Category Archives: My opinionated opinion

It’s Easter…and I Have a Few Opinions

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Here in Worthington, Minnesota, we have 17 churches that I am aware of. That’s 17 churches for, what, 13,000ish people? Not a bad ratio.

By contrast, I grew up in a town of about 3,000, on an island where there were only two church options: the Catholic/Episcopal church (which shared the premises but never the services) and Orcas Island Community Church (OICC) where everyone who wasn’t Catholic or Episcopalian spent their Sunday mornings.

Oh, and there were several cults/theosophical societies/new age communes as well, but I didn’t know much about them…other than whenever the Polarity Institute kids walked into a room, you knew it. They all smelled like garlic.

Having just three church options meant that there were a lot of different faith backgrounds represented in the congregation at OICC. People couldn’t just drive on over to the next town for church…the ocean was in the way! So, if you wanted to go to a Lutheran church, for example, you had to get in the ferry line for the Red Eye on Sunday morning, wait…and wait…then ride the ferry for an hour and twenty minutes, drive to your church of choice…drive back to the ferry line…wait…and wait…get back on the ferry, etc., etc.

Very few people were willing to do this.

SO…they came to OICC.

I LOVE that I grew up non-denominational. Yes, the church was probably more Baptistic than Lutheran in style, but not until I moved off of the island after 9th grade, did I even know what that meant. I remember facing church choices with my parents when we moved to Bend, Oregon. They were debating the merits of the Nazarene Church, the Baptist Church, the Free Church…and I had no idea what they were talking about. We ended up at a church plant that met in the middle school. Yes, it was non-denominational.

I’m not “dissing” denominations – I attend a denominational church now and I’m quite happy there, but I do want to challenge the notion that FOREVER AND EVER I WILL BE A BAPTIST/LUTHERAN/REFORMER/COVENANTER/METHODIST/WHATEVER. Denominations have their place, but what I care more about is whether or not Christ is preached and whether or not the people in the church are being challenged to grow in their relationship with Jesus.

It’s Easter…and that’s what I’m thinking about. Not cute little bunnies and marshmallow peeps. Not the “Baby Jesus” who is safe and easy to reference. But Christ, in all his bloody glory, giving His life for mine.

Thank you, God, for your indescribable gift. (II Corinthians 9:15)

My Thoughts on a New Library for Nobles County

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I woke up from my afternoon nap on Sunday, and before I’d even gotten off of the couch, I was struck by something I’d contemplated before: the fact that I, at the newly-minted age of 43, have turned into my mother.

At least a little bit.

I distinctly remember thinking, thirty some years ago – as I watched my parents go off to their Sunday afternoon naps – “They are the craziest people ever. Who on earth would want to sleep Sunday afternoon away?”

Boy, do I understand now.

There are other ways in which I resemble my mother.

I am outspoken about things I care about.

I will never forget my mom’s frustrations with the school board. I didn’t know then – and I still don’t know now – what her exact beef was with the board, I just remember that whatever it was bothered her enough that she couldn’t keep quiet about it.

She had to speak up. She had to do what she could to make them change their minds.

Well, fast-forward a few decades and here I am: trying to convince a governing board to see things my way. Only this time it’s not the school board and this time it’s not my mother: it’s me.

On Tuesday morning, as the sun broke through the fog on a chilly Minnesota January morning, I stood – okay, sat – before the newly-sworn-in board of Nobles County Commissioners and presented my thoughts on the question of a new library for our county.

The fact that I like books ought to be clear to anyone who knows anything about me. The truth is, however, libraries today are about so much more than shelves full of books. They’re about information. They’re about computers. They’re about help and and tax forms and service and English as a Second Language. They’re about children, and story time and Easter egg hunts. They’re about teenagers fitting into society. They’re about book clubs and poetry readings and yoga. They’re about community.

I didn’t use those exact words before the board – perhaps I ought to have – instead I told a couple stories, as I am want to do – and I threw in a few facts, and I shared my Most Surreal Moment of my Life tale – always a favorite of mine. I came before the board as the chair of the Friends of the Library, but really I spoke to them just as little old me, nothing fancy. Mostly I just wanted to say something worth hearing. Something that wasn’t a waste of time. Something that made my point.

And what was my point? That we need a new library building in our county and we’d like the county to build it. We have out-grown our space, and, with 350-400 people (on average) using our facility every day, we have out-grown our building which is, by the way, older than I am.

I – and all of our supporters who were present at the board meeting that morning – are pleased with the board’s decision to seriously look into this issue – to nail down the space, size, scope and location – and that they set a realistic date to have this done by, that being April 15th. I want to thank the board for not letting this issue fade away. I did not expect the Capital Improvement Plan to be approved on Tuesday, the first day in office for 3/5ths of the county board. Who would approve a multi-million dollar building project on their first day in office?

I am exceedingly glad, therefore, that the board did not sweep the issue under the rug and for that I thank them. I am confident that when the April deadline comes along they will look at the information fairly and logically and make a wise decision.

What can we do while the county and the library folks get their ducks in order? We can begin by giving money to the Nobles County Library Foundation, established under the Worthington Area Foundation. This will show the county that people are serious about wanting this library and that they are willing to pony up to do so. This is the largest fund raising goal that the Worthington Area Foundation has ever committed to, and we are very excited to see how it goes!

If you’re interested, checks may be brought directly to the library and made out to “NCL Foundation”, or they can be mailed to:

Worthington Area Foundation
P.O. Box 373
Worthington, MN 56187
(507) 372-2919

Thanks, everyone. Here’s to a new library in our county!

The Great Hair Dilemma

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My hair is falling out, my chin is breaking out, and my mind is freaking out, all over one ginormous decision: to color or not to color?

That’s right: I’m going gray. At 42 years old my temples are threatening to turn me into the Bride of Frankenstein. 

And I am not a Science Fiction fan.  (Well…Star Wars doesn’t count in my book. It’s like Sci Fi for lightweights.)

See, the problem is three-fold.

One: to dye my hair would be to go against everything I’ve always said. I always swore I wouldn’t color my hair. “Just go with it. Don’t hide who you are. Be real.”

Enough of that hippy mumbo-jumbo. I look older than my husband.

Okay, I am older than my husband.

But I look really older than my husband. And that’s just not right.

Two: I don’t like drawing attention to the way I look. Don’t get me wrong: I like attention. It’s one of my fatal flaws. But what I like is attention for the things I do. Not for the way I look. Why? Because I’m insecure about the way I look.

But enough about that. Let’s not draw attention to THAT anymore.

But my fear, see, is that to color my hair will draw attention to me – and that when people see and comment on my hair, they’ll see and think about the fact that I’m not a slim as I ought to be. They’ll see and think about the fact that I don’t like to wear makeup and that the underside of my upper arms jiggle when I wave goodbye.

NOTE TO SELF: Never wave in front of people who don’t love me.

Me…the summer I met my husband. Back when my hair was long and brown and my arms didn’t jiggle.

And, finally, three: I’m lazy and cheap when it comes to my hair. This means that I don’t want to spend a lot of money on dying my hair because I know I’ll have to keep it up which means I’ll have to make appointments (and I don’t like the telephone) and I’ll have to fuss with it and I’ll have to miss writing time to go to said appointments and I’ll have to sit in the hair salon and listen to people gossiping and smell that perm-scented air and…

Okay…admittedly, my fear of hair salons sounds a little outdated. I mean, do people still perm their hair? But still…I don’t like salons. Again, they make people focus on how I look and that stresses me out.

Okay. I guess I’ve carried on long enough so I’ll shut up now. I just wanted to share my anxiety with you all, my support group.

Wait…I just thought of one other thing to be afraid of concerning my hair. I’m afraid, when it comes right down to it, that if I color my hair I’ll hate it and be stuck with it until it grows out and everyone who sees it will say, “Oh, you did something to your hair” they way they say, “Oh, you got a haircut” but they don’t say that they like said haircut…or they say this: “Oh, you cut your hair. It’s SO much better.”

UGH. I thought that insecurities would leave me when I passed puberty.

I thought zits would, too.

Boy, was I wrong.

The Ugliness of Self-Pity

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I recently experienced a moment of which I am not proud: I felt sorry for myself.

Self-pity is never a pretty thing. It takes our focus off of things that matter…and puts it firmly on our own self-centered selves.

As if we need reminding.

I remember being at a Mother’s Day Brunch years ago with my sister and my mom. The daughters were asked questions secretly about their mothers and given time to think of their answers, then the mothers were asked the same questions aloud to see how well their answers matched. Questions like, “What’s your mother’s favorite meal?” or “Where was your mother born?”

The only question I really remember – and it’s because of Mom’s answer that I remember this event at all – was, “What makes your mother the most angry?” My sister and I knew that Mom had had several issues with a certain local governing board recently, so we both answered, “the school board”, and thought we were quite clever to give such a reply. Everyone laughed at our answer, but then came Mom’s reply: “Self-pity.”

I was approximately 13 years old at the time and I remember thinking, “What on earth is she talking about? Why would self-pity make a person angry?”

Well, years later, I’m not sure that self-pity is the thing that makes me the most angry, but I do know this: I am always very unhappy when I find myself wallowing in its muddy yuck.

Self-pity is an ugly thing. It is not beneficial to anyone. It drags down, blinds, and distracts. It makes a person cross and bitter and lonely.

I was reminded of this recently when I had to miss a “girl’s weekend” away due to minor surgery on my leg. Instead of visiting with my friend, I got to stay home with my leg up while my family went out and played and had fun. I ate something dull and dreadful for dinner while looking at Facebook pictures my husband posted of yummy ethnic foods from various food stands. I saw photos of my kids having fun, knowing that they were enjoying themselves with friends while I sat on the couch watching a movie that was so bad I actually turned it off despite my rule of thumb that once I’ve begun a movie or a book I must finish it to find out how it ends. (I’m always a sucker for a good plot.)

I turned off the awful movie and sat on the couch…and succumbed to introspection. My leg hurt, I was sad and cross and very alone.

Then I remembered the fact that I actually wanted my family to go out and have fun and leave me to rest in quiet and peace.

It was when I realized this that I remembered that nothing lasts forever. My leg would heal. Other weekends would arrive. Other opportunities arrise.

I have seen too many people whose lives have been controlled by self-pity. Too many people who blame the world for their problems, taking none of the blame for themselves.

I am far from perfect. But at least I have learned this: If I focus on, “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–” (Philippians 4:8) then I will be happy.

If I focus on myself, I will be extremely UNhappy.

Choose the good.

Always.

Yes, It’s Worth It

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I have been asked several times over the past two and a half months, whether being in a production like The Music Man is worth my time and energy. Is it worth essentially giving up a summer? Is it worth the lost sleep, energy, and time?

The answer, without a doubt, is “yes”.

Yes, it’s like having an unpaid job. Yes, it drains you. Yes, it requires more brain power than I sometimes have at my disposal.

But it’s worth it.

It’s worth it because I get to see my husband shine on stage. I get to listen to people’s comments in the receiving line after the show and I can’t help but grin. I get to see him, hear him, watch him be Harold Hill. And, in real life, I’m his Marian.

“Mrs. Squires” doesn’t get to kiss “Harold Hill” in the play so I took advantage of an opportunity in the wings.

It’s worth it because I get to see our three kids blossom. I get to hear compliments from our director and other actors, and see them grow and mature. What more can a mom ask for?

Yes, it’s worth it.

I know that time is a precious commodity. One of the most valuable around. It’s easy to quantify time: you simply add up the minutes and find a total. Even I, a mathematical dunce, can do that math. It is far less easy, of course, to quantify quality time, to determine, without question, whether the time you spent was worthwhile…or wasted, was well-spent…or lost moments of your life you’ll never get back again.

I am compelled to tell you today that the time I spent this summer rehearsing, thinking about, and performing in The Music Man has been, unequivocally, time that I not only will get back again – in memories and smiles and nostalgia – but also time that I am delighted to have spent.

Yes, I have had my doubts. When I’m crabby and grumpy and the production seems to be controlling my life. When the “trouble with a capital ‘T’” seems all too apropos. But then we’ll be driving into town with the family and someone says something and suddenly we’re singing “Wells Fargo Wagon” at the top of our lungs and we can’t stop laughing. And then along comes dress rehearsal week and we see everything come together and suddenly we’re in this living, thriving thing that we helped create…and it’s vibrant and funny and thrilling!

Yes, it is exhausting. I am sleeping too long in the morning, and going to bed too late at night. I have bags under my eyes and my hair is all weird from the vast amounts of hairspray I’m using. My kids are tired, too, and I don’t know how on earth they’re going to be back on the right schedules by the time school begins in two weeks.

BUT IT’S WORTH IT.

The whole family!

It’s worth it because my whole family is together, every night, having fun at the auditorium. It’s worth it because we’re working on a project, perfecting it, experiencing it, making it happen together. We’re making friends, deepening relationships, learning, expanding our horizons, getting out of our “box” together.

Our kids are getting to know other kids, but they’re also getting to know teenagers and adults who are kind to them, helpful to them, encouraging to them. They’re getting to see their dad goof around, work hard, and excel. They’re getting to see cast-mates mess up and learning that it’s okay to not be perfect. They’re learning to look out for each other but not to be bossy.

They’re learning to work together – sometimes with people vastly different from themselves – and to do so with dignity and respect.

They’re learning, I hope, to love a little more, listen a little closer, be patient a little longer.

Yes. It’s worth it. A million times over.

So please, come to see The Music Man at the Memorial Auditorium this coming Friday, Saturday or Sunday. Support family-friendly events like this in our community by attending. And THANK YOU so much to those businesses and individuals who have supported the production with your generous donations.

And please, think about participating in such an event in the future with your family.

Because, in spite of everything, it’s worth it.

Deep Thoughts of a Grecian Urn

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When I was small I would stand in front of the mirror along about Academy Award season, and practice giving my acceptance speech with a hairbrush as my microphone. I would thank everyone – my parents, my stuffed animals, my best friend, God – in a speech that went far beyond the thirty-second allotment.

I loved acting back then. In fourth grade I was the wicked fairy “Malificent” in Sleeping Beauty – which was a hoot, even though I had to get someone else to do my death scream. I could cackle evilly…but for some reason I could not scream. I performed in The Nutcracker a couple of years – once as the Mouseking himself (not sure why I got that part…perhaps because none of the boys wanted to wear tights?), and in 8th grade I took a turn in a video my youth group made after which someone said, “I didn’t know you were such a ham!” I basked in that praise for many a long day.

My mom tells me that, “You were the sweetest Malificent I ever saw.” Not exactly the review I was looking for.

It is to my great sorrow that I have no permanent record of those shows. Just think of the laughs it would bring my children!

My acting opportunities fell away after that, though I did join – and somehow lettered in –Speech and Drama Club my senior year, which was fun.

Then came the acting desert that was my twenties and thirties.

By the time I was forty, acting had become a distant memory – one that I gave zero thought to ever resurrecting. And then along came Beauty and the Beast, here in Worthington, last summer. Our daughter desperately wanted to be a part of the musical and they needed more adults so that the village wouldn’t be populated entirely by orphans, and my acting career was renewed.

And so was my realization that, though I may have practiced my Oscar acceptance speech all those years ago, I am never going to win any awards.

Which is fine.

Now, a year later, I’m looking at opening night of The Music Man, in which I play – as hammed-up as possible – a “Grecian Urn” lady and I hope fervently that our director isn’t disappointed that he cast me in this role.

It’s stressful! Not only do I have to remember stuff – lines, movement, the right shoes with the right costume – but I had to watch my husband shave off his beard for his role, I have to remove my wedding ring, and I have to put up with my husband “kissing” my friend Julie.

I tease about this kissing thing a lot because that’s how I deal with stress. I laugh it off. Truly – though I’m not sure our director believes me – the kissing scene is fine with me. It’s acting. I just can’t not tease about this because I’m incapable of sitting aside with my mouth closed. I like attention so I voice my opinion.

This, according to our director, makes me “high maintenance” as an actress.

The repercussions of this revelation are still resounding through my brain.

Am I “high maintenance” as a wife? As a mother? As a friend? Hmmmm…. I think, like Scarlet O’Hara, I’ll think about that tomorrow.

All I really know is that, with my entire family in the play, it’s a great family bonding thing. It’s also a great way to exercise my acting chops. Or perhaps exorcise, as the case may be, because, after this summer I think I’m ready to retire.

The trouble is, I still have that Oscar speech rolling around in my brain and I’d hate to die without ever giving it.

The truth is, it’s all exceedingly fun (albeit exhausting), but I think that I am finally able to admit to myself that I do better behind a keyboard than behind the footlights.

And, while I may be willing to retire my acting career, I’ll never retire as a writer.

PS – here’s a link to a “sneak peak” video about the performance! http://www.dglobe.com/event/article/id/58930/

Lego My Legos!

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I am not sure that there is a better toy in all creation than Lego. Seriously. And yes, I’m a girl.

I don’t know why it is that Lego is considered a “boy” toy. They are making more “girl” Lego now, and in a way that irritates me. Girls don’t need pink bricks in order to enjoy the full goodness that is Lego!

I also have an issue with the fact that it’s almost impossible to buy just plain Lego bricks. I was talking about this with my pastors the other day. (Yes, Lego is a good topic to talk about with pastors – all theology all the time is overrated.) I don’t want so many kits! I don’t want a kit to make the Millenium Falcon, or a set to create Hogwarts Castle. Just give me a plain old box of bricks. (My son loves the kits, though. He definitely would disagree with me on this!)

What I really wish I could get now is the kind of sets I had when I was a kid. The sets of pure, unadulterated Lego bricks. The four-ways (as we called them), the squares, the three-ways, the precious (and fairly new, back in my day) one-ways. Or the skinny pieces, the fat flat pieces, the shingle pieces.

Or what about the clear pieces? Those were precious because I had so few of them. And I needed them because they made the perfect sliding glass doors for my orphanages. That’s right. I was an orphanage architect. That’s what I did with my Legos. I built orphanages for my Fisher Price people.

You know the ones – the wooden ones that, supposedly, caused babies to choke and were discontinued somewhere in the 90’s. I had a lot of those and they all needed places to live. (Yes, I had the Fisher Price houses and such too, but somehow I always had more people than beds.) The idea of them living all together in a giant orphanage was so appealing to me – they had no adult supervision – and they’d go on crazy adventures all over the hearth bench in front of the living room fireplace.

A couple of my old Fisher Price people. Yes...these guys really were mine!


The bummer about building my creations in the living room, was that, inevitably, mom would tire of the mess and I’d have to take it apart…or, conversely, carry it whole down to my bedroom.

That was a bit of a trick. I loved my orphanages and I didn’t want to dismantle them. So I would attempt to move them. Trouble was, I built them out of every single piece of Lego I owned – and they were huge, sprawling mansions, filled with Lego beds, Lego pottys, and Lego floors, all pieced together like many-splendored quilts.

I would take a few steps down the hallway, and, virtually every time without fail, they would fall apart over the indoor garden.

My grandparents built our house and they put in an actual 6 foot long by 4 foot wide indoor garden – full of dirt and plants – which was flanked on either side by glass and which formed the Grand Canyon, the yawning pit of doom, the Lego magnet, which lay between the living room and my bedroom.

Suffice it to say, it’s not too fun digging Lego out of the dirt. I am quite certain that the current owners of the house would have a fairly good Lego collection if they dug up that dirt, thanks to my broken orphanages.

A very simplified version of my old Lego orphanages - mine had high walls, many rooms, and lots of furniture. They were awesome!


I did have an actual pre-fab set or two of Legos. I had the Coast Guard station, and I had a fork lift that ran on a battery. When I opened that on Christmas morning I thought I’d be the one to put it together. I was wrong. My sister and my dad swiped it and they put it together for me that afternoon. I was slightly put-out and slightly pleased, because it meant I didn’t have to follow all those boring directions.

Because, after all, building orphanages took no directions. It was all up to me. Teetering turrets, sliding glass doors, kitchens and bathrooms and closets – I could do anything I wanted with no directions to limit me.

I still don’t like following directions. That’s why I don’t outline when I write. I need space, man! Don’t tie me down!

I do follow recipes, though, because I’ve learned the hard way that when I wing it in cooking it mostly turns out dreadfully.

I bet if I made a Lego cake, though, it would be awesome.

I Philosophize about Animals

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When we moved to an acreage almost 7 years ago, people often asked us if we planned on getting animals to fill the empty spaces on our land. “Will you have horses?” they’d ask. “Chickens, perhaps? Or goats?”

“Surely,” they’d say, “you’ll have a dog?”

Somehow, in their thinking, animals just belonged on our ten acre patch of Minnesota.

The truth is, I am not really an animal person. It’s not that I don’t like them…it’s just that I know nothing about them. I grew up with a cat – though I can’t remember what happened to her. She had one kitten, one time. That kitten died on my birthday (a tragedy I have blogged about here) but other than that, I had no pets when I was young.

As for animals like horses or goats, there isn’t a chance I’d ever want one. Too much work, too much bother. Does that sound terrible? I don’t mean it to, it’s just that I don’t want the job of raising and/or caring for an animal…and if I don’t want it, surely it shouldn’t be foisted upon me, right? No one wants an unwilling mother.

And what if that animal got sick? I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do and I’m afraid that it would die all because I was too clueless to know how to help it and I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life that I killed the poor innocent sheep (or whatever) because I was too dumb to know what to do for it.

That just doesn’t sound like fun to me.

When I had children, I learned that I am actually a very selfish creature. Yes, I got up in the middle of the night time after time…and for my babies I was willing to do that…but for an animal, I am not. I am not cut out for feeding lambs three times a night or sitting by the side of a pregnant cow.

Real food for the first time is kind of messy!


Some people are made for the animal life. I respect, love, and appreciate these people. I pet their dogs. I admire their hedgehogs. I truly am impressed by their commitment.

Heck, I even drink the milk from their cows.

But there are other people who aren’t cut out for animal husbandry. And, quite frankly, I think the animals are better off without me.

All this being said, I absolutely love the look of chickens pecking around in my neighbor’s front yard. I love ducks strutting across the landscape, and the idea of fresh eggs.

I just don’t want to have to take care of them.

So, the answer to the question of whether or not we’ll have animals on our acreage is an unequivocal “no”. We have a cat. The neighbor Tom came over for a visit, and she now has kittens which we all love and know how to care for. That makes me happy and content.

I’m even enjoying taking cute kitten photos.

But that’s enough for this girl.

The moral of the story:
You can take a girl to the country. But you can’t force her into 4-H.

Intrepid explorer.




The Things We Say

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There are times I need to keep my mouth shut. Times I have said things I have immediately regretted. I’ve even written things – things I’ve not taken the time to contemplate enough – that I’ve wished I had not written. And I don’t mean just badly written things…but things I just plain would never have said/written, had I considered all the possible ramifications.

Yes, I tend towards a big mouth and I need to work on self-control.

I’ve been contemplating things people say lately. Trite, pat, cliché things. Like the phrase, “Stop by any time”. I have used this phrase before. I have used it and not meant it.

But I have also used it and truly meant it.

Or what about, “Call me any time – day or night!”

I have also used this phrase and, I think, truly meant it.

But what would I do if they really stopped by when I was in the middle of a nap? Or of cooking dinner – a dinner that can’t be walked away from? Or if I was giving my daughter a bath? Or worse yet, writing?!!

Would I be as excited to entertain them then?

Or what if they called at 3:00 in the morning? Would I really be as excited to chat?

Or what if I did these things to someone else? What might a friend’s reaction be if I phoned at 6:30 a.m., when they’re in the mad morning dash?

I read something that someone posted on Facebook a few months ago. And the thing I read made me worry. Made me think that they were seriously debating the worthwhileness of continuing living.

So I sent her a private message. I said, “I don’t know what you’re going through, but I’m here if you need to talk – anytime – day or night – I mean it.” I gave her my phone number, and I prayed.

The next day, after zero response to my message, she wrote on her public wall, “Some people really overreact.”

I went back to the private message and I wrote, “If I’m the one who overreacted, I’d far rather be accused of that than of ignoring a hurting friend.” And I left it at that.

She has never responded, and yet it doesn’t matter. I wanted her to know that when I say, “Call me anytime”, I mean it. I wanted her to know that, should she ever find herself at the end of her rope, unable to hang on any longer, I’m here for her.

And even if she stopped by when I’m in the middle of dinner, that’s okay. I’ll ask her in and hand her a plate.

Because that’s what you do when someone needs you. Even if your house is a mess. Even if dinner burns, even if it’s the middle of the night and you’re exhausted.

The things you say ought to mean something.

There are so many times I’ve said things I regret. But offering help has never been one of those times.