The Untrodden Path

By Jodi Whisenhunt –

A little cat and his friend Dog set out on an adventure. To and fro and here and there they went about exploring. They marveled at the nooks and crooks and creeks and streams of the forest and the wood. Then roundabout a tree they paused as Dog exclaimed, “Footprints!” On close exam the two agreed the steps would lead them north.

So north the two friends trekked following the tracks. A curve ahead and to the right. Again a curve and right. “Egads!” shrieked Dog. Now on the path where had been one were marked two paw prints more.

North again walked the two friends. Again a curve and right. Once more a curve and right. “Gasp! My-my!” said the little cat, for instead of three trails, they found five.

Yes, north again, a curve and to the right. Round and round and round they went til more tracks were found than they could count. No ground was gained as on they walked and tired they became.

Upon the ground the two friends sat to rest and ponder plans. “Say,” said the cat to his friend Dog, “those tracks look much like mine.”

“And mine beside,” replied the dog, much to her surprise.

The tale turns, when following one’s own footsteps one neither leads nor follows, as the little cat and his friend Dog discovered on their quest.

So the little cat and his friend Dog left the beaten path. South this time and to the left where few before had trod. A happy end to this close draws: They walked the straight and narrow and were lost no more, but found.

“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it’” (Isaiah 30:21).

What Do You Mean My Comic Books Aren’t Tax Deductible?

By Darren Marlar –

The worst thing about being broke? Tax time. There’s nothing worse than seeing how worthless of a person you are… to the exact nickel.

Remember the scene in Star Wars where the Millennium Falcon jumped to light speed and all of the stars came rushing at them? That’s how doing taxes feels to me – but instead of stars, it’s numbers and letters… and IRS agents.  Instead of the Millenium Falcon it’s the kitchen table.  And my wife is Chewbacca (unless she’s reading this, then she’s Princess Leia).

I see all of those numbers flying at me – 1099, W2, W4, 1040, 1040EZ, WD-40, V8, B4… YOU SANK MY BATTLESHIP!

Tax time actually feels, well… taxing.  It’s the only time of the year you’re forced to literally use “deductive” reasoning. And in order to get all of your deductions you have to ask for a receipt every time you buy something. How is that good for the planet? How many forests have we mowed down because we were given a receipt at the car wash?  Sure, I’d like to save the rainforests, but there is no way I’m not claiming a deduction on that Biggie Dr. Pepper I bought in Dubuque.  That was a business trip.

If you buy something to use on the job, it’s tax deductible – so from now on, everything I buy, no matter how mundane, I’m going to use it on the job. In the middle of my comedy shows I’ll pull out last week’s grocery list: eggs, bacon, Preparation-H, big bag of Baby Ruths…

What’s deductible for stand-up comedians? Watermelons and sledgehammers? Rubber chickens? If I put down my occupation as “stand-up comedian” will the IRS take any of my deductions seriously? I can imagine that audit. “You’re deducting Preparation-H? Tell us that joke, Mr. Funny Man!” When is the last time you met anyone who works at the IRS that had a sense of humor?  I’m pretty sure they find IRS agents by looking over the resumes of former DMV workers who were fired for not having enough personality.

I envy parents at tax time, because they have kids.  That means they can celebrate “Dependents Day.” Children: they are little tax deductions. We don’t have kids – just a picture on our fridge of a poor Guatemalan kid.  But he doesn’t count because he’s not “related.”  Whatever.  I guess I won’t even bother asking about my cat then.

I know they’re past due, but I’m not done with my taxes yet. In fact, I avoid doing them as long as I can – everything comes first. I’ll trim my toenails. I’ll trim my wife’s toenails. I’ll organize the sock drawer.  Do you have any idea how awkward it is trying to explain to your neighbors why you’re organizing their sock drawer?

I don’t wait to file my extension – I filed mine the day after Christmas. Why do today what you can put off until Cinco de Mayo? I know I’m not Mexican, but if it gets me out of doing taxes until Kwanza, I’m good to go.

Heck, I’d claim to be Amish if it got me out of filling out a 1040 form. I could be an Amish comedian.

“How many Amish does it take to change a light bulb?”  “What’s a light bulb?”

“You might be Amish: if you ever asked the question, ‘Does this shade of black make me look fat?’”

But no – the Amish pay taxes too.  I checked.  I don’t know why I’m making a big deal out of this.  After all, I only made fifty-two dollars last year.

The Perfect Centerpiece

By Rhonda Rhea –

There’s hardly anything I enjoy more than a good meal. That’s probably why I don’t cook much.

I guess that’s also why I love, love, love whoever it was who invented the marvelous, miraculous…frozen dinner. What a genius! I owe this person. Everyone talks about those fancy ice sculptures. But me? A frozen family-sized lasagna is a thing of beauty to me. There’s a centerpiece you can sink your teeth into!

Those frozen masterpieces not only rescue those of us who are oven-challenged, but they’re also great for helping with that “what to have for dinner” decision. Anytime I’ve stared blankly into the pantry for more than a few minutes and still can’t decide, I head straight for the freezer. I open that magic door and find, oh glorious day, someone has already decided! Other times when I’m having a bad grocery day and there aren’t enough ingredients in there to put together anything besides a pickle-loaf/noodle/Dorito casserole, I check that freezer—and dinner is done! Some days I just plain don’t want to spend an hour in the kitchen. No problem. In the freezer, dinner is already done! If they made it any easier they would be digesting it for me.

I’m embarrassed to admit how much I depend on my freezer for dinner (though, for the record, I do try to make sure I do all my own digesting). And working in exquisite harmony with my freezer, I can’t forget my microwave. My beautiful, beautiful microwave. We’ve never needed a dinner bell. The beep of the microwave signals everyone that dinner is ready. That beep has become music to my ears.

Seriously, even sweeter music to my ears? The sweet, sweet song of salvation! Our redemption is all about and all through Jesus. When He paid our sin debt on the cross, it was finished. In Jesus, it’s already done!

Just take a look at how the Amplified Bible expresses Hebrews 7:25:  “Therefore He is able also to save to the uttermost (completely, perfectly, finally, and for all time and eternity) those who come to God through Him, since He is always living to make petition to God and intercede with Him and intervene for them.” We might even think of it as a “centerpiece” kind of life, bringing His perfect “peace” to our very “center.”

Jesus saves to the uttermost. Completely and perfectly. Finally and eternally. Sound the beautiful beep, it’s done! He had already decided before the foundation of the world to redeem His children back to himself. And what He decides to do, He does. We don’t have to stew over our redemption. We only have to accept it and live it out.

But speaking of stew, I just heard the microwave sound the dinner bell. It’s playing my song. Though just in case you think I never fix anything at all that’s not frozen, you should know I also make a mean Italian sauce. Never frozen. … It’s from a jar.

Super-Mom Strikes Again!

By Kathi Macias –

Each May, as Mother’s Day approaches, I realize how amazing it is that my children lived to grow up. Super-Mom I wasn’t, though I wanted to be. It seemed the harder I tried, the more I failed.

One day in particular stands out in my mind. It was one of those days when life gets too busy to worry about achieving goals. (Are you relating yet?) In fact, it was all I could do to remember to brush my teeth in the morning and put gas in the car before leaving for town. As it turned out, I remembered my teeth but forgot the gas.

It was also my day to volunteer at the pre-school where my youngest son, Chris, attended. As a result, we were late, since the Auto Club was backed up on emergency calls that took priority over an unorganized mother and an upset three-year-old waiting on the side of the road.

“Mom, let’s go,” Chris whined, his as yet undiagnosed ADHD kicking in as he bounced on the backseat. “I want to go to school, Mom! Mom, let’s go! Mom!”

Minutes before my head exploded, the cavalry showed up, and in a matter of minutes we were back on the road and racing to our destination—which was not a good idea because we had to pull over again, due to the flashing red lights and wailing siren immediately behind us.

By the time we finally arrived, Chris had missed snack time and was not a happy camper—nor were the two ladies trying to ride herd on twenty-three spinning, squealing pre-schoolers. Chris, already in his spinning, squealing mode, jumped right into the fray.

“Where have you been?” Jeannie, the other volunteer, demanded. “We really needed you. We have extra kids today—”

“I’m sorry,” I said, haphazardly hanging my jacket on the already-full coat closet hooks. It slipped right off, but before I could pick it up and try again, Jeannie grabbed my arm and said, “Come on. We’ve got to settle them down for story time.” We began to peel kids off the ceiling and walls and nudge them toward the story circle where we hoped they would sit quietly and listen for ten or fifteen minutes.

Miss McDougal, the actual teacher of these pint-sized tornadoes, joined us. “It’s like trying to organize a bunch of earthworms, isn’t it?” she asked. I grunted, unable to say more as I made my way to the circle, a child attached to each hand and one wrapped around my leg. The worst of the shrieking seemed to be coming from one last rebel in the far corner who refused to join the group until he got his snack.

Of course, it was Chris. I sighed, resisting the impulse to abandon the majority of the group that had finally assembled in the circle and instead go drag my child by the scruff of the neck to his proper place and insist he settle down and behave. Wisely, I allowed Jeannie to coax him over with an orange slice and a promise of more when story time was over.

Not only was I failing as Super-Mom, I barely qualified as an acceptable human being. But though my son glared across the circle at me throughout story time, wordlessly accusing me of starving him to death, he now tells me I was the best mom ever.

Go figure. It took me a lot of years (decades even!) to realize that being a Super-Mom was less about baking and icing 100 cupcakes on an hour’s notice and more about loving my kids the best I could—and trusting God for all the rest. If that’s where you’re at as a mom today, then be encouraged. One day your children really will “rise up and call [you] blessed” (Proverbs 31:28).

Adapted from the book How Can I Run a Tight Ship when I’m Surrounded by Loose Cannons? by Kathi Macias

Handle with Care

By Emily Parke Chase –

What college student does not delight to open up his or her mailbox and find a request to pick up a package at the desk?  Thus I bounced from my mailbox to the counter, and the woman in charge handed me a small brown carton swathed in tape.

This was the first and only time in all my years at college in Ithaca, New York that I had received a care package from my home in Arizona.  I eagerly tore off the wrapping to reveal…a box of candied apricots.  Apricots? My pleasure in receiving a package turned to confusion. What was my mother thinking?  But here in my hands was a tray of shiny apricots, each glazed with a thick sugar syrup coating.

My friends had received stranger gifts from home.  My roommate’s mother once sent an envelope full of little packages of ketchup and mustard that she had picked up with her order at a fast food restaurant.   Perhaps she thought we would find them handy in our campus residence hall?  And we might have used them but she forgot to write “hand cancel” on the envelope, so they went through the automatic cancellation process. The machine pressed the contents flatter than the postage stamp.  Red and yellow stains obliterated all but the address.

Another thoughtful mother mailed an Easter basket.  She went to her local K-mart and picked out a large basket filled with chocolate bunnies, plastic grass and marshmallow eggs, all wrapped in single sheet of cellophane.  She tied a tag to the handle and dropped in in the mail.  I can only imagine that the postal service accepted it as a challenge.  In my mind’s eye I see each carrier setting the basket on the seat next to him in the truck, handing it gently to the next person, and the final mail carrier delivering it in triumph to our dorm.  Not a jelly bean was jostled out of place.

Still, as I looked at the strange gift in my hands, I wondered what had prompted my mother to send this package of fruit.  I did what any intelligent Ivy-League student would do.  I called home.

“Hi, Mom.  I got your package today.”

My mother chuckled, thus confirming my suspicion that a story lurked under that sickly sweet glaze.

“Your brother just moved out of his apartment in California.”

I knew my brother was leaving the country for a year.  He was driving across the country before taking a flight to Greece, and was stopping to see relatives along the way, including my folks in Phoenix.  Mom explained that he found the apricots at the back of a cupboard in his kitchen, and rather than toss them, gave them to her.  She didn’t know what to do with them and so she mailed them to me.

With a saccharine smile, I thanked her for thinking of me and hung up the phone.  Unlike her, I knew exactly what to do with these super-sweet fruit-flavored sugar cubes.

My brother was due to arrive in Ithaca the next week.

“How sweet are your words to my taste, they are sweeter than candied apricots” (Psalm 119:103, paraphrased).

(Send all care packages to the author at emilychase.com and read about her books, including Help! My Family’s Messed Up!)

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