Three years ago a young man sat in the cold and final seat of a defendant on sentencing day.  The verdict was unnecessary as he pled guilty, but there was still the sentence to decide.

On his neck he wore a tie, but on his hands he wore the blood of my baby brother.

In the moments after the car crash that would change our lives forever, this young man fumbled and took Nathan’s phone off his (dead? dying?) body and called home and a few other numbers before finally calling the authorities.  In the hours after Nathan’s death, his family held that phone and let it ring while we and Nathan’s fiance tried calling.

Nathan was dead for 14 hours before we were told.

The judge was slow and deliberate as he read the letters that my parents and I wrote on behalf of Kevin C.  Not knowing anything more about him than his apparent callousness and immaturity, we asked for mercy.  We asked that he not be made to sit in prison, but that he be allowed to walk away from this and build for himself a good life.

Truly, these were the hardest letters in the world to write.

Community service and a bit of probation were the light sentence he received.  Not very significant when you consider the isolation of prison he likely deserved.

Some months later Dad called Kevin C.  I think that we all thought that perhaps he would have sent us a note of thanks, or at the very least called us.  Instead, Dad picked up the phone and made the first move.

“Hi, Kevin.  This is Brad Dodd.”

“Who?”

(wince)

“Nathan’s Dad.”

“Oh.  Hey man, what’s up?”

What’s up!?  You killed my son!  You should be rotting in prison, but you were dealt a hand of mercy and you want to know “What’s up?”!?!?

That’s not what my Dad said.  But it’s how he felt.

I wanted so badly to talk this over with God.  I wanted to tell Him just how much this jerk had hurt my family and I wanted God to hear my heart cry for the lost opportunity to make him go to prison.  I wanted to, but I couldn’t.  I didn’t dare.

How could I go to God and tell Him how much this slight hurt when I know full well the things I have done with His Son’s blood on my hands?  How many times have I approached Jesus’ Father and said, “Hey man, what’s up?”.

I think it is easier than it should be for us to forget that we are covered in blood when we speak of being covered in mercy.  Theresa wrote some time ago that she feared we were losing some of the reverence we once had in approaching God.  I tend to agree with her.

This is not a post with much of a wrap up, just a call for self examination.  If you have taken advantage of the mercy you were shown, take this moment to repent.  Return to the higher place and start acting like someone whose very life depends on the mercy of another.  Because it does.

If you live too far north, I doubt you appreciate the honest-to-goodness loveliness that is a well working central air conditioning unit.  If you live in Texas, you know that life cannot be maintained above merely surviving without one.

This post is for all you kind souls who notified me that you were in prayers about my own air conditioner.  My air conditioner, which is original to this apartment built in the year of our LORD, nineteen hundred and eighty six.  It’s all show and no blow.  There’s a lot of noise and effort, and I know he fights like a champ, but he is no match for a second floor, southward-facing apartment with no shade.

Thank you all for your prayers.  Last night he passed away in our sleep.

I woke up this morning feeling like I slept in a sauna.  I could hear the motor of the air conditioner, so I figured I was just having a hot flash as a result of turning 30 and getting that much closer to menopause.  I made a mental note to get some of that yogurt Jamie Lee Curtis is peddling to the AARP and went to get the coffee going.  As a rule, I am generally unfazed by much.  Even menopause.

Just for the entertainment value, I suppose, I looked at the thermostat.  The temperature was 10 degrees higher than what it was set for.  Turns out I am not menopausal.  I was so relieved.  Not that I cared all that much, I just really don’t like yogurt.

I call the apartment manager’s office and get a recording of her telling me what the hours are, what the amenities are, when the rent is due, what holidays they take off, what their lunch break is and FINALLY, if this is a maintenance emergency, push ONE.  It’s an emergency.  I’m starting to sweat glisten.  I push one.

Uninteresting and long story short: today we got a new unit.  I almost hugged the maintenance man.  But then I was afraid it might compromise the new dishwasher he promised me when we were dumpster diving.

The recent months have seen Eric and I with a great bounty of time with each other.  After so long of not seeing him for more than ten minutes a day, I think it is fair to say that we have just about caught up on anything of value to discuss.

As evidenced by recent talk at Taco Bell while Sarah watched our kids for an impromptu date night.

Eric:  Morals aside, I think I would make an awesome super villain.

Me:  I could see that.  Would you grow a mustache that you could tweak?

Eric:  I don’t know.  I think I would first have to figure out what my super villain persona would be.  Like the Joker, but that’s taken.

Me:  So’s penguins, so that can’t be your thing.

Eric:  What about you?  What’s your super villain persona?

Me:  I’d be a ninja.

Eric:  You can’t be a ninja.  Ninjas are very high energy.

Me:  Ouch, dude.  I thought we were fantasizing.  Why you gotta be like that?

Eric:  Let’s be realistic.  We are leaving Taco Bell right now and we are going to be super villains.

Me:  I see.  So we are going at it with what we got?

Eric:  Yes.  I think your power should be some creepy psychological thing where you get in people’s heads and make them crazy.  You’d be really good at that.

Me:  What about money?

Eric:  We steal it.  We’ll never run out.

Me:  So, what if I start out with the creepy psychological thing until I have enough money for ninja lessons?

Eric:  That’d work.  I’m not saying you could never be a ninja, just not right away.

Me:  Good.  Because I don’t want to be a super villain with you if I can’t be a ninja.

Moral of the story: Stay in school.  Have a plan.

Dear 12 Year Old Amy,

It has been a long time since I’ve heard from you.    You seem to think you’ve got me all figured out.  Well, here in grown-up land, we like to get facts straight.  Here’s the facts, 12 year old Amy:

My local bookstore will give me cold hard cash for these very nicely preserved movies.  Fact: Grown-ups make more money dumpster diving than little kids.

I know very well that you are still around as evidenced by your shenanigans when my girl Susan and I purchased tickets to New Kids On The Block.  Fact: Your Mom and Dad didn’t buy you tickets to see NKOTB.  Who’s the Mama now, baby?  That’s right, me.  30 year old Amy.

Every time you remind me of where I got that necklace, I wash it in rubbing alcohol.  Fact: It is no longer silver.

I’d write more, but I am going to go get myself a Dr.Pepper and drink it down.  I can drink the best soda known to man anytime I want because I’m a grown-up and nobody can stop me. Fact: Grown-ups rule.

See you in October for the big concert.  Don’t act like you won’t be going with.

Hugs and kisses

30 year old Amy

P.S.

Your parents are totally winging it.

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Dear 30 Year Old Amy,

Do you remember west Texas weekend afternoons in summer, way back in the day, 30 year old Amy?  Oh, sure you do.  The last of the neighborhood yard sales would have succumbed to the heat and closed up shop.  If it was a “going out of business” sale, there was a safe bet where the loot would land: in the dumpsters.

So, what did you do?  Huh, 30 year old Amy?  What did you do?  You waited patiently until all the old people had retired to their screened porches with their iced teas and you hoisted yourself up, over, and then deep inside the belly of your neighbor’s dumpsters, scrounging for treasure.

What’s the matter, 30 year old Amy?  Didn’t want your little friends to know about your absolutely unhygienic childhood past time?

I’m writing you now to let you know that I saw you yesterday.  You try to pretend I’m not here, but I think you know that deep in your core beats the heart of 12 year old Amy.

I know that when you realized that your husband’s most important papers had been inadvertently thrown in the trash, you felt a sick sense of the hunt come over you at the notion of climbing into the dumpster.  You brought your kind friend the maintenance man along and together you both plowed through three dumpsters.

You didn’t find the papers, but you what did you find?  Two boxes of perfectly good VHS cassette tape movies!  Some with the plastic still on them!  And these aren’t low budget kid cartoons, no sir.  These are real deal, super-awesome, grown-up movies that you actually want to see!

I saw how you and that maintenance man smiled and joked about how you “didn’t have too much shame” to go ahead and reclaim these items from their end of the road sentence.

You acted as though you had never done such a thing before.  As though you never even knew me. As though you don’t still own, among your current jewelry rotation, a silver chain you and I found together back when you still acknowledged me.

For shame, 30 year old Amy.  For shame.  Enjoy your movies, traitor.

Hugs and Kisses

12 year old Amy

For about three years after I had kids I was very skinny.  There is no way to explain it, except that I just didn’t gain weight.  I didn’t do it deliberately, I simply found myself always hovering around a size 0 or 2.

It was during these “lean” years that Eric and I had more spending money than people with our former budgeting skills should be allowed to have.  We were planning a really nice date night/celebration of our stoopid new found riches and I went to the Guess store to buy my skinny self a fancy new expensive outfit.

I wore it for that date and then it hung in the closet, only revisited a couple of times.  And then again this past Saturday night when my good friend Cat offered to keep the kids for us so Eric and I could go on a date.

Being that we are a good deal more frugal these days, I haven’t purchased new clothes with the same frequency I once did.  Most of my clothing is second hand and there are few items I would classify as “nice”.

It made good sense to wear my super nice (and kind of sexy) outfit out on a date with my man.  Even if three years and my size 6-8 body had changed the way it fit significantly.

Everything was going just fine.  Eric and I were having a lovely evening.  We got the best parking spots.  Best seats in the movie theater.  No waiting anywhere.  It was marvelous.

The only monkey wrench in our evening came when I pulled out my rifle and shot and maimed a perfectly innocent fourteen year old boy, right in front of his mother.

I didn’t even know the gun was loaded until I saw the kid’s eyes after he was hit.

I debated my outfit before we left our home.  I walked in front of the mirror more than once and asked myself, “Is it too much?”  This outfit which once hung on my skeletal figure now kind of seriously clung to every curve.  I knew it was sexy, but I justified it by the world’s standard.  I told myself that I had seen girls in much skimpier clothing at the mall, or even church on some days (sheesh, ladies).  The fact that my outfit wasn’t as “tarty” as some others made me decide that it was okay to wear out.

You would think I would be too mature for such childish reasoning being that I am a grown woman of thirty years of age.  And you’d be wrong.  It gets so much more immature than this.  This is just the level of immaturity I choose to blog about to the whole dubbya dubbya dubbya.

So there I am, walking around the movie theater in the middle of Batman, desperate for a bathroom when I catch the eye of a fourteen year old looking boy who was talking to his mother.  I smiled at him.  He smiled at my chest.  His cheeks burned red and he looked away with shame.

I may as well have shot a gun at him.

I determined before I left my home that I would present to the world something to incite lustful thoughts and I did it all the while with a long list of justifications.  I deliberately put that kid in the position to decide if he was going to honor God or honor flesh.  Young men and old men alike are put in that position at a maddening pace in this world.

It is a shame when they must suffer the blows from the friendly fire of sisters in Christ who don’t know (or even worse, care) that their guns are loaded.

I have repented my sin* of putting a deliberate stumbling block in the path of God’s people.  Repented and thrown away my slinky number.  Do any of you have anything in your closet that you have to ask yourself about?  My new personal rule is very similar to my refrigerator rule: When in doubt, throw it out.

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* I was very deliberate about using the words “repent” and “sin”.  I did not simply “make a mistake” and give my effort an “oops”.  I sinned and I feel it necessary to call it what it is.  The best part about owning the truth of what sin is, is also owning the truth of what repentence is.

If your Mama’s name is Kim Heinecke.

Thank you so much to everyone who participated. Nathan was a Mama’s boy among Mama’s boys and I am certain that he would have been most pleased with your entries.

Please visit Shiloh’s blog to read her thoughts on Nathan and to add your own memories.  Thank you, Shiloh, for setting that up.  Shiloh was in the youth group at church with Nathan and I know it was a really tight group of kids.

Also, a special thank you to Mackenzie for the enthusiasm with which she took to the drawing.

See you back here next year for another exciting round.

Mom and I made loose plans to get together on Saturday so we could do each others hair and so she could choose the big winner of the 2008 Nathan Dodd Your Mama Joke Contest.

When I called her on Saturday, she did not sound like she was ready to get together.  She sounded like she had gargled with gravel.

“Hello?”  Just the sound of her greeting made me immediately parched and thirsty for water.

“Mom?  You don’t sound like you care too much about your hair right now.”

“No.  I don’t.”

Since my dear Mama has the plague, I have had to come up with a clever way to choose the winner of the fantastic t-shirt made by our good buddies over at Stitch Masters.

I loved so many of the entries that I have decided it is only fair that I simply do a drawing.  But then to be really fair, some people put more into their entries than others.  Don’t they deserve more of a shot?

Yes.  Yes, they do.

• My dear friend Cat will get her name in the hat three extra times.  One for having a birthday on the same day.  And two for keeping my kids on Saturday night so Eric and I could go out.  Oh!  And one more for being first.  So, that’s four for Cat.
• Kim Heinecke gets her name in three extra times.  Once for putting the button on her blog and twice because her joke was really that funny.
• Susan’s parents get their names put in two extra times for each of them for clearly making their own jokes up, participation, making fun of Texas, and still holding on even in their advancing ages.
• Kevin gets his name put in six times because he is my brother and I never said I wasn’t into nepitism.  Also?  His offering was really funny.
• Shiloh gets her name in the hat twice for spreading the word about the contest.  Thank you Shiloh!
• Little Dougie Arnold:  Mama did take a short break from her recent routine of cough, sneeze, blow nose, repeat, to tell me that you get extra points ONLY if you follow through with your threat to come here to let us show you a fantastic time.  Pending that understanding, Little Dougie Arnold gets four entries for his “threat” and two entries for making my Mama laugh.
• Uncle Lee and Aunt Avis get two entries each for being funny and four entries each for moving to Kwaj while the rest of us suckers stay here and buy gas.
• Susan gets her name in the hat four times for making the awesome button!
• Sarah gets two extra entries for trying harder than anyone else to come up with a joke that could be her own and for putting the button on her blog.
• Jeremy Pottberg gets an extra entry for the link.  Eric liked it.
• To the uninformed observer, it would appear as though Ginger entered four times.  In truth, it is more likely that four members of her nearly nine million member household entered.  Ginger gets her name in the drawing ten times for being more Mama than the majority.
• And everybody else gets two entries just ’cause.

The official drawing, with pictures to keep it all above the table, will take place at 2:00 p.m. on Monday, July 28th.

Good luck to everyone and thank you all for playing.

I know I’ve mentioned that I have started a vegetable garden in containers on my front porch.   This is strange for two reasons: 1) I am not a gardener  2) I hate vegetables.

Isn’t it funny how we find ourselves doing things that violate every fiber of who we think we are because it seems necessary to stretch for some reason?  My mother going para-sailing is a great example.  Here is a woman who once nearly needed a fire truck to come and get her off the roof when she went up there to help my Dad, and suddenly she’s strapping herself to a parachute attached to the back of a boat and is sailing around Town Lake like a kite.

I plan on eating these vegetables.  Only because I’m growing them.

Tell me, what have you done to step out of your box lately?  Anything interesting?

Look everybody! Susan went all out and made a button for the contest! (And it should work now)

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Feel free to copy the code and paste it to your blog, but only after you leave me a joke.  The ones I’ve gotten so far have really been a hoot.  I especially like Kim’s.  Have you met my Mama?  She is so short.

<a href=”http://ericswife.com/index.php/2008/07/your-mama-a-contest/”><img src=”http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3094/2675187775_601e094761_o.gif”/></a>

If the code doesn’t work, you can just copy and paste the picture.  I know that will work for Blogger blogs at least.  If you would like me to put it on your blog for you, I will.  But your password has to be less complicated than Sarah’s.  Sheesh, Sarah.