Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Grass Is Always Greener. . . . Or Is It?

Around seven miles from where I live, this sign alerting cars to the probability of encountering Amish carriages can be seen on the side of the road.  The Amish population around route 47 has risen dramatically over the years, thus turning what was once a “possibility” of seeing those carriages into a definite “probability.”  Several years ago, when my now 17 year-old-daughter had entered the world of double digits, reaching the ripe old age of 10, a sassiness began to spew from her lips (a sassiness that, if truth be told, she inherited from me). I used to threaten to send her off to one of those Amish farms, where life seemed so idyllic, the fields picturesque, the adults even-tempered, and (perhaps most importantly) the children docile and mild-mannered.

These threats continued for the better part of six years and both my daughter and my son remained the targets of them.  When “Mini-Me” would spout off with smart aleck replies (replies that were so similar to ones I too had uttered to my mother twenty years prior, I simply couldn’t deny calling her my very own “Mini-Me”) or when a then 7 year old Luke would become so stubborn and bull-headed about something, I would pull out my arsenal of Amish threats once again with a “Do you think that sweet little Amish girl talks to her mother that way?” or “Would that little Amish boy disobey his mother and do something that she had told him not to?”  or “Maybe I can talk that nice Amish family into keeping you both this summer.  Maybe you’d then appreciate some of the things you have!”

Suffice it to say that, for most of my adulthood, I have idealized the Amish way of life.  I didn’t care about the lack of electricity, nor the lack of modern communication, nor even about the lack of modern fashions (after all, a woman can hide a lot of cellulite under those dresses!).  Having these Amish families so close to us, we have had the opportunities of seeing their superior workmanship, their peacefulness, their pride in their own simplicity.

Last summer, the National Geographic Channel ripped my idealistic mental Amish scrapbook to shreds, all with a show about the Amish rite of passage, Rumspringa.  I had always heard that Amish boys were given the opportunity to “sow their wild oats,” before officially joining the Church, but this National Geographic show portrayed it as much more than simple teenage rebellion.  To my horror, Amish girls were afforded the same opportunity to party as the boys were given.  And party they did!  I have never witnessed so many drunken teens experimenting with illegal drugs and having numerous wild sexual experiences.  My idea of an Amish utopia had been shattered.

To make matters worse, my children (then 16 and 11) sat wide-eyed, enthralled with every second of this 60-minute program.  As each segment of the show revealed more and more unspeakably heinous acts by these Amish teens, my mouth dropped a little farther, all while my daughter’s mouth grew a little wider into a broad smile.  At the apex of one party in particular,  the footage showed these teen girls (the majority of whom will return and accept their parents’ version of Amish conformity and simplicity) snorting cocaine, shooting up heroine, drinking more alcohol than a 300 lb man, and sharing details about their numerous sexual encounters. 

My heart was crushed.  I thought the Amish had it all together!  I thought they could do such a better job of parenting than I was doing! For years, I had held them in such high esteem when it came to virtue, morals, parenting skills, work ethic, etc.  I had seen  them around town, especially at auctions.  I had seen them utilizing their 19th century tools, working in the fields, etc. I had traveled behind their carriages, observing how their children rode with their feet dangling off the back of the carriage, coming face to face with approaching cars, and I often wondered, “What would it be like to ride in that carriage, with those children?  I bet they aren’t arguing over radio stations.  I bet that mother doesn’t try to quickly change the station when a perverted song by Lil Wayne comes on.  What I wouldn’t give to blink a “Freaky Friday” blink, transplanting my whole family into that carriage.”

As the Nat Geo show concluded and the credits began to roll, my daughter could no longer contain her sheepish grin and sarcastic humor.  Casting a devilish grin in my direction, she laughed, “Well now, I guess life with me doesn’t seem so bad, now does it?  You still want to send me over there with them?  Cause I’ve never even seen a party like that!” 

Yes, my idealism was destroyed, but a good lesson came out of it.  Those whose lives we think are perfect still face difficulties; no one is immune to problems.  It had been foolish of me to put the Amish on a pedestal.  After all, how many warnings against foolishness had my favorite Old Testament character King Solomon given us?  In my simple foolishness, I had looked to the Amish as a source of wisdom, even though we are told repeatedly that wisdom comes from the Lord, “1My child, listen to what I say, and treasure my commands.  2 Tune your ears to wisdom, and concentrate on understanding.  3 Cry out for insight, and ask for understanding.  4 Search for them as you would for silver; seek them like hidden treasures.  5 Then you will understand what it means to fear the Lord, and you will gain knowledge of God.  6 For the Lord grants wisdom!  From his mouth come knowledge and understanding.  7 He grants a treasure of common sense to the honest.  He is a shield to those who walk with integrity.  8 He guards the paths of the just and protects those who are faithful to Him.” (Proverbs 2: 1-8)

So, I’ve learned my lesson about putting people on pedestals.  I do not look at people and think, “He/she has it all together.”  I no longer threaten to send my children to those Amish farms (nor to the Muslim compound right down the road from those farms; yes, it is a very diversified road!)  Instead of wishing for a “Freaky Friday blink,” I choose to give thanks for the daily issues that arise with teenagers (sassiness, stubbornness, moodiness and all!) that seem so small in comparison to the Amish rite of Rumspringa.  Learning to choose my battles and letting my “yes’s” outweigh my “no’s” has served me well this past year, as it’s much easier to say “NO” to the Appomattox version of the Project X party when you’ve said “YES” to things like days at the lake with friends.  King Solomon was absolutely right.  The Lord really will give us wisdom when we ask for it!

Claim Token - Technorati -- 7849AA47R3P9

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Dealing With a Critical Spirit

WARNING – For those of us who tend to have a critical spirit from time to time, let me assure you of something.  The Lord will deal with us.  He will make sure that the very things that we are so very critical of come right back and bite us in our tails.  The bite will be hard.  The bite will be humbling.  The bite will most assuredly be painful.

This vacation has included a long list of misplaced items and lots of “Mom, have you seen my Ipod?” and “Sarah, do you have any idea where my wallet is?” On Friday, my daughter left her purse in a locker at Universal, which required from me a quick sprint (okay, truth be told, it was a “not so quick” sprint but more like a light jog) through the entire park to retrieve it since the rest of her group was waiting on us.  All the while, such thoughts were going through my mind,  “If she had only been more responsible” and “WHY didn’t she read the directions on those lockers before sticking her stuff in there?” (Notice that all these thoughts were going through my mind, not out my mouth, as my mouth was too busy gasping for air!)

So, suffice it to say that my spirit has been less than sympathetic this week.  I’ve been guilty of having thoughts such as “WHY can’t they ALL keep up with their stuff?” more than once daily (okay, more like hourly).  Rather than graciously offer to help my loved ones locate their lost items, I’d instead sigh, mumbling something like “Good grief, here we go again” when something turned up lost.

Well, I have been paid back ten-fold for those critical thoughts.  I have been humbled.  I have been frustrated.  I have been put in my place.  I have LOST my PURSE, along with my WALLET, along with my DRIVER’S LICENSE, along with my DEBIT CARDS, along with my CAMERA, along with my CAR KEYS (which are needed to start my car, which is at the Richmond International Airport), along with EVERY other card that identifies ME as ME (Sam’s club, YMCA, Planet Fitness, library cards, etc). 

So, in this post 9-11 world, where TSA officials are more vigilant than ever in screening passengers, I must humbly beg for their acceptance of a xerox copy of my license (praise the Lord that our resort made a copy!), the copy of the police report detailing how I lost my purse (I got that tip from a very nice security guard at the outlet mall; I simply filed the report online then printed it  out), and my family vouching for me, declaring that I am in fact me. (So thankful that so many of those critical thoughts had gone through my head this week, rather than coming out of my mouth!  If I had voiced each and every one of those thoughts, my family may very well say, during our interview with TSA officials tomorrow, “I have no idea WHO this woman is!  Never seen her before in my life!”)

The next time you get frustrated with others, the next time you feel like you’ve got it all together and everyone around you doesn’t, remember MY experience and be humbled.  None of us are perfect.  We all make mistakes.  We all need the grace of others. We all need to be uplifted by those closest to us.  And above all, remember that your critical spirit will most assuredly come back and bite you in your tail, for THAT is the way the Lord teaches us life’s most important lessons.

Thursday, July 12, 2012

G Forces & Loopdy-Loops

I have always loved rollercoasters.  This is one thing that I hope I will never lose my love for. As I age, I really don’t care if I lose my taste for spicy food, nor my obsession with the Steelers, nor my affinity for technology.  But Heaven help me if I ever lose my love for rollercoasters. 

Mere words cannot explain the rush of adrenaline that races throughout every inch of my body when I’m on a rollercoaster.  Unfortunately, I’m not intelligent enough to discuss the physics surrounding a good coaster ride.  I don’t know how the engineers utilize gravity and magnets to create such an experience.  But I’m so very thankful that there are people smart enough to design something that has given me so much unbridled JOY over the past 39 years (actually, probably the last 33 years because my mother is definitely NOT a coaster fan, and although I can’t quite recall, I’m sure that she would not have allowed me to ride them as a very young child.  I’m so thankful, however, that my daddy came to rescue my rollercoaster freedoms when I became of school age, because some of my earliest coaster memories involve HIM folding his legs up every which way in order to sink down into the seats of the Little Dipper, a small, wooden coaster housed at Camden Park, located in Huntington, WV.  And although daddy never complained about the tight quarters of the Little Dipper, I can only imagine how his heart leaped for joy when I finally graduated to the Big Dipper, equipped with adult-size cars).

Sadly, many people are scared to ride a rollercoaster.  They have sworn them off, adamantly declaring, “I do NOT like rollercoasters!”  Of those people who find themselves in this category, I would like to pose a question.  When is the LAST time you’ve ridden a rollercoaster?  I would venture a guess at the answer – never.  Or, let me give you the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe you do have memories of riding a rollercoaster, decades ago, when each board of the old wooden coasters would creak and strain under the weight of the cars.  Maybe you did try to ride one, back in 1986, and you swore that if you ever got off, you’d never get on one again.    Maybe you simply look at a modern rollercoaster today and think, “No way.  Not now.  Not tomorrow.  Not EVER!” In an effort to alleviate some of those fears, let me give you some statistics.

There are 900 million roller coaster rides in America each year.  Six of those rides will result in the death of the rider.  That’s SIX in 900 MILLION!  I’d venture to say that those are pretty good odds of surviving your coaster ride.  Even though these statistics should be reassuring, they will not make one bit of difference to most of you who have sworn off rollercoasters.  Instead, you will continue living in fear of something that you have no reason to fear.  Isn’t it sad how we let fear grip us, thus robbing us of blessings that God had originally planned for us?  You may say, “God doesn’t bless us with something as mundane and as literal as a rollercoaster!”  Well, I beg to differ with you.  There is no doubt in my mind that, when I am on a rollercoaster, God is up there smiling away, thrilled that I am living my life with unbridled enthusiasm, throwing caution to the wind, arms in the air, grin so wide I may swallow half the bugs in Orlando.  Yes, He has given me the blessings of rollercoasters, and I plan on blessing HIM by riding them with reckless abandon for as long as I can.  Here are a few I rode today (numerous times, by the way!).

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Boy, You Are 30,000 Feet In the Air. . . Put the Ipad Up & Look Out the Window!

Hate to admit it but…. I am definitely not the most observant person in the world.  I can’t even imagine all the amazing things I’ve missed out on simply because I wasn’t paying attention.  Most of the time, my head has been buried too deeply in my phone, answering emails from frantic, non-traditional college students (that’s the polite way of saying “older college students” who have “been away from learnin’ for awhile”).  Other times, I may find myself completely preoccupied (that’s a polite way of saying  “wasting time on”) Facebook, scrolling through the newsfeeds to see what so-and-so is having for dinner, or whose relationship status has recently changed, or who has lost 100 pounds by drinking their weight in shakes, or whose child deserves a big “Congratulations” for making straight A’s.  (Have you ever noticed that we never see our friends post statuses about straight C’s?  The world may see me do just that one day.  I may say, “Congratulations to my two kids, for being fabulously average when it comes to academia.  Those C’s you got on your report card will serve you well one day, when you’re an adult, because you’ve already learned that you’re not right all the time and you’ll be willing to take risks.  Yes, I’m proud of those C’s you made because it means you know you’re not perfect, that you don’t need to be perfect, and that you are loved beyond measure anyway.”  Yes, that right there may appear as my Facebook status the next time I see anymore congratulations for straight A’s.)

I’m ashamed to admit just how much I have allowed technology to distract me over the years.  Those who are closest to me can attest that I am rarely without my cellphone (which does everything from serving as a flashlight to an online bank, to an HD camcorder/camera, to a ticket booth, to an audiobook player, to mobile television.  I’m just waiting for them to make an app that will shoot a laser through a can of pork and beans, thus eliminating the need for a can opener.)  This morning, my family flew to Florida and we experienced something different.  Since I’m an English teacher, I like to pick out examples of literary devices that may be lurking around every mundane bend, so here’s a picture that portrays an example of situational irony.  (I’ll let those of you who know me try to figure it out.  Just think of it as those “Spot the Difference” pictures that used to be in the comics section.

Have you spotted the situational irony yet?  Here is Luke, my sweet, lil country bumpkin of a 12-year-old boy, who actually does take the time to notice things.  He is not yet tied to his phone, he maybe plays a total of 2 hours’ worth of video games per week, his favorite channel is the Pursuit Channel (Direct TV, channel 609, a hunter & fisherman’s paradise),  he is mono-syllabic when texting, he would rather sit in a tree stand than in a recliner, and he will most likely die of suffocation if he ever takes a desk job as an adult.  My Luke notices God’s creation.  He listens to it.  He sees it.  He breathes it in and tastes it, so much more than his mother does.

So what is the situational irony in this picture?  Here we are, ascending to 37,000, close enough to the clouds that we could stick our tongues out and taste the cotton candy sweetness on our lips.  And what’s Luke doing?  He has his lap-table, down, completely tuned into his Ipod and Ipad, all the while missing out on the experience of soaring amidst the clouds!  It was at this point that I said, “Boy, You Are 30,000 Feet In the Air. . . Put the Ipad Up & Look Out the Window!”  It’s situational irony because he so rarely misses things, as he’s so in tune with nature.  Stay with me, reader.  I’m not going all Transcendentalist on you.  I promise I won’t quote Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson, with their transparent eyeballs and utopian hermit status.  But normally Luke is saying things like that to me, even though I’m the parent.  Things like, “Mama, please stop texting for a minute and look at these tracks.  I think they’re from a coyote.” Or “Mama, please put down the Ipad and listen to this noise.  Are they cicadas or crickets?”  Or“Mama, can you please get off that computer and come out here and help me move this old fish aquarium.  I just dug up 100 worms and I want to make them a home so I can use them when I fish.” 

So yes, today, I got to experience a bit of situational irony with Luke, and I liked it.  It felt good for ME to be the one reminding HIM to turn off the gadgets and tune into nature.  

Monday, July 9, 2012

Why I Hate Orville Redenbacher

I hate Orville Redenbacher.  I know that’s not something a Christian woman should say.  But I do!  I started hating Orville Redenbacher a few days ago, when I began packing for our vacation to Florida.  After nearly standing on my head, digging shorts and swimsuits out of the deep recesses of my closet, I could have cried when I discovered that nearly none of my shorts and swimsuits from years past would fit!   And all the blame can be placed squarely upon the shoulders of Orville Redenbacher.

Some of my best memories revolve around popping popcorn.  Either my mom or dad would rummage through the cabinets until they found our special popcorn pot, then they would heat the oil while I measured out the popcorn kernels.  My favorite part of the process involved shaking the pot back and forth, back and forth, over that stovetop burner, making sure that each kernel rotated numerous times in order to avoid being scorched by the hot oil.  The treat of popcorn consisted of a lot more than simply eating it.  The whole process became an art.  An art that I grew to love.  A couple of years ago, my mother found and gave me that old, battered pot, an heirloom that I now display proudly in my kitchen. 

Now for the “why I hate Orville Redenbacher” and how my wardrobe dilemma can be attributed to him.  I’m not going to pretend to be an expert on the origins of microwave popcorn.  I don’t exactly know who invented it, nor do I know what brands were the first on the shelves.  What I do know is that Orville Redenbacher was the first brand of microwave popcorn that I had ever seen and after having made that discovery, the art of popping popcorn in that special pot was lost.

Last week, as I shimmied into my clothes that no longer fit, I tried to rational WHY they no longer fit.  I wish I could have blamed it on the fact that I am in the middle of writing a doctoral dissertation.  I wish that I could have blamed it on working two full-time jobs over the past year.  I wish I could have blamed it on the stress caused by parenting teens in this crazy world.  I wish I could have blamed it on a lethargic thyroid.  Ultimately, I knew those reasons were all unfounded.

After thinking long and hard, I reasoned that, if I were truly being honest with myself, I could only blame it on one thing.  I had grown lazy over the past year.  Just like the easier choice of microwave popcorn, I too had opted for the “easies” of life.  Oh sure, I have done my share of Zumba classes and elliptical sessions, but they often were negated when I would swing through the drive thru of whatever restaurant I would be taking home for supper. 

Ephesians 5:31 tells us that, in marriage, “. . . a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.”  Well, my husband has been faithfully hitting the gym for seven months straight.  I’m still waiting for MY metabolism to benefit from that, since we are of one flesh!

When I return from Florida, I’m getting serious about my health. I will no longer choose the microwave popcorn version of life’s everyday tasks.  I will plan our meals.  I will cook.  I will opt to go to the YMCA rather than sit on the couch and watch Good Morning Virginia. 

If you see me at Cook Out in either Farmville and/or Lynchburg, please . . . feel free to take . . . the cheeseburger and fries.  (If you try to take the milkshake, I just might have to fight you for it!)

Trippin' Over Dogs

Trippin Over Dogs

I have a confession to make.  I’m not a dog fan. 

Maybe it’s due to the fact that every dog I had as a kid became a hood ornament for coal trucks and other vehicles that quickly sped along our two-lane, curvy road in West Virginia.  Maybe it’s due to the fact that, each time I carry in groceries, I have to shut the doors to my car after grabbing a few bags, all the while gently (notice I said gently, all you PETA people!) kicking yelping beagles off my heels and grocery bags.  Maybe it’s due to the fact that I was charged with a misdemeanor once by our county’s animal control office years ago, back during the early years of both my marriage and my teaching career, because my husband had failed to hang the vaccine tags around the necks of his huntin’ dogs. (Yes, we eventually got that record expunged, but the fact that I was the one who bore the brunt of that citation simply because my husband wasn’t home at the time just rubbed me the wrong way AND placed another notch in my “why I do not like dogs” belt!)  Maybe it’s due to the fact that, every time my son’s coon dogs hear Zumba music flowing from a window of my house, they all gather at that window and start baying like they’ve treed a prize-winning coon (And YES!  I am offended!  While it is true that my Latin dance moves may not quite be up to par with those of the perky instructors, and my salsa dance may look more like a slithering shuffle, and one may mistake my merengue for a misshapen miscreant,  I still should be afforded the right to do Zumba in the privacy of my own home, without feeling like such an epic failure!)  So no, I am most definitely not a fan of dogs. 

There is one dog, however, who (as difficult as it is for me to admit) has stolen my heart.  Her name is Lucy and she is a Maltese who weighs all of five pounds soaking wet.  When my 17 year old (who was 16 at the time) begged for a Maltese for Christmas, adamantly declaring that she would be the happiest girl in the world if she could ONLY get a Maltese, I scoffed at the notion.  After all, we have never been a “pure bred, lazy dog” kind of family.  Oh sure, we have had a few pure breeds over the years who have been registered with the AKC (I always thought that stood for the All Kinds Club until I became an adult.  As a kid, who cares if a dog is a pure breed? Pure breeds stick on the grills of coal trucks just the same as mutts!)  But all of those dogs had worked to earn their rights to the papers. Like Scooby, a gray speckled blue heeler who refused to leave my daughter’s side when she played in the front yard as a toddler.  Or Big Ben, a big, beautiful bloodhound who patiently traipsed through the woods with my then 9-year-old son, who had embarked on his first solo journey to his nanny’s house on foot.  Or the numerous beagles we’ve had over the years, who have had a history of making deer drives much more fun and entertaining.  No, Lucy is different.  She is the first dog we’ve ever had that simply exists (and exists in the house, no less!).

Yesterday, as I came home from church (as usual, with my hands full of paraphernalia including Bibles, purses, grocery bags, etc.), I stumbled over Lucy, bringing my flip-flop clad foot right down on her tiny paw. (Yes, I often wear my Nike flip flops to church.  Don’t judge me!)  Gaging from the piercing yelp that emerged from her mouth, I knew that it had hurt her, so I proceeded to the kitchen table, where I planned to lay all my bags down so I could pick her up.  Just as I reached the table, my phone rang, then my son hollered, then my husband asked me a question, and pretty soon, I had forgotten all about poor Lucy. 

Later that evening, after a full day at the lake,  we sat down to watch the cartoon Rio, and I felt a warm glob of fur near my feet and a wet sticky thing tickling my toes.  Just as I was ready to start kicking (memories of a squirrel once finding his way into our bedroom flooding my memory), I looked down on the other end of the couch and there was Lucy, content as can be, just licking my toes and giving me her unadulterated affection.  Me, the person who, just a few hours prior, had tripped over her, stepped on her, and hurt her.  Me, the person who had completely forgotten to pick her up and check her paw.  Me, the person who had forgotten to say she was sorry. 

Lucy was showing me love, even though I was obviously undeserving of it.  I had hurt her.  I had allowed the things of life to get in the way of me checking on her.  Through my negligence, I had shown her that everything else in my life was more important than her.  As I lay there thinking about that, the parallel of how I often treat Christ became very clear to me.  How often had I hurt Him with the way I had spoken to someone else?  How often had I hurt Him with my decisions to watch or read something that I knew would be displeasing to Him?  The answer is . . . A LOT. . . . too many times to even count.  But just like Lucy, He’s always there.  Tugging me.  Showing His affection for me.  Trying to get my attention.  Loving me.  Even when I ignore Him.  Even when I hurt Him.

Paul reveals the depths of God’s love for us in Romans 8:38-39:  “And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love.  Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love.  39 No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

So, with my measly little words through this measly little blog, I will attempt to give Christ the gratitude that I so often fail to give Him. 

Sunday, July 8, 2012

It’s Just Sand

I’m going to be a really good grandparent one day.  I’ve messed up and learned so much through the years of raising my own two children (now 17 and 12) that I’m bound to be a really good grandparent in the FAR distant future!  Today at a lake, I saw a mother fiercely scold her two preschool age children for sitting down in the water.  Equipped with floaties on their arms, these two cuties had been bobbing up and down in the shallow waters for the better part of an hour, and I had watched them as I sat in a foot of water on the sandy beach, as the water lapped my legs.  As their bobbing came to a halt, they inched their way toward the beach, where I sat, digging crevices in the sand with my toes and shoveling the cool sand onto my legs, which were showing initial signs of burning pinkness.  Erupting in a sea of giggles, they plopped their bottoms down near me, only to invite the shrill screams of their mother, who quickly pulled them up by their elbows, admonishing them to stand up and get OUT of that sand! 

As I sat and watched the disappointment that came over their faces, a wave of sadness fell upon me as I reflected upon all the precious moments of my own children’s lives that I’ve wasted being angry over meaningless, stupid things.  I most definitely have had my share of angry episodes involving my children and I’m certainly not proud of those episodes.  If I could tell that young mother one thing, it would be this.  Don’t waste the moments of childhood by being angry over stupid things, for those moments are precious few.  IT’S JUST SAND!  It will wash off!  Let them play and run their toes through it and bury their legs in it and let it get all over them!  Sit down there with them and let them bury YOU!  Create those memories with them NOW, while they are young, for it is those memories that will carry you all through the ups and downs of adolescence. 

My favorite book of the Bible is Ecclesiastes.  I love King Solomon and his “tell it like it is” attitude.  Perhaps one of the most quoted parts of the Bible is the third chapter in Ecclesiastes (even made into a song in the 60’s by the Byrds).  King Solomon got it right when he tells us there is “A time to cry and a time to laugh. A time to grieve and a time to dance” (Ecclesiastes 3:4).  He goes on to tell us in Ecclesiastes 3:10-12:  “I have seen the burden God has placed on us all.  Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time.  He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.  So I concluded that there is nothing better than to be happy and enjoy ourselves as long as we can.”  Now obviously there is a lot of responsibility that we have by “enjoying ourselves.”  Solomon goes on to remind us that we will have to give an account for every word we speak, every action we make.  But take it from someone who has wasted far too much time being angry with her family over very insignificant, stupid things.  Childhood is definitely a time to laugh and a time to dance.  Enjoy it and be content to wash the sand off!