Howa-Lowa-Ding-Dong

Two reasons mine is the best dog ever:

1. He's amazing with kids.

One day he went to a rummage sale with me and my friend's 1 1/2 year old daughter decided to share her crackers with him. Instead of greedily grabbing the cracker out of the outstretched baby fingers, he gently started to take it with his lips. When the little one surprisingly pulled the cracker away, he sat there waiting for her to give it back. She did and he took a tiny bite. They repeated this for a while - share, nibble, take away - until the cracker was gone. And he never got irritated or grabby!

2. He's ridiculously cute.

I know I'm a little biased, but those big, brown eyes that stare at me as he pokes his furry, little head through the gap in my office chair and rests it on my leg are irresistible! He always crinkles his forehead and perks his black, floppy ears up. It's like he's saying, "C'mon! Let's play!" How can I resist smooshing his little face in my hands and kissing the top of his head??


Even though he's scared of numerous objects (like tripods and squeaky toys) and thinks playing fetch is boring, the way he sits on me when I'm on the ground and wakes me up by tickling my toes far outweighs any quirk he has. These may not be the most important arguments which qualify him for the Best-Dog-Ever award, but in my book he wins - hands down.

Mini Me

"Jackie, why are you carrying that stack of scratch paper all around with you?"

"I'm trying to be professional, like you."


This little, snippet of conversation happened between my little 10-year-old friend and I today. I don't know why, but for some reason she wants to be a receptionist like me when she grows up. She doesn't want to be a movie star (they have too much drama) or a secret agent - she wants to be a receptionist. It's the cutest thing.

When I can, I let her do little odd jobs around the office. She is pro at sealing envelopes and applying sticky labels. Little Jackie will always ask to help, even though sometimes she gets distracted and tired of doing repetitive tasks. She has my little answering schpeel memorized.  Oftentimes, I have to focus extra hard when I answer the phone because she's right next to me whispering my answering dialogue right along with me. After I transfer the call, she will smile that ginormous smile of pride and send her curls boinging as she bounces in her seat, knowing that she "answered" the phone exactly as I did.

It's a big responsibility - knowing that some little one wants to be like you. I want to be a good example to her and her big sister. I want to help their dreams grow as big and as high they want and I want to encourage them in what's right. God has given so many opportunities to explain so many things and I just hope that anything that comes out in my words and actions will encourage them to be a better and stronger people. I hope they grow into kind, loving and beautiful children of God. They are such a vibrant little ones and I just love them.

Pulling Out My Hair

Apparently my hair should be dirty.

My headband kept sliding off my head and making me want to fling it across the room. Headbands are supposed to stay ON the head and look pretty; not slip off and make you look like a lunatic. This is quite irritating if you're at work, pretending to look professional. Bah. A friend saw me adjusting it for the millionth time today and said that it was probably because my hair was too clean. If it's dirty, she said, it'll stick better!

From now on, I only wear half circle headbands to work. Otherwise, I'll have a pile of headbands banished to the corner out of flinging frustration.

At least I know that my hair is nice and clean.

Time to Say Goodbye

The quiet is almost comforting right now.
Nothing is happening and my heart can ponder.


I know it's cliche to say, but life is such a precious thing.
In the last two weeks, I've experienced a young girl passing out in my arms and losing eight beloved residents at the Alzheimer's home I work at. Altogether, that makes for an emotionally difficult two weeks.

I am thankful to report that the sweet, young jr. higher who passed out in my arms is fine. She was faint of heart from hearing an anatomical description and, I found out afterwards, this is not an abnormal reaction for her. Regardless of that though, my heart almost panicked when she fell into me. It was just the two of us in the hall. Her body gave way and I caught her and gently laid her on the ground. After making sure she could hear me, I was able to grab others to help her medically and then everything became a blur of events.
After everything settled down though, my emotions reacted. Thoughts and fears of what could have happened had anything else been different crept into my mind, almost bringing tears. But I'll not borrow trouble. It surprised me how much her fall shook me. You see people fainting and passing out in movies all the time, but to see it in real life is a different story. Thank you, Lord, that you protected her and gave me clarity of mind at the time.


Eight is a very large number when it comes to lives. Of those eight, I knew three personally. I knew them and talked with them. I knew their families and I loved them all.

Bill always came up and chatted nonsense with me. He would talk and I would listen and respond to his word salad. Occasionally, he would come up with noteworthy phrases such as "You can't open a door with an empty foot." His daughter was always more than kind to me. She would stay and chat awhile and always open up in her friendly, gentle way. We always had plenty to talk about.

Pat's gentle way of smiling that knowing smile always touched my heart. She never said much to me, but always shared that kind, loving look. Every night at 8 o'clock Pat's husband would leave after a few good hours of reading to her. As he walked out the door, Ed always made me promise that I'd drive safely up the grade when I left a half hour after him. The most caring couple I've ever met.

And then there was Jerry. He was another quiet man, but for some reason he always asked about my husband. Before we got married, Jerry used to come up and ask me when I was getting married. He always remembered that I was engaged. Even after we got married, he would come up to the front, confused about many things, but never about my husband. He always remembered that we had gotten married and never forgot to ask how married life was. He always smiled his little purse-lipped smile. Jerry and the rest of his sweet, kindhearted family will never be forgotten.


I am thankful for the smiles, laughs, and good times I got to share with these wonderful people. But now, there is no choice but to say goodbye. So, goodbye, sweet friends. I will truly miss you.

The Potluck Face Off

So today, I bring you my thoughts on potlucks.

Yes, potlucks.

That age-old gathering of miscellaneous dishes, all competing to be eaten first.

On potluck days, I'm always eager to try a new recipe. Yesterday I got to test a slow-cooker baked potato soup. And it turned out awesome! Potlucks always get me excited. It's purely a challenge for me. After having almost a lifetime record of terrorizing the kitchen, I'm anxious to prove to the world that I can bake, baste, cook, and crockpot the crap out of anything. I know I can boil that record into a complete 180.

I was exhausted the night before. Sharing about six hours at the hospital with a 14 year old friend and her family can do that to you. Don't get me wrong, with all my heart I wanted to be there and I don't regret a single second. I only wish I could have been an even bigger help. (She's fine now, in case you're wondering.)

But as far as cooking goes, the hospital takes away that desire to chop and prepare when you get home at eleven thirty at night and need food ready at eight o'clock the next morning.

So instead of trying to jumpstart my imagination on empty, I rummaged through my crockpot books to find a recipe that matched up to the ingredients in my kitchen as well as my practically-inexistent energy level.

Baked potato soup it is.

Donning my trusty lemon-print apron, I peeled and cubed my potatoes, tossed the simple 6 ingredients into my crockpot, flipped it on high, and flopped into bed. (But no, I didn't go to bed with my apron on.)

The next morning, I woke up to the delicious smell of last-minute potato soup. Ahh, the sweet smell of simplicity. When I took the lid off and peered into the funny looking slop, I wasn't sure it was quite a success. It looked watery and yellowish. Was it supposed to look like that? With no extra time to spare, I prayerfully plopped the rest of the after ingredients in and buckled it in the car to head out.

After setting it on the long table of dishes, it still looked funny to me. But at least it smelled good. I probably should have taste-tested it, but I didn't have time and I didn't think about it.

Boy, did I get lucky!! Somehow, that funny looking soup got a ton of compliments - and that is the only reason I share this soupy story with you. It turned out fantastic - maybe a little salty if I'm being picky, but definitely a yummy one.

When we were all sitting around eating, a friend came up behind me and said, "Your soup is wonderful," right into my ear. It scared the crap out of me because I didn't hear her walk up, but I got a good laugh out of it. My competetive cooking side was not-so-secretly pleased.

Take that, lifetime record. I win this time.