A descendant of prophets

"I pray that I'll be a blessing to someone."

I think the first time I came across such a statement I was reading a blog by literary agent Rachelle Gardner or Christian author Mary DeMuth.

I never really understood the weight of those words until recently. . .

* * *

"I just talked to mom. The nursing home has called the family and the pastor in. Grandma's not doing well."

My stomach knotted at the words my sister uttered on the phone.

I wasn't surprised. Health-wise, things hadn't looked cheery for Grandma Pearl since suffering from a horrible bout of pneumonia before Christmas. As I hung up the phone that morning and went back to work, I talked myself into denial.

Grandma was going to be fine. For 97 years, she'd found amazing ways to bounce back from some pretty terrible circumstances.

As blessings would have it, that morning was no exception.

Although caregivers at the nursing home had told the family she was unresponsive, when the pastor came in she opened her eyes and asked, "What'd you think? I was dying?"

In reality, Grandma knew her health was failing. I'd be willing to bet she knew she'd just stepped up to that line between life and death -- maybe even stuck her pinky toe across it. But it didn't keep her from cracking a good joke.

That's just the kind of person she was.

Grandma Pearl had a way of making the rough spots in life easy with a smile.

When I went to visit her that night, she didn't linger on sad goodbyes.

"You come and see me again," she said. Her courage didn't waver.

I, on the other hand, walked out of her room and crumbled into my mother's arms. In my heart, I knew it would be the last time I'd talk to her.

A few days later, at Grandma Pearl's funeral, I looked around at the number of people crowded into St. John Church. I marveled at the fact that my 6-year-old niece cried just as hard as me, my 38-year-old cousin and my Grandma's elderly sisters.

The pastor said my great-grandparents were prophets. How else would they have known to give her such a fitting name: Pearl?

I couldn't help but feel blessed that God had granted me the privilege of being the granddaughter of such a courageous and lively woman.

That's when I realized what being a blessing to others truly meant. Now, thanks to Grandma Pearl, it's something I'll pray for everyday.

In short, He aced the test

Somebody once told me that hell is the absence of God. If that's the case, then I've been using the right word to describe the past several weeks of my life.

I don't mean to come off as melodramatic. I know there are people out there who have gone through much worse. But for awhile, it really sucked to be me, especially since my ol' cup of faith wasn't runneth-ing over.
It didn't help that I had people trying to convince me that those who believe in God are naive fools.

On second thought, maybe I should be thanking God for those people.
You see, I'm a stubborn girl, and I will hold onto what I believe is right until my heart tells me otherwise. That's what kept me from letting go of my faith in the first place.
That's what made me listen to that little voice in my heart that kept saying: "Faith is all you have left, Kat. If you let go of that, you'll have nothing."
That's what made me do what Christians aren't supposed to do when their anger toward God turns into anger at themselves for believing in God.
I tested Him.

I was pretty upset that night. I went to bed cursing at Him, saying, "Why aren't you listening to my cries for help? I'm beginning to believe all of those people who say you aren't there at all. I'm about ready to give up on you because this is too much, so you better do something to let me know you are still there."

I truly believe that when I picked up my Bible from the nightstand and opened it, it was a last-ditch attempt to salvage whatever faith remained inside me.

I truly believe it was divine intervention, the way my eyes immediately settled on this passage from John 6: "On hearing it, many of his disciples said, "This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?"

Aware that his disciples were grumbling about this, Jesus said to them, "Does this offend you? What if you see the Son of Man ascend to where he was before! The Spirit gives life; the flesh counts for nothing. The words I have spoken to you are spirit and they are life. Yet there are some of you who do not believe." For Jesus had known from the beginning which of them did not believe and who would betray him. He went on to say, "This is why I told you that no one can come to me unless the Father has enabled him."

From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him.

"You do not want to leave too, do you?" Jesus asked the Twelve.

Simon Peter answered him, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God."

I closed the book, shocked.

I went back to the the part about the disciples complaining about Jesus' hard teaching and thought about how it applied to me. I've always said the best place to learn is the school of life.

And yes, sometimes the lessons are hard.

Very hard.

I realized that those are the times when I need to hold fast to my faith.

Looking back, my "long road through hell" reminds me of something a pastor from my hometown once said to me, something so profound it eventually found its way into my first manuscript.

The Rev. Thaddeus Roberson once told me, "Anytime that struggle comes and adversity comes, the devil has made his biggest mistake because he’s knocked you down and thrown you to the feet of Jesus."

I think I'll stay here awhile. It's not such a bad place to be after all.

When the day turns to dust and shadows and the demon is at your door...

Yesterday I updated my Facebook status to: "God, I've prayed so many times just so I could see the things that I want most of all are the same things killin' me."

A couple of people e-mailed me directly, wondering if I was okay. (Thanks.) A few others inquired on Facebook about what had happened to make me leave such dismal words.

Well, it reflected the way I felt: powerless.

The line is from my novel; when the MC is rapt in the throes of addiction, she writes the lyrics to a song called "Other gods" without realizing the darkness it reveals about her current state of mind.

The song title is based on the first commandment: "I am the Lord your God. . . .Do not have other gods before me."

Out of the ten, this was probably the hardest commandment for me to grasp.

The cynic in me used to interpret it as a sort of admission that there are other omnipotent beings in the universe trying to knock God from His pedestal. Early on, I pictured them as mythological titans. Later, I thought maybe it was a reference to the gods found in other religions.

I started to get a firm understanding of the meaning of this commandment when I tried to step inside the mind of an alcoholic while writing about Heather.

Then, while watching my husband struggle to quit drinking, I received a first-hand lesson on what it means to put other gods first.

I realized then that having other gods means zeroing in on that which separates us from grace.

Everyone has one.

It's whatever fills us up but leaves us empty. It's whatever leaves us lusting for affirmation and pleasure from outside sources, when the only source that should matter is the one that lives within us.

For some, an other god is gambling.

For some, it's cigarettes.

For others, it's cocaine, meth, heroin.

For my husband, it's alcohol.

My other god is food. And yesterday it had me on my knees.

But they say the first step to recovery is admitting there is a problem.

Now that I've admitted it, the coming days will be a fight to remove that other god from the pedestal on which I placed it and to put my God back where He belongs.

Prayers (if you're a believer) and encouragement (if you're a non-believer) would be greatly appreciated.

And I think Bartles or Jaymes said it best: "Thank you for your support."

(OK, yeah, wine cooler reference was probably inappropriate, but if it made my husband laugh, then you all have to, too.)

Will wonders never cease?

Anyone who knows me also knows I firmly believe everything happens for a reason -- even life's irritations and tragedies.

Over the years, I've experienced many events to solidify my faith in that notion. But few of them are as incredible as what happened to my friend, Kelly, on Monday.

Kelly and I work together at the newspaper. Although she's in a different department (she's a graphic designer), she and I have forged a pretty good friendship over the years during our shared lunch breaks. She listens to me ramble on about my writing; I listen to her tales of what it's like to raise a rambunctious 8-year-old boy.

Monday morning Kelly's car refused to start in the cold weather. Her son urged her to see if they could use her folks' SUV. So she did. After dropping her boy off at school, she started on her 40-mile commute to work in her parents' vehicle.

That evening, as she traveled down the four-lane highway at 65 miles per hour, a box truck ran a stop sign. Kelly slammed on her brakes and swerved to miss the truck. Unfortunately, she was unable to stop and the truck T-boned the driver's side of her parents' SUV going about 40 miles per hour.

Coincidentally, the husband of another coworker drove by and saw the emergency personnel using the Jaws of Life to extract Kelly from the car. The husband later said when he came upon the accident he didn't believe anyone had survived.

But Kelly did. As a matter of fact, Kelly returned to work yesterday. Miraculously she emerged from the accident without any broken bones (except for the one she broke when she crashed her bicycle several weeks ago).

Both Kelly and her son are acutely aware of how bad the accident could have been, especially if her car had started that morning. So what seemed like a problem at the time probably ended up saving her life.

Isn't it amazing how God takes life's inconveniences and turns them into miracles?

Blog Chain: Like a good neighbor...

It's blog chain time again.

For this round, Mandy asked:

How do you prioritize? How do you balance paying attention to your writing, critiquing for friends, spending time with your family and earning a living?

This is a kind of a funny question for someone who flies by the seat of her pants. (That would be me.)

I know my answer may not be comfortable for some people to read. Not everyone believes in the same things I do.

That's okay. We all have our own journey.

But since Mandy asked. . .

About 13 years ago, I worked as a pharmacy technician. I hated it. The hours were long. The pay sucked. And, to be quite honest, people are cranky when they're sick. (Not to mention the fact that I picked up every little bug that came along.)

To top all of that off, my situation at home wasn't so great. My husband and I were dirt poor and way too immature to care for an infant properly. It always seemed like I was shoveling to fill one hole only to create another.

I was miserable. There were mornings when, on my way to work, I considered dropping my daughter off at daycare and driving away from my life.

Seriously.

It was that bad.

And then one day, I lost it. As my little girl napped, I sat on the floor of my single-wide trailer and broke my long silence with God. In a nutshell, I told Him I couldn't stand the imbalance in my life anymore. Something needed to change. I didn't know what it was, but I knew I couldn't do it alone.

Of course, as God often does when I speak out loud with Him (as noted here and here), He spoke back.

He told me I should only have two priorities in my life: 1.) Him and 2.) Everything else.

I scoffed. "Geez, God. That's a little self-centered, even for someone who is omnipotent."

His only response was: "Trust me."

That's when I started going with the flow of my life instead of trying to swim against the current. I started listening to that voice inside that told me when to write, when to read, when to crit, when to work, when to push it all aside for the sake of family, and most importantly, when to ask for help.

Oddly enough, less than a month after my conversation with God, I received a job offer from a place where I had applied more than five months earlier. It was a temporary position in the library of a Catholic high school. When that job ended in the spring, my boss -- the principal of the school -- gave a glowing recommendation to the daily newspaper where I now work as a business editor.

Don't get me wrong, I still hit snags. There are times when I get impatient with the speed of my life and push God out of the driver's seat. But the nice thing about crashing now is knowing my assurance provider always has me covered.

Check out what the ever-charming Eric had to say before me. Check out what the colossally creative Christine has to say tomorrow.

So she got me

While sitting in church with my family on Sunday morning, an idea for a new story popped into my head.

When we got home I announced the sudden burst of creative genius that had hit.

My teenager quickly stomped out my pride, however, as she narrowed her eyes and asked: "And why weren't you paying attention to Father?"

Ah, touche, my dear daughter. Touche.

Shipwrecked

Here's the deal.

Pirates have attacked your cruise ship.

They leave you sitting on the beach of a deserted island with only your laptop. . .no internet connection.

You only had time to download five CDs, five movies and five books.

Which ones do you pick?

Here are my picks:

CDs

1. Pink Floyd's Pulse

2. Lennon Murphy's Damaged Goods

3. Todd Agnew's Reflection of Something

4. Metallica's Symphony & Metallica

5. Chris Isaak's Heart-Shaped World

Movies

1. Forest Gump

2. Walk the Line

3. Stand By Me

4. The Green Mile

5. Rose Red

Books

1. The Bible

2. Boy Scout Survival Guide

3. The Book of Jewish Wisdom

4. The Quran

5. Norton's Anthology of English Literature

(Obviously, I'm looking to gain knowledge -- not entertainment -- from the books.)

What would you choose?

Divine Intervention

At first, I was convinced my house had become a vortex of evil.

Items of sacred nature disappear for no reason at all. In the past year, my husband has lost two Bibles. And I'm not talking about small pocket Missals. I'm talking about large Old Testament/New Testament books with the diocanonicals included.

I'd become so afraid of losing my own Bible that I took it to work and hid it in my desk drawer. (OK, when you're also a religion reporter for a newspaper, it's helpful to have it handy, too.) Since the lost Bibles belonged to my husband, the disappearances didn't really have any impact on me until last weekend.

I sat down to rewrite a funeral scene in my WIP. Unfortunately, without a Bible, I had no way to accurately find poignant verses for the graveside scene.

I began searching, turning the house upside down. I looked under beds, in the attic, in the basement, on the bookshelf. I even called my Mom and had her read to me Ecclesiastes 3: 1-15. (The appointed time for everything.)

At first, I thought it would fit for the scene.

But after I wrote it, I wasn't happy.

I resumed my search, but after nearly an hour, I'd resigned myself to the fact that the Bibles were gone. Sitting at my desk, musing pensively over what my next move should be, I spied on my bookshelf a large book bearing the name "Catechism of the Catholic Church."

Believe me folks. I've delved into this particular work before, but it's not the most riveting piece of literature. But since my character -- an agnostic -- was attending the funeral of a Catholic, I decided it might be worth a shot to look up "funerals" in the Catechism book.

Lo' and Behold, I found the perfect phrase I needed for my Catholic graveside. Unfortunately, I can't write what it is because it gives away too much about the plot, but I think that shows just how perfect the quote from a certain saint is for this story.

So, if I happen to find my husband's Bibles lying around at home, I'll know for a fact that this was divine intervention. I mean, Lord knows I probably wouldn't have picked up the Catechism book if I'd had the Bible.

Have you had any divine interventions in your writing?

Gift of gab

It's been almost a week since my last post.

(Well, I pulled the post with my book trailer because I decided it needed further tweaking. More on that later.)

Last night, as I began feeling bad for neglecting my blog in such a manner, I sat down and implored myself to write something.

C'mon Kat.

Be witty.

Be smart.

Be charming.

Tell an uplifting story that will make people laugh.

I couldn't.

The more I tried, the more frustrated I became.

I'm a writer. Words are supposed to come easily to me.

They didn't.

My frustration grew.

Then, for some reason, a memory flittered through my head. At a church group meeting several years ago, a good friend of mine and my husband played this song. I thought it was so amusing to hear this friend play this song because this friend was endowed with the gift of gab.

That was the point, he said. Sometimes, we need to shut up and let our soul do the conversing.

I guess there's really nothing more for me to say today except:

A rock you can roll with

Kat's simple thought for Easter

(It's pretty much the theme of "Long Road")

********************************************************

No matter how many times someone stumbles, they can (and often do) learn to walk a straight and narrow line.

And just as quickly, those who already walk the straight and narrow can be tripped up by loose stones on the road of life.

So, be careful of the stones you throw because someday you might be the one to trip over them.

wordfail

I've hereby declared a moratorium on the use of the word "fail."

Now, I'm not prohibiting anyone from saying they've failed a test or failed to take the dog for a walk.

I'm declaring the use of the word "fail" in any title -- movie, song, blog -- obsolete, old-fashioned, uncool and completely last year.

What does this mean?

It means no more agentfail, queryfail, bossfail, employeefail, childfail, Bushfail, Senatefail, dogfail or catfail.

Any use of this word will result in cynical expressions from your friends, rolling of the eyes from the general public and possible ostracism and excommunication from everyone else.

This moratorium goes into effect immediately and will continue until further notice.

Thank you for the interuption. Now, please, continue with your day.

Marked for greatness

It's funny, the memories that pop into your head while you're skidding to work on a sheet of ice.

This morning's drive prompted thoughts of drummers and stolen Sharpies.

During my 15-mile commute to work in the dark, a local radio station played a song I hadn' t heard in years: "Animal" by Def Leppard.

Now, I've never made any attempts to hide my true colors on this blog. In the 80s, I was a Duran Duran groupie, but when the late 80s rolled around, I fell in love with hair bands. By 1992, I'd have sold my left foot to get next to Def Leppard's bass player, Rick Savage.

That's where the trouble began.

I saw the band live for the first time in August 1992, and then I saw them again in Wichita in December 1992. My mother wasn't exactly thrilled that I had chosen to drive all the way from Yankton S.D. to Wichita, Kan., to see a band that I'd already seen, but I was in college and well, you know.

When I heard they were coming to Lincoln in March 1993, I was bound and determined to go again -- come hell or high water. Coincidentally, I ended up almost missing work the next day because the Platte River flooded and the bridges between Lincoln and Norfolk were completely submerged. Let's just say, it was a long trip home. My mother wasn't happy because she was up half the night worrying and forbade me from "wasting anymore money" on seeing Def Leppard play live again.

I was okay with that because after that concert in Lincoln, my friend and I raced from the venue to the Cornhusker Hotel (where the band members were staying) just to get their autographs. I managed to get that of guitarist Vivian Campbell, but when Rick Savage, the object of my affection walked past, I froze.

I imagine I looked something like this :-0

Having blown my chance to grab the attention of the man I wanted to marry (of course, I'm exaggerating here), I accepted my mother's prohibition and turned my focus to getting into trouble on a more local scale. I eventually married the man of my dreams (coincidentally, he's a guitarist, too), had children and started working as a reporter for a newspaper.

Well, it just so happened that about three hours away from my hometown, this group of ranchers had been working together to put on a huge rock music festival featuring four days' worth of national acts. Grand Funk Railroad -- featuring former Norfolkan Max Carl on vocals -- was one of the bands scheduled to perform. And who was the headlining act that night? Yep, you guessed it, none other than Def Leppard.

Armed with a press pass (because I was set to interview Max), Zack (who, as a drummer, was a huge admirer of Def Lep's one-armed drummer), and Max's long-lost cousin Kelli, we set out for the Comstock Rock Festival with hopes of snagging a few autographs.

Now, as a professional reporter, asking for autographs is frowned upon, but my stint as a reporter there only lasted about a half hour. After that, I was on my own time, and I knew from previous experience with this festival that it wasn't difficult to catch the acts between shows to get an autograph. You just had to know where to stand at "the fence."

During my interview with Max, I kept hoping to see the Def Leppard bus pull inside the gate. Unfortunately, it didn't.

So, as soon as I finished, I returned to the glorified pasture party and convinced Zack to bring his Sharpie marker to the fence and wait with me.

Have you seen Zack's
Sharpie Mr. Allen?

We did, and the bus finally showed up. I managed to get the autograph of the other guitarist, but the rest of the members didn't come to the fence. Tired of the 100+ degree heat, I returned to our chairs and left Zack by the fence where he held onto the hope that he would get Rick Allen's (the one-armed drummer) autograph.

Not more than a half hour later, Zack returned to where Kelli and I sat with grin sprawling from ear-to-ear. Not only did Rick Allen give Zack an autograph, he stole Zack's Sharpie.

Despite being a victim of petty theft, Zack happily forgave Mr. Allen and enjoyed the show.

We left Comstock at about 11 p.m. and pulled into the garage at my house after 2 a.m.

Getting up for work the next day was horrible. I couldn't hear anything. But we had a grand time, and it's kind of interesting to wonder how many autographs the boys from Def Leppard signed with Zack's Sharpie.

I guess that's one way for Zack to leave his mark.

Silent Lucidity

Without music, my life would be incomplete.

And from The Chordette's "Mr. Sandman" to Metallica's "Enter Sandman," dreams can be found all over the place in the music world.

They've have been the topic of songs since . . . probably since Brahm's Lullaby.

I mean, you have Dream Weaver, The Dream Police, Dream a Little Dream, Dream On, California Dreamin' and of course, Daydream Believer.

As a rock 'n' roller, my favorite dream-related songs can be found in that genre of music. I mean, how can you beat songs like this one by the 90s-alt band Belly that had the lyric: "I've had bad dreams, so bad I threw my pillow away."

But there is one song I think best captures the mood of dreams. Many people don't even realize that it's about dreams.

To end this week of dream-related blog posts, I decided to post the video my favorite dream-related song. (This is the live version. If you haven't heard this song before, please check out the studio version as well. I believe it is much, much better.)

Thanks for traveling the gravel of the subconscious with me this week. Enjoy!

The serpent & the storm

I'll never forget dreaming about the snake in the science room, how it slithered across the teacher's lab table during an A&P experiment. I'll never forget how that serpent upset my classmates and me.

I had this dream in December 1990.

I remember this so vividly because of what happened the next day.

My friend Kristin and I had made it a habit to ditch study hall during our junior year in high school. We'd escape to the locker room, eat crackers and chat throughout the period. (Yeah, I was a goody-two-shoes.)
On that cold December day, another friend came down to tell us the entire school was assembling in the gymnasium, and the principal was about to make an important announcement.

On the outside, I remained calm, but on the inside, I panicked. I knew something had gone horribly wrong, and we were about to receive bad news.

Once all of the students had gathered, our parish priest and the principal announced that a former schoolmate of ours had shot and killed himself in the driveway of his ex-girlfriend's home. The high school I attended was very small -- about 160 students, so everyone pretty much knew everyone else. The boy who had committed suicide was very good looking, very popular and seemed to have everything going for him.

The last time I had seen this boy was about a week earlier. He had stopped by during the last 15 minutes of my A&P class and had leaned across our teacher's lab table while he visited with a couple of his friends.

I didn't know this boy very well, but I believe now that the snake in my dream that night was the metaphor for the warning signs my subconscious had picked up on in my brief interaction with him the last time I saw him.

Perhaps if I'd have known this boy a little better, I'd have put two and two together. Perhaps I could have realized the danger he posed to himself.

Of course, I realize I cannot change the past. I still become sad when I think about how desperate he must have felt, how shattered his family was and how he wasted all had going for him.

Since that incident, I have always make it a point to evaluate closely the people and situations around me when I dream about snakes. Is there a threat or a warning that my subconscious picked up but my waking eyes ignored?

In essence, evaluation is the key to dream interpretation.

It's my belief that some dreams tell us things about our lives that we don't want to recognize or are too (proud, scared, ashamed) to acknowledge in our waking lives. Self-evaluation leads to self-knowledge. (Why does that sound dirty?)
Take, for instance, dreams about demons and tornadoes.

These two elements make frequent appearances in my dreams.

Their meanings are much easier to explain than snakes.

Demons are generally metaphors for helplessness against addictions or things we may covet. When my husband was struggling to give up alcohol, I constantly dreamt that I was vanquishing demons with prayer. Oddly enough, without faith in our marriage and faith in God, I'm not sure we would have made it through that struggle.

And tornadoes...ugh. I hate these dreams because they generally occur when I've forgotten to write down a mortgage payment and my checkbook gets all out of whack. Whenever I dream of tornadoes or storms, I know it's time to step back and deal with the issues that are causing turmoil in my life, and there's nothing quite like financial instability to get my worry warts sprouting. (No, I don't really have warts.)
Even the smallest detail can have some sort of significance in a dream, and the mood of the dream plays a huge role in what it means.

There have been numerous books about dream interpretation, including dream dictionaries. Check them out at your local library or book store and enjoy what you learn about yourself!

Coming tomorrow: Deja vu . . . what it could mean for you.
Later on this week: Learn about a type of sleep therapy that may help reduce the effects of post-traumatic stress.

Don't fear the reaper

Now, about those dreams . . .

Yesterday in the comments, Lynn Rush mentioned having a nightmare about her hubby dying.

In hopes to put her mind at ease, I quickly sent her an e-mail that (I hope) explained what I'd learned about death in dreams. (It also gave me the idea to do an extended blog feature on sleep. Way to go, Lynn! Hopefully it doesn't put anyone to sleep.)
I, too, have dreams about losing loved ones. In fact, it was a death dream that prompted me to start looking into dream interpretation.

I'd been fascinated with the subject since I was a child. My fascination grew when I read the Old Testament story about Joseph interpretting dreams about skinny calves eating fat calves. But I never thought to research dream interpretation until I was in college and had a nightmare about my sister.

In the dream, my sister committed suicide. I woke up bawling, and I quickly called my sister to make sure she was okay.

Of course, she was.

And at the risk of sounding foolish, I never told her the reason for my call. But I told my husband (then boyfriend). Seeing how rattled I was by the nightmare, he encouraged me to "look into it."

As it turns out, I discovered that dreams about the death of a loved one are rarely premonitions.

Rather, these dreams signify mental preparation for change.

It made sense. At the time, I was attending the same college from which my (very successful) sister had graduated. Without any real goals for my future, I felt I was wasting my time, money and talent continuing my education there, but leaving that school made me feel as if I was failing, throwing in the towel or committing educational suicide.

I found comfort in the realization that my sister wasn't suicidal. It also helped dive into dream analysis which, I believe, has given me a great sense of knowledge and understanding about myself.

Tomorrow: Snakes, tornadoes and demons. Oh my! What could these dreams mean for you?

Wherever you go, there you are...

So you say it's your birthday?
Well, it's my birthday, too, yeah!

An interesting topic popped up at a recent "girls night out" with my girlfriends from high school.

"Are you where you thought you'd be?"

Of course, we were all in the bar, and that's where we had planned to gather.

But the question delved into more than just physical location.

We were talking about life in general.

If found it amusing how each of us had the same answer: No.

One friend said she never imagined she would be divorced and remarried.

Another said she never thought she would be living so far away from her hometown.

The other never imagined she'd one day compete (and win) a body-building competition.

And while I always knew that I'd be a writer, I never imagined the road I would travel in my personal life.

In my high school journal on graduation day, I wrote that I intended to be a published author in five years.

Heh, heh.

I'm almost 12 years past deadline.
No. I'm not where I thought I'd be. And I never would have imagined learning or experiencing what I have in the past 12 year.

I never imagined that my first paid gig as a writer would be penning obituaries. (I've done more than 5,000.)
I never realized the character a writer needs to develop within him/herself in order to develop a character on a page.

I never realized how thick a writer's skin needs to grow in order to take and use the criticism given by those who are one step farther along in the game.

And the one thing that surprises me most of all is how terrifying it can be to stretch out your hand and reach for those lofty goals.

I mean, what if?

Dirt-knapped

I did a story for Friday's newspaper about a couple who build and sell coffins.

Why?

They do it as a testimony.

Ken and Jane Daberkow, who own Underground Furniture in Madison, Nebraska, said "People need to know that this is not their final resting place. They need to know where their final resting place is, and this can be a tool for us to talk to them about it."

I thought that was a pretty cool thing.

But I found out some other really interesting -- albeit morbid -- things about funeral preparation and burial during the course of my interview with them last week.

In particular, I learned about the growing popularity of natural burial preserves or eco-cemeteries.

They are quite literally a place where a body is wrapped in a shroud, placed in the ground, covered with dirt.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Some people call these natural preserves a “tree-hugger-hippie heaven.”

But natural burial preserves are popping up in several places across the country.

The goal of an eco-cemetery is to return the body of a deceased person to the earth in a manner that doesn’t inhibit decomposition the way traditional burial does. The bodies are not embalmed. Instead, they are wrapped in a shroud. There is no burial vault or casket (a coffin may be used if it is made of biodegradable material.)

Living memorials – native trees, shrubs or flowers on or near the grave – are used instead of grave markers. Irrigation, pesticides and herbicides are not applied.

The United Kingdom opened its first “green cemetery” in 1993 and more than 200 exist today. (Obviously, this is nothing new -- further evidence that I live under a rock. Pardon the pun.) Currently, there are 13 natural burial preserves in the United States and several more are under development.

Check out this video put together about Greensprings Eco Cemetery south of Cuyuga Lake, N.Y.

Now, please realize that the video is biased toward green burial, but I wanted to share it because I was fascinated by their explanation on how the graves are found by loved ones who want to visit.





Personally, I’m conflicted.

One side of me is comforted by the idea of returning to dust. But another part of me believes I’d want to cling to the body that clothed my soul while I walked the earth.

What do you think?

Here's your sign

A note from Kat: Some of my readers may be offended by today's post. I just want you to know, it's okay to disagree with me. I'm not trying to push anything on anyone. I only want people to understand the place from which I come.

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"People break down into two groups.

"When they experience something lucky, group number one sees it as more than luck, more than coincidence. They see it as a sign, evidence, that there is someone up there, watching out for them.

"Group number two sees it as just pure luck. Just a happy turn of chance. I'm sure the people in group number two are looking at those fourteen lights in a very suspicious way.

"For them, the situation is a fifty-fifty. Could be bad, could be good.

"But deep down, they feel that whatever happens, they're on their own. And that fills them with fear.

"Yeah, there are those people. But there's a whole lot of people in group number one. When they see those fourteen lights, they're looking at a miracle. And deep down, they feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help them. And that fills them with hope.

"See what you have to ask yourself is what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, that sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky?

"Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?" -- from the movie "Signs," written by M. Night Shyamalan

I don't consider myself a militant person. Generally, I'm pretty laid back and easy going, but there are certain things that raise my dander.

I don't want people to feel like they have to agree with me. I want people who understand the place from which I come. I figure, after yesterday's post about having the courage to be myself, it's time to explain the person I am.

I believe in God. Wholeheartedly. Without a doubt. I believe He exists.

I believe in Jesus Christ. Wholeheartedly. Without a doubt. I believe he died for me.

I believe in the Holy Spirit. Wholeheartedly. Without a doubt. I believe it lives in me, and my life became much easier after I took myself out of the driver's seat and put it in control of my destiny.

I don't believe everyone was meant to believe in God. Or Jesus. Or the Holy Spirit. And I believe that's okay . . . for them. (Remember? Some seed falls on the rocky ground and never sprouts. Some sprouts and little, but it withers under the elements of life. Some seeds blossom and grow and bear much fruit.)
But my dander stands on end when people assume I'm ignorant because I believe in something THEY have not experienced. They can believe I'm ignorant. That's fine. But then they need to be prepared for me to call them arrogant.

Writer JC Lamont posted an interesting video on her blog earlier this week featuring a 28-year-old girl -- Ariane Sherine -- who began an ad campaign in London that has paid for signs on the sides of buses that say: "There's probably no god. Now stop worrying and enjoy your life."

To me, that's an oxymoron. Read on and you'll understand why.

As Sherine explains her impetus for beginning the campaign, she giggles in a condescending manner. Sherine said: ". . .when you visited the Web site, it said among other things that all non-Christians would burn in hell for all eternity in a lake of fire." (giggle, giggle) "I thought that was really quite strong, and that in 2008, these ideas shouldn't be being spread from the side of a bus."

In the video, Richard Dawkins -- well-known atheist, author of "The God Delusion," -- says: "(Christians) got nothing really to stand up for....They take offense; it's the only weapon they've got." And, "Isn't it amazing, if you say the mildest thing against religion it's automatically strident."

In a word, Mr. Dawkins, no. I'm not going to be offended if someone says something bad about religion because religion is undoubtedly the most divisive topic out there.

But one should never be confused by the difference between faith and religion.

Religion was established by man. Faith is the seed with which each human is born, and either it is nurtured or stifled.

For some, myself included, faith is the very core of a person. It's what guides their soul and gives them hope.

When someone tries to take away another person's hope -- especially if it's the only thing they have left -- that's when the condescending attitude of non-believers becomes offensive.

As believers, Christians are encouraged to come to Christ with the innocence of a child. That's who we are, and we don't want to change because it makes us happy.

Jesus told us: "I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it."

Believers nurture the faith that such a place -- the kingdom of God -- exists because "deep down, we feel that whatever's going to happen, there will be someone there to help us. And that fills us with hope."
And to me, Mr. Dawkins, Ms. Sherine, that's a helluva lot to stand up for.

Pedestal

"If you could be any person in the world, who would it be?"

I'd be Kathryn. Or Kat.

But I wouldn't be Kathy.

I know it sounds anal, but I don't like to be called Kathy.

That's what they called me in school. That was the name to which I responded during a portion of my life where I spent way too much time pretending to be someone I was not.

Receiving 12 years of private education was like a lifelong lesson on oxymorons.

While my mentors and teachers encouraged me to be myself, the crowd pulled me to the left and urged me to pursue the definitions of worldly success and popularity.

Never a member of the popular crowd, I learned quickly to suppress the person blossoming inside me.

Luckily, she didn't wither and die. Thankfully, I shed the skin of that phony persona I tried to put forth in order to fit in and let Kathryn live.

I try to stress upon my children the importance of being comfortable with who they are.

So, I worried when my teenager asked this question during lunch the other day: If you could be any person in the world, who would you be? I wondered why she would ask such a question. Was something so terrible about her own life that she dreamed about being someone else?

Who did she want to be? Amy Lee? Demi Lovato? Miley Cyrus? Any girl on TV who gets to do a smoochy scene with Joe Jonas?

It concerned me.

But my concern somewhat paled in delight when my seven-year-old exclaimed: "I know! I know! I'd be me."

I hoped Elizabeth would continue seeing that there is nothing wrong with who she is, and that heroes and idols have a tendency to eventually fall from the pedestal on which we put them.

Before I gave Molly the answer to my question, I turned it back on her to see which direction her thoughts were traveling.

Molly shrugged, smiled and said: "Don't worry, Mom. I'd be me, too. Only I'd have straighter teeth, more money and I'd be famous."

I guess that would be my answer, too.

I'd be me...only better.

An historic blog post

It happened this morning . . .another historic event.

And because of the historic event that took place this morning, this will be an historic post.

Actually, this is a more accurate photo of the "historic" event on which a national news media outlet reported this morning.


The story said more than 30,000 people were urged to leave their flood-endangered western Washington homes as snowmelt and rain swelled rivers and caused mudslides and avalanches that engulfed neighborhoods and roadways.

According to the National Weather Service, warm temps and heavy rains melted the deep snow on the Cascade mountains. Ten inches melted in a 12-hour period at Snoqualmie Pass. Nearly 7 inches of rain fell in one 24-hour period at Marblemount in the Cascade foothills. A record 2.29 inches of rain fell Wednesday at Sea-Tac Airport and a record 4.82 inches at Olympia.

Granted, the forecast in Washington state doesn't really look that cheery at the moment, and certainly many, many dollars will be spent in the recovery effort afterward.

But does that really make the flooding occurring in Washington historic?

Not according to the dictionary.

1. Historic: Having importance in or influence on history.
2. Historic: Historical, of what is important or famous in the past.

So, what makes this flood historic on the national news?

Probably the same thing that made the meeting between Bush and Obama this morning an "historic" moment.
Probably the same thing that made Florida Rep. Cliff Stearns call tonight's match-up between the nation's two top football teams "this historic game."
The same thing that made the tensions between two Sri Lankan communities "historic."
The same thing that made the women's basketball team at Rutgers have an "historic" collapse.
Maybe even the same thing that made 2007 a "historic and troubled" year.

Yes, there are certain events going on right now that probably merit the "historic" label.

Last November gave us an "historic" election with the nod toward the country's first African-American president. As a nation, we will one day look back at this event and say, "Wow! What took so long to realize that a leader's worth is measured by what he does and not what he looks like?"

The economy is giving us an "historic" roller coaster ride with record-low interest rates, record price declines in oil and wild swings in the stock market. As a nation, we will look back on this, swipe our forehead and say, "Phew! Glad we made it through that."

We can -- with some varying degree of accuracy -- foresee the impact these two examples will have on future generations.

Now, it's not my intent to impugne the suffering of the folks who have been chased from their homes because of the Washington state flooding. I definitely feel for them.

But I'm not so sure the "historic" label should be so nonchalantly slapped on every news story that comes down the pipeline.

So, I -- Kathryn Harris, a simple business editor from a daily newspaper in Nebraska -- propose that fellow journalists quit exaggerating the influence current events have on society.

Someday, we just might need those mighty words.