them more hateful, full of spite and sadness and bitterness and despair. “After all I’ve done, that he could have done….how could you?” I finish with tears flooding my eyes.

I am so caught up in my own rant that I fail to see that the man in front of me is crying, too.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, tears still streaking down his face as he reaches for my hands and holds them in his own. “I’m sorry.”

I look down so I don’t have to deal with his sadness; it’s enough that I have to deal with my own. “Why?” I ask simply. “Why him? Why my son?”

Again, the man in front of me silently sobs, softly rocking back and forth.

“He had so much time left, so much to add to this world, so much happiness to give to others.” I pause, then ask again. “Why?”

The man looks at me through blurry eyes, leaning forward, still holding my hands. “He didn’t belong here,” he whispers.

I take a second to digest this reasoning, really think it through. “Didn’t belong here?” I ask. “Didn’t belong here? What do you mean- of course he belongs here! Of course he belongs with me, in this house, with his family and his friends! There is nowhere else he belongs!”

A moment passes with no answer. “He belongs with me,” I plead desperately. “In my arms. So I can watch him, do what’s best for him. When you gave him to me, I thought that meant you trusted me with him. Why trust me with him and then take him away?”

He wipes away his tears and takes a deep breath. “It’s a hard thing for a parent to do, to love a child unconditionally and then be helpless as he suffers.”

I nod silently, still weeping, glad he could at least address the hurt I was feeling.

“There are reasons I gave him to you, you know,” he says. “You were born to love him, to guide him, to help make him the person who was so special that he touched thousands of lives. I knew only you could love him like you did. Only you could give him the foundation you did and the faith to know he’d make a difference.” He motions to the picture I was still holding. “Kids like that, they don’t need a lifetime to make the world a better place.”

The man comes over to my side and sits down. He pats my knee and turns my shoulders so I face him. He holds onto them to make sure I am focusing only on him, nothing else. “He was too good for this fallen world,” he says. I shut my eyes to try and reason away his words. “You’ve seen the news images,” he continued. “You’ve seen the evil. He’s too good. And he never belonged here.” He tilts my chin up so I have no choice but to see his face and hear his words. “He never belonged here,” he reiterates.

The words play over and over in my mind. “He never belonged here.” I weep over them, am lost in them.

“Then why did you bring him here in the first place?” I ask. Maybe my hurt would have never occurred had I not known this love.

The man in front of me frames my face with his hands once again. “My child, he came so you and everyone else who knew him could have just a taste of the magnificence to come.” He smiles. “That boy,” he says, pointing to the picture I held so closely to my heart, “He brought nothing but goodness to this world. And the world that’s waiting for you over here? Well, it’s filled with nothing but good.”

My tears begin to dry up. “Nothing but good?” I ask. “Does that mean-“

“Yes,” he answers before I get a chance to finish. “That means that only good things, like that boy, will be with you in my world someday.”

My heart beats stronger with those words, the promise that I will hold my little boy in my arms again, but as always, doubt begins to creep its way back into my mind.  “It’s too far away,” I say suddenly. “And I miss him too much. How am I supposed to wait until then to see him, to be with him? To love him? To tousle his hair and listen to his jokes?”

The man hugs me tightly once more. “You’re going to have those moments. The ones where you are overcome by sadness and despair. But when you do…” He holds me out at arm’s length again. “You come to me and find peace.”

He looks off into the distance, sadness present in his eyes once again. “Because I know what it’s like to give your son up to another place, to have watched him – so full of purity and goodness – live in fallen world. I know what it’s like to have seen your son suffer.”

He looks down and shakes his head, shakes out the horrible memories.  He looks me in the eye and speaks earnestly. “But I also know what it’s like to see your son again, away from this world. And it’s not too far away, you know. It may not seem like it, but life has limits. Eternity is what’s forever.”

He pauses, then gestures to the emptiness in front of him. “I want you to close your eyes and picture a beach,” he says.

I do as I’m instructed.

“This life is just one grain of sand on a whole beach. That beach, full of all those grains, is eternity. I know you’re suffering through this life, that it’s not perfect. But pure goodness and joy is in all those other grains of sand. Those grains of sand are what’s to come. Now open your eyes.”

I follow his instructions. “Focus on what’s to come, my child,” he says. “Because the good you miss now in this life will be the first to greet you in the next.”

My eyes pop open. Salty tears are dried on my cheeks. The TV is still on, the blanket is still covering me as I sit on the couch. I slide it off and leave it behind. I turn the television off and head to bed.

Remembering what’s to come, I no longer need the blanket to warm me. I have my memories. And I no longer need the TV to distract me. I have the promise of eternity to concentrate on. I stop suddenly in my tracks and turn to go back into the living room. There, on the couch, lay the picture of my son, who had shown me what love really was. I pick it up and take it with me.

It is a reminder of the goodness that will, someday soon, surround me once again.

He smiles up at me from the frame, ready to tell me another one of his jokes.

To Christians: Bake the Cake

... And do it happily.

I'm actually hesitant to post this.  I love political debates, but typically don't like to use my blog as an avenue to do it.

But I've been consumed with this issue this past week.  And judging by leading stories on Yahoo! and social media, we all have been.

Anyone who knows me knows that I lean conservative and am a passionate Christian, so it probably surprises them to hear me say that we, as Christians, should always bake cakes for gay weddings, and we should do so with a serving heart.

We should serve Jesus by serving non-Christians, those very souls who believe so differently than we do.

Christians, you are not acting Christ-like by refusing to bake the cake.

If you are an owner of any small business and you have an opportunity to serve someone who believes differently than you do, you should do it.

You should bake a cake for atheists.

You should bake a cake for a Muslim wedding.

You should bake a cake for a Bar Mitzvah.

You should bake a cake for gays.

Jesus didn't only serve those who believed He was the Son of God.  He didn't just love those who did His will.

The ugly truth that conservative Christians need to face is this: gays are persecuted in our country, and it happens every day.

Not all Christians believe that being gay is a sin, but Christians that do, please hear me:

A sin is a sin, is a sin.

No sin is greater than another.

We should not judge others.  Instead, we should concern ourselves with being the best reflections of Christ that we can possibly be.

What would Jesus do, if he owned a bakery?  Would he kick a gay couple out and refuse them service?

Or would he bake them a cake, feed them, engage them in a conversation, and have them wondering what it is about this man that makes them feel so...so loved? Would he draw them closer to him through this act?

Wouldn't Jesus love the sinner through the sin?

I've heard multiple people say that baking a cake is a symbol of acceptance and approval of gay marriage, and that we shouldn't accept or approve of gay marriage because God doesn't.

Bull.

God has the power to judge.  He has the power to accept and approve behavior.  He alone has the power of conversion.

We do not.  Do you hear me?  We. Do. Not.

Jesus didn't say to his disciples: "Convert others!  Make sure they adhere to all of what I said in my sermons! Hold them accountable and don't let them think you approve of their sin!"

Instead he said, "Follow me. Spread the good news."

Who are we to think we are so special that our approval and acceptance and judgement should mean anything to others? Do we really think WE do the converting here? Or does Jesus?

Are we really that self-righteous?  I shudder at the answer.

It's obvious that it would be not only beneficial to our religion, but biblical, if we were to act like Jesus.  Christians have gained the reputation for being self-righteous and judgmental, and in many circumstances, rightly so, in my opinion.

If we were to stand up for the last and perhaps, the most important, commandment Jesus left us with  (Love one Another), as passionately as we were to stand up for other scriptures, we would become more like Christ Himself, who regarded the Pharisees - the enforcers of rules - as not doing God's will.

But love looks differently in different situations, you might say.  As a parent, sometimes love means drawing a line and using your judgement.  Even Jesus showed anger when he turned over the tax collectors' tables!  Sometimes, a lesson is best learned this way.

I have to admit, this thought crossed my mind, too.  But it's wrong.  Learning from the Bible requires us to take into account what Jesus said and what God commanded, but it makes us look at the circumstances in which it was said.

And when you look at the circumstances Jesus was in when he said and did certain things, you realize that Jesus changed his tone when working with different factions of society.

When faced the persecuted- those who had been judged by his people - He showed mercy and grace, and undeserving, unrelenting compassion and love.  It was with His own people who were judging and treating others as outcasts that He showed the most anger.

We should bake the cake.

And if you can't, then you cannot serve cake to anyone.

Anyone.

Because we all have sinned, in some way.

You cannot serve those who partake in premarital sex.  You cannot serve cake to an alcoholic.  You cannot serve cake to a person who has been unfaithful, who has used the Lord's name in vain, who has pined over the neighbor's new car, or who has lusted after a person.

You might say, But a gay wedding is parading their sin! I'd let them buy a cake, just not one for their wedding. Jesus wouldn't serve those whose sin is so easily visible!

Really?

Would Jesus not comfort a pregnant teenage girl, whose sin is more visible than her sexually active peers? Would Jesus not love a born-again Christian with a Swastika tattoo?

Visibility doesn't make a sin worse.

Christians, abstaining from baking a cake for a wedding will not change the way they view Jesus.

But baking the cake and sending the couple off with a sincere "God Bless You," will.


Saying that, we live in a country where all freedoms are guaranteed.  KKK members are allowed to march through our nation's capital.  Sometimes you can be refused service for choosing to wear no shoes or shirt.  And all businesses have the right to refuse service for any reason they want to.

It's a right protected under Federal Law.

Federal.

There's no need for further state laws to enforce a right that's guaranteed already.

There's no need for this law.

But there's no need for people to be forced to serve others, either.  We live in a country that boasts a free market.  If one person won't serve a group of people who differ from them economically, racially, religiously, or sexually, then we should protest, spread the word on social media, and do business elsewhere. Let their business fail.

But we should not make a law against their right to refuse service.  It's a dangerous slope to go on, one that makes the government too big and have too much of a say in how we can live our lives.

And furthermore, we should not threaten violence or incite hate.

Do me a favor, and even if you're not a Christian, teach us how to live as Christ told us to live.

Show us why it's right to go ahead and bake the cake.

Held

This past week, my eighteen-month-old has really worked on my heart.  Whenever I was leaving the house to go to work or to write, he'd grab hold of my lower leg or ankle and look at me with his big, brown eyes.  He'd grunt lightly and lift just one arm, refusing to relinquish his hold with the other, until I put down my things and scooped him up. Then he'd nuzzle in close to me, just breathing in my mom-scent, at peace and content with his little world. 

During moments like those, I am exactly what he needs. Life has demands, and some of those demands mean that I leave him for a few hours. And honestly, I'm okay with that. I know it's good for them to have some time away from me.  But I also know that there are times where my son simply needs to be overwhelmed with the pure, unending, and unconditional love of his mama.

Today it hit me that I'm just like him, in so many ways... But that I needed to be more like him in others.

When it comes to Jesus, I'm constantly in pursuit of His protection and His will. The thought of not having Him in my life scares me, the same way my little boy is scared when I leave the house. 

I pray all day, every day, for the Lord's guidance in all areas of life. No matter the situation, I grab at His ankles and look at Him with scared, wide eyes and beg Him to help me through it.

But what I do next differs from the instinct of children.

Instead of allowing God to scoop me up, I run in a million different directions, trying to "do" whatever it is He's trying to tell me to "do", trying to fulfill all the promises that I've asked His guidance in making.

But hasn't He always told me to stop? 

To rest?  

To trust? 

To receive His greatest gift?

Why can't I actually accept what it is that I want, which is peace and grace?

Why can't I do what my toddler did? Why can't I rest in His arms and breathe in the scent of the Holy Spirit? Why don't I allow myself to be overwhelmed with the pure, unending, and unconditional love of our Father?

Why can't I just be held?

I constantly run in circles around him, worrying and fixing and creating and doing and leveraging myself until I run on empty, when all I have to do is ask to be picked up.

Today, I'm going to take a break from my hectic life. I'm going to pray and ask for guidance, but then I'm going to raise my arms up, widen my eyes in wonder, and take the time to just be held.

By the One who loves me most.

Tried and Tested

We've all heard that saying: "tried and tested". It basically means that something has gone through tests and has passed, so it's dependable and can do a job well.  But there are instances where this is not true, where "trying" something to its utmost limits and testing it repeatedly doesn't make it perform better. In fact, just the opposite happens. The testing leads to brokenness, and it's this, I fear, that's happening to the lively spirit of American children today.

In a month's time, when the annual standardized testing in public schools ensues, parents across America are going to realize that their children are the victims of an educational crisis sweeping the nation, a crisis that leads to underachievement and missed opportunities: a crisis that could be avoided with a simple change of policy.

This high-stakes problem is not that students are being underfunded or taught outdated materials by inexperienced or ineffective teachers, despite those claims constantly being made. It is not an attitude of indifference by the majority of young pupils, or because of a lack of education being a priority in the home. (I should note that those last two things do impede a child's education, but they are simply things policy cannot fix.)

No, the crisis I speak of is that students are being tested to the absolute extreme, despite overwhelming evidence that more testing does not lead to better results.

Consider this: Each school year consists of approximately 187 days.  Out of each day of school, approximately five hours are actually spent in the classroom, and that doesn't include the things that take kids out of the classroom: field trips, assemblies, fund raisers, special events, etc. But to be conservative, let's say that children spend a total of 935 hours each year (187 X 5) in the classroom.

Okay? 935.  

Teachers have a lot to do in those 935 hours.  They must assess each child before every single unit in each subject to see what the child already knows, so they can be taught at the level they are at to make the most growth.  

Trust me when I say that teachers have no problem with these Pretests.  Pretests are valid. Pretests are necessary.  Pretests tell us what we need to know about kids.

After the pretest, teachers group students according to their educational needs.  They do this in each subject, for each unit.  Then they decide what can be taught to the whole group, particularly for discussion and cooperative learning experiences.  After teachers facilitate large group learning, they take the time to teach each student at the level that will challenge them.  It involves differentiated instruction and a lot of planning, but teachers do it.  

Because it's best practice and it makes sense.  

Ahem.

As you can imagine, it takes time for teachers to meet with individuals and groups, as well as teach an overlying concept to an entire class. Inevitably, after instruction and ample opportunity for learning has taken place and appropriate time has been set aside to answer any lingering questions, an assessment of some sort must take place.

These small tests tell teachers, students, and parents what the student understood after studying the topic, and what they didn't.  This is all still valuable information. That is why a teacher never has problems assessing students.

But then comes the problem they do have: the very corruption of politics into our educational system.

Standardized testing.

It's been around for fifty or so years, and each year it gets more and more extreme.

Call it irresponsible journalism (I call it having two young children and jobs blogging, writing, and teaching), but I'm going to allow all of you to research what I have to say and see for yourself that it's backed by fact, because the truth is out there my friends. These aren't top-secret teacher things I'm telling you; it's all public information that can be found easily.

Standardized testing is the result of political profiteering, not an endeavor to meet the needs of our next generation.

No Child Left Behind (NCLB) was signed into law in 2001. The law itself came with a great moral theme (no child should ever be left behind), one that should have inspired all teachers, and did at first glance.

But then came to the implementation of the law, particularly with the Reading First program and the tests.

All the tests.

The programs backed by NCLB were "rote and note": robotic teaching at one level for all kids. Learning became a one-way street where the children were pumped full of information with little chance to explore, create, innovate, invent, discuss, or even question. 

Just take a moment to think about your best learning experiences. Didn't they involve all of those verbs?

The tests were even worse.  It was already bad that policy makers didn't trust teachers to even speak to their students without a script.  Now they needed to take what little instructional time they had and test students even more than their usual one-standardized-test-a-year.

Fast forward to 2014 and the implementation of Common Core.  At face value, Common Core seems awesome: have all the kids learn the same standards at the same stages, so when they move they don't have any repetition. We can even make sure all districts and schools are held to the same high standards.

But the problem with this thinking is the size and variety of our population.  The U.S., of course, is populated nicely and has a remarkably diverse demographic.  A one-size-fits-all mentality doesn't ever work when so many variables are at play, like they are in public schools.

Which is why teachers go to such lengths to individualize their instruction with students.

So why does the government keep trying to make teaching and learning a universal, one-size-fits-all thing?

The answer, my friends, is sad.  

The answer is politics. 

The top three textbook companies had record-breaking profits after the enactment of NCLB. Guess who contributed to educational lobbying for NCLB and also donated to George Bush's campaign? 

That's right, those same three textbook companies.

Pearson Education Publishing is in charge of implementing the new nationwide, computerized, standardized tests this year.  Guess who contributed to educational lobbying for common core and also donated to Barack Obama's campaign?

That's right. Pearson Education.

Left. Right. Republican. Democrat.

It doesn't matter. It's all gotten too big.  Political games don't belong in education, but because of money, it inevitably sneaks its way in. 

And our students are suffering because of it.

Remember what I said about how there's 935 hours spent in the classroom per year? 

Now let's look at the time my school district's intermediate grades will spend testing our kids with the government-mandated tests required of them:

Total hours spent on CMAS testing this year: 12.5 hours.

Total hours spent on PAARC testing this year: 3.75 hours.

Total hours spent on mandated district computer assessments (we call it Acuity): 6 hours.

Total hours spent on district-required reading tests at the intermediate level: 3 hours

Total hours spent on district-encouraged writing prompts to prepare for CMAS: 10 hours.

So that means that a total of 35.25 hours will be spent with number two pencils, sitting in silence, being tested.  Even worse, some of those hours will be spent as third graders painstakingly chicken peck at the keyboard because they are somehow expected to type out a well thought-out, planned essay on text they just read on a computer they've been staring at for an hour.

Eight year olds, people.

What were you doing at eight?

35.25 hours of this...this is what our children are doing.  

How much time did you spend on standardized tests and preparation in elementary school? 

Eight, maybe? And even EIGHT felt like an eternity.

As if those sobering numbers aren't horrifying enough, in addition to the testing, most teachers feel the pressure to "teach to the test", meaning they introduce the student to the format of the test, the atmosphere in which it will be taken, and they give them opportunities to practice in test-like scenarios.

They do this for a few reasons: One, knowing what the test will be like and look like helps ease student anxiety surrounding it.  Politicians encourage it because it requires school districts to buy yet another resource ("prep" books full of examples similar to the test) provided by the publishers that line their back pockets. And there's always the issue of teacher pay, which in some districts, is now dependent on how students perform on these exams. 

So yeah, teachers take them seriously.  They have to teach the content the district asks them to teach. It's in the contract. And they want students to succeed.  It's in their genes, but it's also in their financial best interest.

Teachers are skipping certain subjects for days - even weeks - in order to cram last minute information to better prepare the kids.  They put poetry (not a required common core standard, can you believe it?) on the shelf in order to go over grammar and punctuation rules.  They are putting away novels, choosing instead to read short articles in a test prep kit and asking students to answer the questions about those articles.

It's killing them to do it, but what choice do they have? 

This is what it's doing to teachers.

Just think about what it's doing to our kids.  

For crying out loud, standing as a parent in the parking lot of my daughter's preschool, I heard of a Kindergartner bursting into tears after running out of time to do an assessment. Seriously, what kind of five year old needs to be tested so rigorously that they end up in tears? What in God's name is wrong with us?

At the age of eight, could YOU have spent over 35 hours testing? Would you have learned more because of it?

When something is tried and tested, it usually means that it can withstand the worst you can throw at it.

But that's not the case with our children.  They are trying.  Lord, they are trying, leaving school in tears after they can't complete the tasks the computer demands of them.  And they are being tested: 25 hours on top of what their parents had to do at the same age.

Tests are not the answer to the educational crisis in America, friends.  Policy is not the answer.  We'll never find a one-size-fits-all solution, which is why the federal government needs to leave educational reform in the hands of districts, where parents and teachers have the most say in the education of their child.

And for the good of our children, I hope this happens.

Because, as a teacher, I'm tired of testing. But I'll never surrender my "try".

Talk Nerdy To Me

Readers of this blog:

I wanna take a minute or two, and give much respect to:

To a man who's made a difference in my world.

If you just rapped those two lines, it's settled: We can be friends.

If you didn't, that's okay, too. We all have our faults.

I don't just listen to the song for nostalgic purposes. (It's called "Whatta Man" by Salt-N-Peppa, by the way.) It comes on, and I'm reminded of good men, and oh my good gracious, I love a good man. 

Lucky for me, I have one.

Since today is Valentine's Day, I'll tell you what my husband did to make me fall madly in love with him.

He talked nerdy to me.

We went to an incredibly small college in Wyoming, so I knew of Deich long before we started hanging out.  Six and a half feet tall, Australian, and bald, he was a hard one to miss.  But I'd always been the type to go after a baby face, and he resembled Mr. Clean.

So falling for him took me by surprise almost as much as it did him.

But it did happen, one a winter day, as I sat among all the basketball players in my Cultural Anthropology class.

"What do you all think it means to be 'ethnocentric'?" my professor had asked. 

"Isn't it the view that your cultural norm is superior to the culture of others?"

My jaw dropped and my heart skipped a beat as I whipped my head around to see who had spoken so intelligently.  It was him: Mr. Clean.

Suffice it to say, I made a point to talk to Deich more often.  Soon, a crush had blossomed, and then a relationship.  He would write letters and tell me he needed to extrapolate upon his feelings for me. After a year, he told me that I was his homeostasis.  (That means that I balance him out, in geeky science terms).  

His interests were broad, from World History to Microeconomics. He pushed himself to get good grades and to achieve greatness, and it all made me swoon. 

Just a few months ago, on a rare date night, he told me, "You're like my resource transfer."

If your brows are furrowed, don't worry. Mine were, too.

It's a business term, referring to two businesses that are somewhat successful on their own, but flourish when they come together. And it made me swoon.

It still does.

I'll explain why. I love Deich for talking nerdy to me simply because a lot of men just don't push themselves to be great anymore.

And I'm not just talking about getting collegiate degrees and climbing the corporate ladder of success. 

I'm talking about taking an interest in something and striving to become an expert in it.

It can be anything, and trust me, men! We would find it sexy.

Love cars?  Learn about them. Be her go-to person whenever her automobile gives her problems. 

Love building things? Creating masterpieces? Make her Pinterest dreams come true!

Have dream to own your business? Learn as much as you can about it...and then DO IT.

Whatever it is that makes you unique, makes you tick, find it. Just find your passion. 

And pursue it.

Unless your passion is video games.  Don't pursue that.  You may find like, two, women in the continental United States who are wooed over your talents when it comes to World of Warcraft.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: I'm a writer; my love language is language itself. So naturally I fell in love with a man who courted me with words.

 

But "nerdiness" isn't bound to book-smarts.  It's an umbrella that covers a lot of different interests.

All you have to do is find one.  One interest.  Pursue it passionately.

And you'll gain her interest as well.

...And as for keeping that interest?  Well, that's where having a ginormous, caring heart comes in.

But that, my friend, is a topic so important that it needs another post on its own.

Happy Valentine's Day, friends!

My Life as the Velveteen Rabbit

What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

Three  nights ago, I read The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams aloud to my daughter as a bedtime story. Although I've read the book many times, that night, it brought tears to my eyes.

Because that night was a turning point in my life. I'd gotten a phone call that assured me that I was ready to reveal something I've been afraid to share.

Something I haven't told anyone outside of my closest circle of friends.

I've been nervous and insecure, apprehensive of others' judgement, or dislike and disbelief.

And while I'm still experiencing all of those feelings from time to time, the phone call I got on Tuesday was a validation of sorts, and now I'm ready to share what I've wanted to tell you for a long time.

*Deep Breath*

Here it goes.


I.

Am.

An.

Author.


I have been on the fence about this title for a while now, ever since I was audacious enough to write my first chapter and see it through till the end.

The past couple of  years, I've started a blog and have joined numerous writing groups on social media forums. I attended my first writers' conference and had a select few people read my novel and give me feedback. All of these things were passive ways to declare who I was, but despite working on my book for years, I haven't felt comfortable outwardly claiming my authorship.

Why?

Because I'm not one of those strong women you hear about who can simply tell themselves they are capable and worthy and actually believe it. And being an author is something semi-sacred to me: it's hallowed ground I'm attempting to tread. I needed someone else - an expert - to tell me that being an author was an attainable status for me: more than an unreachable dream.

Three days ago, I got a phone call from the experts: two literary agents - Alex Barba and Michelle Johnson. 

These are women who have read thousands of manuscripts, who have worked with bestselling authors, the top five publishing houses, and even film production companies.

And these women called me to tell me they loved my book and would be honored to represent my best interests in getting it published and into the hands of young adults.

And in my head, just like that...

I became an author.



That was the same night I read The Velveteen Rabbit to my daughter. And as I read it aloud, I got all teary-eyed.

Because I realized that I was the Velveteen Rabbit. 

For years, I was wondering what could make me real.

At first, there was disbelief.

Could I really write a novel?  A whole book?  Could I make it entertaining, enthralling, even? Could I create lovable characters and a plot that will command the readers' attention?  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HOW WOULD I EVEN COME UP WITH AN IDEA???

HOW CAN I BECOME REAL????



Here's the excerpt from the picture book, with my thoughts as I read the story following it:

What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day... "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

My version: What is REAL? Does it just mean having ideas and writing about them? 

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

My version: "You weren't born an author. You become one. It's been a long, long process, and you've come so far. You created something that experienced agents loved and wanted to read more of.  You have what it takes, Amanda Deich. You've become REAL." 




You see, being an author is more than just doing something for the enjoyment of it.  Sure, you have to love it to see it through - you'll need the passion when you're on your 118th revision - but writing wasn't created to be an act of solitude.

It was created to speak to the heart of the person who is reading your work.

It's communicative. There's a giver and a receiver, and the receiver must always understand and appreciate the importance of what you are trying to say.

While it seems simple, it really isn't.  Again, from The Velveteen Rabbit:




"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

My version: You're going to suffer in one way or another. You're going to be critiqued. Some people will hate your work. YOU'RE going to hate your work. Readers will always find something about it that needs improvement.  But if you want to be real - if you want to be an author - you can be. You just have to love the work and the vision more than you hate the critique. 



"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"


"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." 

My version:  It takes time to become a real author.  No one has their first draft published. All authors have been rejected at one time or another. You cannot break easily if you want to succeed in this business.  

By the time you create a book worth reading, you're going to be falling apart at the seams. But don't worry, because you won't feel ugly. You'll feel proud to have done something very few have had the talent and fortitude to do.





My first novel was an "accidental" memoir I wrote as an anniversary gift to my husband. After I was able to fill an entire book with my real-life musings, I realized, I CAN DO THIS.  

I had to pray long and incredibly hard for inspiration, but eventually, God gave me an idea. And I wrote. 

It consumed me. 

After a significant amount of time, I gave it to others to read. An agent who led an online course pointed out that I began the book with a cliche. A good friend who is also an author informed me that the premise of my book was overused. I read it myself and realized that I had put too many redundant things in it, that it was too wordy and took away from the pace of the story.

Months passed, and then years.  And it wasn't ready yet.  But the whole time, I constantly said to myself, I AM GOING TO DO THIS.

I asked people to pray for me, and they did. THEY STILL DO.

I continue to feel the desperate need to write deep down in my soul, and I know that this is God's way of nudging me toward his purpose, of telling me, THIS IS WHAT YOU'RE MEANT TO DO.

And so I write.  I create.


What is that you are meant to do?

Write? Paint? Teach? Heal? Parent?

Calculate? Motivate? Insure? Assure?

<ENTER ANY ACTIVE VERB HERE!>?

What is keeping you from becoming real?  Have you taken the chance and shared your talent with the world? Have you listened to your critiques - truly ingested them - and made the decision to become the best version of you?

If not, what's holding you back?  Out there, this world has billions of people in it, and there is a desperate need for them to be blessed by your talents.

Don't hesitate any longer, friends.

Do what it takes to become REAL.

In the book, the velveteen rabbit eventually becomes a real rabbit, finally able to use his limbs to do what God intended bunnies to do.  And though he looks back at his past as a loved toy with fondness - as he appreciates what it took to be real - he doesn't hesitate to dart off into the world to do what he was made to do.


And that's where I am, people.

It's my life as The Velveteen Rabbit.

10 Signs That You Are a Parent to a "THREE-NAGER"

My daughter is three, and I'm counting down the days until she's four.

I'm pretty sure she's going to go to bed on the eve of her fourth birthday as a difficult and opinionated little girl, but that when she wakes up the next morning, she'll be the sweet and gentle girl that I always knew she would become.

I don't care if it's not based on science. On days like today, it's all I'm holding on to, so I'm going to choose to believe it.

This past year with her has taught me a lot - mostly about patience and understanding. You can't imagine why? Then you have probably never parented a three-naged girl. Here are ten signs that you are in the same boat as me:

1) 98% of all conversations involve bodily functions or fluid. I've reached my limit talking about poop. For those of you who know me, you know this is a big deal.

2)  You say you’re going hiking, she wants to wear plastic heels.  You say you’re going to a farm, she wants to wear plastic heels.  You say you’re going to church, she wants to wear boots with mud still on them from the previous fall.

3) You speak Disney when it comes to hair.  For example, this morning I asked A, “How do you  want me to do your hair?”

“I’ll keep it like Rapunzel, Mom.”

That means she wants to wear her hair down.

If she wants it all up, that’s Cinderella hair.  If she wants braided low pigtails, that’s Anna hair.  One braid off to the side is Elsa hair. Sides up is Belle hair. This is a science, and if you don't speak the language, then you better brace yourself for what's sure to follow.

4) If you say “no" to her fashion requests- or any requests, for that matter – she will go from happy to hurricane in three nanoseconds, flailing her body on the floor in a quasi-seizing motion and emitting sounds so ear-splitting you think neighbors just may call social services.

5) After said tantrum, as you’re evaluating your own behavior to see if it is the catalyst for her outburst, you’ll have a quasi-breakdown yourself, in which large quantities of chocolate, cake, or chocolate cake is consumed.

6) This will be bad because of the calories, but good because you’ll realize that she doesn't act this way because you do:  

You EAT your emotions!

7)  And then she’ll come and place her head in your lap, and ask for you to read to her.  She’ll tell you she loves you and ask if she can wear a dress the next day and if you could, too, so she could look like you.

8) And then you'll melt and think about how sweet she actually is.

9) You'll decide that maybe she does take after you, after all.

10) And in the end, you'll declare that perhaps - just maybe - she can stay your "three-nager" for just awhile longer.