The Good-As-New Car's Cover

I’m not used to having trees in the yard. Our home in Kentucky was in a fairly new neighborhood, and the trees were little saplings compared to New Orleans trees. The trees in this yard are beyond beautiful. From what I’m told, they are among the first on this street. Their branches tower overhead and make an archway from the driveway, over the walkway, over the porch, to the roof. It is always shady in our front yard. In the back yard where we live, there is a lovely tree that overhangs from the neighbor’s yard providing shade and endless “secret-fort” playtime for the Bug and the Pea. The roots burst up from the ground forming a labyrinth of canals. I love to sit on the covered patio during a rainstorm and watch the showers of water cascade down the branches onto the roots below, creating muddy puddles. (Also a favorite moment for the kiddos, dancing in the rain under the tree branches. Spinning circles with their arms outstretched until they collapse into the wet grass, dizzy and giggling.)
We’re also fond of watching the wildlife. Mourning doves, and other birds perch on boughs overhead. Lizards scurry along the picket fence beneath the trees. Squirrels jet up and down the tree trunks, using branches as bridges from one tree to the next.
I park my car under the shade of the tree arch, in the driveway. The creatures of the air are especially fond of my automobile. They show their appreciation by pooping on the windshield, the car’s “sky light,” and the hood. Sometimes, an especially clever bird will figure out how to deliver droppings down the passenger and driver side windows. I realize they can’t help it. (Or can they?) Nevertheless, my white car is splattered with bird poopy on a fairly regular basis. The kids take great joy in this fact. They know it means we’ll visit the gas station often to use the windshield cleaner scraper tool. You would not believe the zeal shown by the girls as they wield the squeegee, dip it in water, splash it on the windshield and scrape away the birdie doo-doo.
Nevertheless, it was time to hit the car wash for some heavy duty scrubbing. I was running some errands and I happened to see a fellow holding a sign that said: Car Wash $20. I usually run the car through the automatic car wash, so $20 was a bit steeper than usual. But, what the hey? My poor car was in dire straights. The gentleman took one look at my car and tried not to faint from pure mortification. “What I’d suggest,” he began as he walked around the car, “is The Works.” Now THAT sounded like a plan. Unfortunately, I was informed that said “Works” cost $400. I tried not to laugh in the poor gentleman’s face. How was he to know I just spent well over a thousand dollars repairing my poor 1998 vehicle?
I put on a straight face and asked for something more in the “Let’s just get off the baked-on bird poop” category. He talked me up to a carpet shampoo and a car wash, and we both felt satisfied with the arrangement. I handed him the keys and stepped inside to await the finished product. The husband called and I told him he was going to see a Good As New Car when he came home. He suggested I purchase an inexpensive cover to keep said Good As New Car, well, good as new. A little preventative measure to preserve the cleanliness.
The fellows worked like dogs in the hot sun scrubbing and vacuuming and wiping down the windows on my car. It felt wonderful to drive off in a car that was actually white and not splattered with dirt, dust, and do-do. In fact, I felt so confident I drove straight to pick up a car cover and then back home in time to meet the kids at the bus stop.
The Bug and the Pea immediately noticed the Good As New Car. I imagine this was because their feet didn’t actually stick to the floor mats and their hineys weren’t surrounded by crumbs and wadded up pieces of paper in the back seat. We ran some errands together, and grabbed some Chik-fil-a nuggets on the ride home. The Bug was “starving” after her school day, and couldn’t wait until we got home to tear open the box of nuggets. (Breaded processed chicken products dipped in a sugary and/or mustard sauce = heaven in the Bug’s world.) She opened her favorite bright red Polynesian dipping sauce and began her meal. As we were pulling into the driveway, she squeals, “Mama! I spilt the whole package of sauce down the seat and on the floor! I don’t have enough napkins to clean it all up!”
Needless to say, I spent the next few minutes re-cleaning my Good As New Car. Scrubbing floor mats as the Bug sprayed cleaner on the seats and wiped with paper towels. As we concluded our job, and headed under the archway toward the front door we both heard the SPLAT. I turned around in time to see bird poopy cascading down the windshield. A christening of sorts. And I continued to head inside in search of the newly purchased car cover…

The Yellow Bus O' Mercy...

It’s truly the most wonderful time of the year. Back to school. Sending two cute, but ornery, little cherubs back to the hallowed halls of learning. The time in which my sanity begins to return and some semblance of peace and quiet settles upon me. Ah...silence…deep cleansing breath. OK, that wasn’t much of a dramatic re-enactment because the children are actually home as I write this. They have constructed elephant trunks out of pipe-cleaners and are tromping through the house in search of peanuts. I must say, for two relatively small children, they do sound a lot like elephants. Now the youngest announces, “Look! I’m training her for the circus!” I watch as the Bug rolls a rather awkward somersault and is rewarded by the Pea with a bowl of pretzels. All righty then. But I digress….
The girls are especially excited about the school bus this year. They are on, and I quote, “The Party Bus!” Complete with speakers in the back, star stickers on the ceiling, tinted windows and, gasp, air conditioning. (I know! Here in New Orleans in August. We weren’t used to air conditioned buses in Kentucky, it’s certainly worthy of writing home about.) Unfortunately, I am informed that the “disco ball” was removed from the bus last year. Oh well, easy come easy go.
The husband was listening to this exchange when he proclaimed in true “grumpy old man” tone: “Well! In my day, the only thing the bus driver carried was a 2 x 4!” This commentary induced immediate questions from the children. Why Daddy? They wanted to know. Why did your bus driver carry a wooden board and not a disco ball? (Which, considering we’re talking about the Stayin’ Alive era of the 1970’s is actually a valid question. HA)
Anyhoooo, my new favorite part of the day is bus arrival time. I deposit two uniform-clad youngsters, laden with lunch boxes and back-packs at our designated neighborhood intersection, i.e. bus stop. (I am reminded of walking with my little brother one block up and one block over to our bus stop when I was in 3rd grade. Too bad I can’t send my babies toting along on their own these days. It was quite a feeling of independence walking to the bus with our classmates/neighbor kiddos.) They squeal when they see a yellow image in the distance. This first week of school bus routes are still being perfected. In other words, the bus has been running uncharacteristically behind. The children are not quite certain that the bus WILL actually be picking them up regularly, and it’s always a surprise when the bus does actually show. On this particular morning, the first squeal revealed only a rather broken down pick-up truck filled with building materials. I was tempted to load the girls up anyway, but decided to wait until the actual school bus arrived.
Once I send the kids packing, I head back to the house and get busy unpacking. I know, I’m like a broken record. But THIS week, THIS WEEK, I tell you, I am going to completely finish the inside of the house and visitors will be able to walk from one end to the other without tripping over moving boxes and piles of junk. Good Will has become my new best friend. I know the drill. Pull up, unload, put beside the counter, take a pre-printed receipt, mark my zip code, head back to the house for a second load.
In the afternoon, at the allotted time, I head to the bus stop to pick up the returning cherubs. I watch as they bounce off the bus, wave to their friends, figure out that the bus driver is signaling them to MOVE out of the middle of the street and find me. “You’re not going to recognize the office!” I say excitedly. I’m all about affirmation, and there’s nothing like hearing a compliment to reaffirm my hard work. We walk into the house, the kids head to the office, and announce, “Gosh Mom. It looks exactly the same as when we left this morning.” WOW. I got nothing. I have sweated, toiled, lifted, sorted, unpacked, organized for 7 consecutive hours. I mean, this morning human beings could not physically fit into the office, and now it is organized such that my OCD self does not immediately begin to hyperventilate at the mere sight. Oh well. Perhaps the husband will notice.
If he can get past the little elephant being trained for the circus with the bowl o’ pretzels. And I’ll begin to count the moments until that bright yellow Bus of Mercy comes to pick up my two legged animals tomorrow morning...

Top 10 Reasons My Life Is Still In Boxes

Top Ten Reasons Why My Life Is Still In Boxes
On The One Month Anniversary Of Our Move-In DateWhen one moves into a house half the size of one’s previous home, it becomes necessary to do some massive purging in order to, well, fit. And thankfully, the old adage, “out of sight, out of mind” is true. Aside from 2 car loads of clothing we brought to New Orleans, we haven’t seen, or really thought much about our earthly possessions for 7 months. The bottom line is: we just don’t NEED so much stuff. Furthermore, over my dead body are we going to PAY to store said stuff “off location.” Which leads to my executive decision: Most Must Go. I keep repeating this to myself as scissors slice through the packing tape.
However, when one is a bit of a pack-rat herself, and when one lives with 3 additional pack-rats, it becomes essential to sort and dispose/donate/organize alone. Otherwise, hearts are broken.
“MOM! I can’t believe you threw away the Easter basket made out of a plastic milk jug that I created when I was a Green Frog in Pre-School! I know it was torn up, and most of the plastic Easter grass was gone and a juice box leaked in it and a piece of chewing gum was stuck to the bottom, but I was looking through the trash and I FOUND it! I am going to put this on my dresser and never speak to you again!”
So, forging ahead, my plan has been to find three containers and place them in front of me as I sort. KEEP, TRASH, and DONATE. For example, framed college diploma – KEEP. Torn magazine from 2008 – TRASH. Two Piece Swimsuit circa college years – DONATE.
Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to accomplish nearly as much as I had hoped to accomplish by this point. In fact, today is the one month anniversary of our Move-In-Date, and the house looks even more cluttered than when we arrived. (A fact that overwhelms my OCD brain and threatens to throw me into shut-down mode.)
Anyhooooooo, I am full of excuses. But here are the Top Ten Reasons My Life Is Still In Boxes:

10. When flushing the potty in the master bathroom, water seeped out from the bottom of the toilet flooding the tiles while gross gunk simultaneously shot up from the drain in the kids’ bath tub. Apparently, sewer lines “busting” under the cement slab is not uncommon in the area.
9. It’s particularly challenging to pack up bits of what you’ve recently unpacked to stay at a hotel in order to have access to a working shower and toilet. (And hard to unpack boxes when you are not actually in your home at the time.)
8. Even more difficult to find an unbooked hotel room at the last minute the Friday evening before a holiday weekend when said sewer line busted. Upon which it becomes necessary to switch places a time or two and become familiar with pull-out cots throughout our “Fourth of July Stay-cation”.
7. Challenging to watch the diggers place a pile of dirt as tall as the single-car garage entrance in front of said garage entrance (and thereby kissing goodbye any hope of opening the garage in the near future) where I had been sorting through ceiling high stacks of boxes and “hiding” a large Good Will stash from the kiddos.
6. It’s difficult to balance fun activities (hitting the zoo, aquarium, insectariums, park, movies) with the time needed to organize at home and still maintain semi-sane children (and Mom) during Summer Break.
5. It’s also difficult to unpack when children are on said Summer Break and decide to reside underfoot and make commentary while I attempt to sort (and subsequently trip over them).
4. It’s a challenge to leave the house and drive to Mickey D’s every time one of us needs a Potty Break.
3. While attempting to save some money after a lot of “eating out” during our hotel “stay-cation,” I decide to pop a frozen pizza in the oven at the house. Turns out the oven is broken. It’s difficult to phone your new landlady and make her aware of this most recent situation. Especially when said oven is a special size circa 1950 that will need to be special ordered.
2. It’s a challenge to unpack when I must prevent two little girls from clawing each other’s eyes out while in a confined space. Especially when one introverted child prefers reading alone while one extraverted child wants to play together at all times.
And the number one reason why my life is still in boxes on this one month anniversary of our move-in date is:
1. The Bug and The Pea don’t believe me when I say “unpacking” is our great Summer Adventure of 2011, especially when 2010’s adventure included traveling to Europe.


Anyhoooooo, for the moment the children are playing peacefully together. On our patio, a large box undergoes a metamorphosis in which it becomes a fleur-de-lis/striped rocket ship. And while the Bug and the Pea use their imagination to journey on a great Summer Adventure of 2011 in outer space, I shall head back to work. Unpacking, sorting, piling up donations so that we will once again have some space in which to live.

In Which I Become A More Than Middle Aged Mom

So the school year is wrapping up, and I find myself a middle aged woman. Well, OLDER than middle aged, according to the Pea during a recent car ride, “Mom, you’re not middle aged. Middle aged is 30, you’re way older than that.” Fortunately for the child, I was behind the wheel of an automobile at the time. As such, I was forced to remain responsible and keep driving forward with my eyes on the road and not, say, boring a hole into her head with “THE LOOK.” But I digress.
When the children relay their activities, I find myself saying, “Really? Well, in MY day…” (I’m serious, I truly catch myself saying that, and feeling as if I’m a grumpy old man complaining about having to walk uphill both ways, to school.) This week, my 9 year old dissected a frog. “Really? Well, in MY day we were sophomores in high school before we ever dissected a frog!” The Bug rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s not like we weren’t prepared Mom. I mean, we did a virtual frog dissection last Monday on our IPad. “Really? Well, in MY day we didn’t even imagine there would be such a thing as a personal computer!”
Anyhooo, in the interest of parental involvement, I volunteered to help supervise the whole “Frog Dissection” event. For anyone who knows me, this is a BIG deal. I don’t do blood. (See any of my previous blog posts, preferably August 2009’s “I Vant Yore Blood.”) However, I remembered from my sophomore year, oh so long ago, there isn’t any blood in a frog dissection. Lots of stinky formaldehyde, but no oozing blood. I felt sure I’d be a fine example for my child, who worried she’d feel too queasy to participate. “Oh, you’ll love it!” I gushed, “It’s so fascinating!” (In the interest of full disclosure, dear reader, you should be aware I uttered this encouragement in the dark while kissing the Bug goodnight, and she could not actually see my expression of terror).
I strolled into the classroom full of confidence. I put on protective gloves, I assisted the kids with their protective goggles, I even donned a lab coat. (Oh yeah, just how I roll.) I was fine handing out trays, I was fine handing out scalpels, and scissors. I was fine viewing the bag o’ frogs. (Literally, a ginormous zip-lock-ish bag full of dead frogs in a pool of chemical preservatives.) I developed a series of strategies, back up plans, as it were, should nausea enter the scene. First, I would look directly into my daughter’s eyes, and only into her eyes, when encouraging. Second, I would record the event with snapshots. Snapshots taken by holding the camera above my kid’s head and pointing only the lens down toward the frog. If all else failed, I would look across the room and pretend to be receiving further instructions from the teacher.
The little Bug sliced the frog’s skin down the middle of the torso, and pulled apart the sections. “LOOK MOM! There’s the heart! And the intestines!”
I look my daughter in the eyes, “Excellent! What’s next?”
“Mom, come closer, you’re standing too far away. Touch the frog!”
I excuse myself to the hallway and “help” some children get a drink of water. I chat with the passing teachers, parents, students, maintenance workers, basically any and all unlucky souls wandering by me on the third floor.
My gloved, goggled Bug peeks out the doorway, “MOM! You’re missing EVERYTHING!”
I slunk back inside the room, “How about some photographs of my little surgeon in training?”
“Take pictures of this heart,” tweezers with said heart shoved toward camera lens, “and the liver, and the stomach, and the intestines!” It would have been a miracle if anything was captured on film as my eyes were fixed on the ceiling. I figured it was about time to wrap things up. I went ahead and removed my gloves, my lab coat, tried to find my car keys.
“MOM! I did it! I got the brain out!” shouts my enraptured daughter. Tweezers in air, grasping tight to the frog’s membrane. Oh joy. I excused myself once again to the hall to “help” children get a drink of water.
Sure, the teachers saw right through me, as did the other parents present. But that’s OK. My little Bug knew I was there to support new endeavors. Baby steps in an honest effort to help my baby. To cheer as she explores where she will fit in when she grows up. Her role, contributing to human kind. Perhaps in a profession so very distant from what I would have ever attempted to accomplish. My little one, who is rapidly becoming more of a brain surgeon than a baby girl.
And maybe one afternoon, when my grown daughter instructs a class regarding the genetic intricacies of chromosomes, she’ll catch herself saying, “Really? Well, in my day, we performed lab work on frogs! And look how far we’ve come….”

Charter Members of The NONO Club

A week ago today, a group of Kentucky friends descended upon the great city of New Orleans. For the following four days, the eleven of us were Total Tourists. (Particularly my children, who could not be persuaded to remove their Minnie Mouse hats, tie-dyed T-shirts, tube socks and tennis shoes.) I’m talking cameras, backpacks, the works. We rode in a wagon behind Sugar Daddy the Horse touring the French Quarter. (“Mama, what’s a Sugar Daddy?”) We swallowed chargrilled oysters at Acme, muffelatas at Central Grocery, crab cheesecake at Palace Cafe. We climbed Oaks at City Park, fed alligators on a Swamp Tour, danced on Royal to Smoking Time Jazz Club. We strolled Audobon Park, rode the Street Car, ate King Cake at Mardi Gras World. We devoured in excess of 40 powdered sugar covered beignets at Café DuMonde. We even let the kids buy balloon animals from Checkers the Clown on Jackson Square. (A treat we’d previously refused the Bug and the Pea so many times, they dared not ask with company in town.)
“Where are you from?” asked Checkers.
“KENTUCKY!” the audience answered, in unison.
“Well, she’s from here,” added my friend, M.H.R., pointing toward me. Checkers raised an eyebrow.
“But I just moved here! I’m practically a tourist too.” I spoke in my defense. (Checkers answered, “Geez, well I’m from Nancy, that’s my Mom.”)
In retrospect, my reply must have appeared I was denying ties with New Orleans. Quite the opposite! I merely desired to be respectful. Being “from” New Orleans is nothing short of a badge of honor. A badge proudly worn by natives. Although I’ve established residency here, I cannot accurately claim I am “from” here. This local/native conundrum is a fascinating thought to ponder.
Before the move, I conferred with another NOLA transplant, L.G. on the phone. A sweet gal who grew up within an hour’s drive of where I lived in Kentucky. She told me how she’d been living in New Orleans over half her life, and how she hoped she would never leave. Her genuine love for the city was, and is, contagious. In fact, I’m quite sure the story of her son upon the shoulders of her husband during a Mardi Gras parade “sealed the deal” as far as my vote to go ahead with our family’s move. Yet, she wasn’t pulling any punches, she vividly described two hurricane evacuations. The first, during Katrina, with her infant daughter in tow. The second, during Gustav, nine months pregnant with her son, scheduled to deliver any moment. She made it safely to Baton Rouge, where her son was born.
“So,” she concluded, “Our daughter is the only one of us who is a native New Orleanean.”
“But, your son has lived here all his life, and you guys have lived here most of your life,” I said.
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.”
“But then you came right back to New Orleans,” I stated. (I mean SERIOUSLY, we’re just talking a matter of days or weeks, right?)
“True, but he was born in Baton Rouge.” Sweet, sweet L.G. persisted.
I had to smile, and still do when I remember our seemingly nonsensical circular debate. I smile now, because I UNDERSTAND. I see exactly what she means. Around here, if you were born in New Orleans… specifically the Orleans Parish… only then may you claim “native” status. Otherwise, you are welcome to love and adore the city, but you ain’t native, that’s for darn sure. (“Who’s your Mom? Where did you go to school? No, not college, high school?”)
This afternoon I strolled along the Mississippi, listening to live jazz musicians and enjoying my first Spinach & Crawfish Boat. I was speaking with a new friend, whom I had just been introduced to. He pointed out all of the “must see” events within The French Quarter Festival. (Or perhaps I should say, the “must eat” stations, as he was quite the Sensei when it came to selecting culinary extravaganzas, but I digress.) He had been to the festival each year since it’s conception, and multitudes of different festivals before that, dating back to when he was a child.
“Oh, you must be a native!” I exclaimed.
“No, no, I was born about 45 minutes away from New Orleans. But I always wanted to live here. So after college, I went to graduate school here, and then moved. But, I’m not from here,” he corrected.
I mentioned I found the conundrum fascinating. He replied we ought to start a support group. For folks like us, transplanted to the Crescent City at some point after birth (and often after high school…gasp). For folks who fell head over heels in love with everything that is New Orleans…the food, the music, the people, the spirit…and desire to claim the city as their own. A kind of club, for those Not Of New Orleans.
The NONO Club. And we could be the charter members.
So the next time I find myself in the French Quarter, (dusting off excess powdered sugar from the Mardi Gras beads dangling around my neck as I stow away my camera in a fanny-pack so I can flag down Sugar Daddy for a tour) I’ll look up ol’ Checkers the Clown.
And when he asks where I’m from, I will proudly reply: “I’m from Cindy, she’s my Mom.”

Duct Tape, Name Tags & Restroom Stalls...

There is no doubt in my mind a mere fraction of this story is credible, however it made for interesting conversation during this morning’s drive to elementary school:

Me: Where’s your ID badge?
Pea: In the basket at school.
Me: That’s a good idea, then the badges can stay fresh for the next day.
Pea: But they DON'T! Because there’s this boy who takes scissors and cuts them all in half.
Bug: (a.k.a. my innocent and gullible child) No! How does he do that?
Pea: In the restroom. In the second stall, the one without the lock.
Bug: The stall with all the…bad words... written in pencil?
Pea: Yes, he writes the bad words on the wall everyday and then cuts up name tags!
Bug: Do you have to glue your badge back together?
Pea: (And my little Kentucky girl shines through…) We just use duck tape.
Bug: What color duck tape, the black color or the gray color.
Pea: Gray. Everyone’s ID badge is taped together with gray duck tape and put in a basket.
Bug: I saw D word and the S word in the bathroom!
Me: (Slight panic, but remaining silent to encourage conversation, as the two have forgotten I am in the car at all, let alone driving.)
Pea: Did you see the F word? (shrinks to a whisper) F-U-N-K-Y.
Bug: Funky? Why is that a bad word?
Pea: BECAUSE.
Bug: Well, it’s not as bad as the D word (shrinks to a whisper) You know, D-U-M-B. Or the S word (whisper) S-T-U…I’m not even going to say the rest!
Pea: At least the kid who wrote it gets detention every single day. He has to sit in the classroom. But the bad thing is, he sits near the BASKET.
Bug: The basket of name badges!
Pea: Yes. And it will only be a matter of time before he finds more scissors and starts cutting them in half again!
Bug: (gasp) Maybe this time you can use a different color of duck tape to fix them.

The Writing On The Wall

“If we are thrown into the blazing furnace, the God we serve is able to save us from it, and he will RESCUE us from your hand, O King. But EVEN IF HE DOES NOT, we want you to know, O King, that we will not serve your gods or worship the image of gold you have set up.”
Daniel 3:17From what I’ve been told, one cannot possibly be rescued until one completely gives up. Not give up hope, but rather give up self-effort to save one’s self. My brother spent several summers as a youth camp counselor. He was trained as a lifeguard, among other supervisor and survival skills. I was fascinated to learn a struggling swimmer cannot be rescued. If a lifeguard approaches a drowning victim, and that victim is thrashing her arms and legs about in an attempt to save herself, she cannot be rescued. Only at the point when the sinking swimmer stops her own efforts can she be saved. Once she completely surrenders control of herself to the lifeguard, she can be saved from herself, rescued from the abyss.
Parts of Isaiah overlap chronologically with the book of Daniel. As you know, I’ve been into the books of prophecy lately. And Daniel is a particularly mesmerizing character. He interprets dreams, and supernatural writing on the wall of the palace. So I was reading Daniel the other night, it’s a short book, only a few chapters. I was trying to absorb the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, three Jewish men who were chosen to enter King Nebuchadnezzar’s service after the king captured Jerusalem. When the three refused to worship an idol of gold, they were thrown into a fiery furnace. I’ve heard this story a million times, maybe more. But the reply of the three men never really struck me until now. Their trust in the LORD is so powerful, they proclaim: “Our God CAN save us, but even if He chooses NOT TO rescue us, we will worship Him alone, we refuse to worship any false god”. It’s that last part that hit me. The “even if God does not” rescue us part.
I want to have that kind of trust in the LORD. A faith so powerful I recognize the sovereignty of God’s plans over my plans, and worship Him even when He chooses NOT to rescue me according to my request. I want to stop thrashing about, trying to save myself, and surrender to His rescue, even when that rescue appears nothing like a rescue at all. Even when that rescue involves the world crashing down around me and those I love most.
And so I was pondering these things this past week. Where I found myself sobbing uncontrollably in a dark corner of The Happiest Place On Earth while my husband, the Bug and The Pea were waiting in line for a roller coaster. But that is another essay for another time. And I began to feel, (to know?) that God was not going to deliver me according to my wishes, my pleas. He is able to, but this time, He will choose not to. The rescue will come in the form of a peace, a peace regardless of circumstances. And I so desperately desire to trust my sovereign Lord.
We had a late flight home yesterday, so the four of us spent the morning doing some last minute souvenir shopping. All of a sudden the Pea grabbed my hand and shouted, “LOOK MOMMY!” as she pointed toward the sky. I glanced up to see a small jet writing letters with white condensation cast against the blue heavens. We took a seat on a nearby bench and watched as the pilot finished his thoughts, one puffy letter at a time. JESUS LOVES, he wrote. We continued on to lunch, and headed toward the shuttle for our return trip to the airport. As I climbed on the bus, I took one last look back toward what we were leaving, as we returned to our reality. And in the sky I saw my own writing on the wall, quite literally, as the pilot traced another thought: TRUST JESUS.