And so it begins...

{i just want the shot}

When I was a little girl, I had strep throat several times a year. I always knew when it was strep because the symptoms were always the same. I would be sick to my stomach, and then a few hours later my throat would be hurting so much I could hardly swallow. But my doctor wasn't one who would just prescribe medicine (for which I am thankful), so mom would take me in for a visit.

I would sit on the table, he would put two sticks in my mouth, I would gag, sometimes he would have to try again, and after having a stick jabbed in the back of my throat, the pain would be even worse than before. He would say yes it is strep again and would then write me a prescription and tell me to drink lots of fluids.

Mom would take me home and immediately give me my first spoonful of that nasty, pink, chalky medicine. Three times a day, she would give it to me.

Three times a day it was a struggle.

I remember sitting on the bathroom counter holding a teaspoon full of medicine, mom having given up and left long ago. And I just sat there.

For an extraordinarily long time...

...My arm got tired of holding the spoon perfectly still...

...But take the medicine I could not.

(Even now, I'm gagging just looking at the picture.)

I knew all the benefits of swallowing that little bit of pink. I knew it would make me feel better. I knew I needed to be obedient. I knew I would stay sick if I didn't take it. I knew I could get worse and be hospitalized if I didn't take it.

In my brain, it was so easy.

But sometimes my brain could not make my teeth unclench or my hand move the spoon to my mouth.

Today I found a new medicine. It's called 12-page paper, and I cannot make myself write it.

I know it has to be done. No one else can do it, and it is only for myself that it needs to be completed. I know the benefits of writing it. I know the consequences of not. I know it's just 12 pages - no big deal.

But I have hit a wall, and I can't get around it.

My brain says, "Write. Swallow this pink stuff."

My body says no, I absolutely will not.

It's a strange, uncontrollable feeling. Never have I felt this way about anything...

...except penicillin.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

I wish I could go get a shot in my rump and call it good.

. . . Pumpkin by the Door . . .

Last weekend, my mom and dad came to see me! It was a gorgeous autumn afternoon, and we had so much fun just bumming around town for a few hours. It isn't often that I get them to myself, so I soaked up the attention.

Because we both love fall so very much, my mom bought me a beautiful and perfect pumpkin to celebrate the season. Dad carefully placed it outside my door so when I pull into the parking lot I have a happy hello.




Sunday evening, I opened my door to head to a birthday party and . . . *gasp*
. . . My beautiful pumpkin had been turned into an ugly stack of phone books!


I immediately knew who had done this* and sent a text to the perpetrator. "Thought for the day: Thou shalt not steal," and received a return, "It was The Great Pumpkin Snatcher." Knowing the prank would eventually be reversed, I went to my party and thought nothing else of it.

Upon my return home, the phone books reminded me of the prank. Little did I know that a seemingly innocent prank was about to turn much . . .

much . . .

darker.


My racing heart jumped into my throat . . .


Unable to bear the shock, I quickly entered my home and locked myself in. How could anyone do such a thing?

I know evil exists. But never did I expect such a horrific event to happen to me.

No one ever does.

Pumpkinnapping . . . Ransom.**

These words were unfamiliar on my tongue.


Reality sank in.

My beautiful pumpkin, so perfect and happy just hours before, had been snatched.

I removed the note from my door, careful to preserve as much evidence as possible. In my kitchen, I dusted it for fingerprints and noted the athletic tape the Snatcher had used.


Convinced I had gathered as much evidence an amateur could, I did the only thing else I knew to do.

I complied with the Snatcher's demands.


The Lord truly is good, and He knows what we have need of before we even do. One week before the snatching, I had been craving homemade chocolate chip cookies. I made a batch, which I had not done in many months ~ possibly a year. Unable to eat the entire batch, I put some in the freezer. I believe this was the Lord's prompting, for without it . . .

But I must not think of that.


I knew I had to write a return note, and I sat out to do so. Somehow through my anger and grief, I captured the words that needed to be said.

(click to enlarge)

Early the next morning, I arose to make the drop.



My pumpkin was not returned that day. Never trust a thief.


With further negotiation, however, my pumpkin was returned safely to my doormat the following day.

Welcome home, sweet pumpkin. I love you.

*Every once in a while, phone books show up at our apartment complex. Two or three months ago, we had a massive phonebooking. We each had a thick Tulsa book at our doors one day, and a few days later we each had a smaller phone book on top of the mailboxes. Nobody uses phone books, so the mailbox books stayed where they were for a good month. One of my neighbors also still had his thick Tulsa book by his door a month later. These books withstood the rain extraordinarily well. And then one day all the mailbox books were mysteriously gone, stacked neatly in front of Kyle's door . . . All six of them, plus his Tulsa book. It may or may not have been me.

**Please take the time to calculate the value of one cookie.