God woke me up early yesterday morning. That's right. 7:30am on a Saturday morning. Baby was still asleep, hubby snoozing next to me and my eyes drift open to the tune of a well-loved worship song playing in my head, "I'm here to meet with you, Come and meet with me." Something stirred inside to tell me this wasn't coincidence. We had a full day scheduled and I had some Bible studies I was behind on. If I wanted to get caught up and have some solid studying time, God was letting me know this was the time to do it.
"Oh but sleep sounds nice, too. Can't I just sleep a little longer?"
"I'm here to find you, reveal yourself to me."
I know the song is typically presented to God, but this time it was coming straight from His lips.
I resigned.
Pulled my feet over the edge and stumbled into the office. I began my first study. There were questions. I had to answer questions this early? It's a Saturday! Sigh. I want to have my heart in this, but I just don't even know where to begin with answering this question. What is the author looking for? I don't see it. And this pen - this stupid pen just won't work! Maybe another pen. Get up, go to the other room, find a pen I know works. Yes, that's bett- oh blasted pens!!!
"Stop, child. Stop trying to write."
"But I have to answer the questions, remember? This is my homework."
Ooooh. Ouch. That was the point. God should never be my homework! Bible Study is work, yes. It's done at home, yes. Calling it homework isn't bad in and of itself, but regarding it as such with the drudging attitude one sets aside for syllabi-induced reading or papers put off to the last minute. That's not what God wants from us. Oh, yes, he can still speak to us in spite of our attitudes. Case in point. I was sitting in His presence, but I didn't long to be there the way I really should have.
I've had more than one busy friend in my lifetime. Wonderful girls with whom I adore spending time, but girls who may not be the best at prioritizing. Everything and everyone is number one on the list. So time is divided between everything and everyone and while I so looked forward to the time I was allotted, I also felt a little gipped, really. As though I was allowed so much time but no more because then they were off to the next pressing engagement. I needed to make the most of my time because it was limited. In the end I always began to feel boxed and just wanting to say, "If this is the best I can get from you, nevermind." Was it too much to ask to be someone's priority? To have someone say, you're worth my time - however much time you need.
And that's what God wants from us. He wants our time. It's not good enough to just give him the first time slot in my day. Because in the end it's just that - a time slot - a limit on God and what he can speak to me that day. A - "here, God, you can have this much time but no more, I have things to do." Not something I looked forward to eagerly or was willing to shove other things aside for, but something else on the list.
God doesn't want that. He'll take what we give Him, that's for sure, and He'll use it, no doubt about it, but He wants so much more. He wants us to long to be in His presence. To lose track of time because we are so in love with Him nothing else matters. He wants to be our passion. Day in, day out. Our every breath. So that when I'm not curled up on the couch with His Word He's still forefront in my mind. I'm still spending time with Him even as I leave the Bible Study in the office and head out my front door. That's what He wants.
His desire is to be our desire.
Forgive me, Lord, for my failures. Thank you, Lord, for the grace of a second chance. Every day.
27 September 2009
25 September 2009
Take Me Back
It is said that our sense of smell is the strongest tie to emotions. It is true when I spritz on a certain bottle of perfume I recall the college years, Sunday mornings driving to the tiniest town in Oklahoma to attend a down-home solid service in a tiny white church. Another bottle takes me to my first year of marriage, in our tiny bathroom, sprucing up before my husband comes home from work.
But music does the same thing for me. I can put in a CD (yes, I still live in the stone ages with my CD's!) and be instantly transported. Yesterday I played my first Kutless CD - not my typical song style of choice these days, although still well-appreciated. In a moment I remembered the week I first listened to the CD - summer break, at home alone for an entire week! Blaring the music from my parents' DVD player - dancing in the living room, working on a photo project. I recalled a semester in Russia, a dear Russian friend who would listen to any American rock, no matter the subject, wondering if he ever took to heart what the words meant. Did the music I let him borrow plant a seed? Will I ever know? Images came to mind of driving to that same tiny church conjured in my perfumed memories, singing along with another dear friend by my side, joining in the concert.
Amazing.
It was almost to the point of danger in my driving - I felt as though I was barely present in mind as I drove along gliding from one memory to the next. Who needs photo albums when music can carry all of my memories on one disc?
But music does the same thing for me. I can put in a CD (yes, I still live in the stone ages with my CD's!) and be instantly transported. Yesterday I played my first Kutless CD - not my typical song style of choice these days, although still well-appreciated. In a moment I remembered the week I first listened to the CD - summer break, at home alone for an entire week! Blaring the music from my parents' DVD player - dancing in the living room, working on a photo project. I recalled a semester in Russia, a dear Russian friend who would listen to any American rock, no matter the subject, wondering if he ever took to heart what the words meant. Did the music I let him borrow plant a seed? Will I ever know? Images came to mind of driving to that same tiny church conjured in my perfumed memories, singing along with another dear friend by my side, joining in the concert.
Amazing.
It was almost to the point of danger in my driving - I felt as though I was barely present in mind as I drove along gliding from one memory to the next. Who needs photo albums when music can carry all of my memories on one disc?
18 September 2009
Life Comes at Me
"Sometimes I feel like this world is just one big gigantic merry-go-round
You gotta hold on tight or you get hurled through the air" - Michael W. Smith
Welcome to my life! It's crazy-go-nuts around here lately. I truly thought that my summer was filled to the brim and that, surely, with the implementation of some semblance of a schedule come fall things would slow back into their normal routine. Oh how naive a girl can be. It is only now I realize the brim my summer reached was that of a 6oz. juice glass. And now? Now my life is a Route 44 from Sonic and it's still overflowing! But don't get me wrong, it's overflowing in the best possible ways. I feel stretched and pulled from every angle but every angle is a good one.
I started college classes again (when I say "classes" I mean it in the singular sense, really, but it sounds better when said as a plural - trust me). I honestly did not foresee this being an issue. I thought - heck, it's free (loves it!), I liked doing homework (shut up, I'm a freak), being the student, not the teacher, discussing literature with others, what could go wrong? And all those points are true. I DO love it for ALL those things - what I forgot to factor in was two out of my three free days of the week being tied up, needing a baby-sitter for a certain beautiful baby girl (I have a friend who is wonderful, by the way!), said baby girl's lack of napping skills when in the presence of others, thus wreaking havoc on her schedule and beyond that, let's review - it's now been three years since I left school. Not too long you might say? I laugh in your face! The first paper came around and I realized I was WAY out of practice. The only thing that kept me sane was remembering this class is for "fun" - I have nothing hinged on this grade. Breathe.
And homework - seriously, who doesn't stop to think that a literature class would require the reading of, I don't know, literature! Oh . . . right! I love to read, truly, I do, but at this point in my life, due to time constraints and my love of spending time with my husband and child, 100 pages a day doesn't exactly make it into my repertoire . . . until now. And I would remind myself of the point learned in writing the paper, except that I really do want to read it. Sigh. So I do.
I have gotten to the point where I literally sit down on Sunday nights, mind spinning with all the things I need to get done for the week and I make a spreadsheet. Seriously. An excel spreadsheet to schedule my life. I didn't think I'd be at this point for a couple of years when I had tiny tikes whose schedules of dance classes, Awanas, and sleepovers would begin to trump mine. But no. I have purple cells for naptimes (hers, not mine, sadly), in which I need to perform those tasks (like dishes, showers, you know) that don't work with an awake child. I have scheduled time for e-mail, Bible studies, homework, dinner (and, no, this blog wasn't on the schedule, call me a rebel). Oh, life. (and oh, life as a semi-anal-retentive nerd.)
All the while I keep promising myself, "It's just for this week! Next week will be better . . ."
You gotta hold on tight or you get hurled through the air" - Michael W. Smith
Welcome to my life! It's crazy-go-nuts around here lately. I truly thought that my summer was filled to the brim and that, surely, with the implementation of some semblance of a schedule come fall things would slow back into their normal routine. Oh how naive a girl can be. It is only now I realize the brim my summer reached was that of a 6oz. juice glass. And now? Now my life is a Route 44 from Sonic and it's still overflowing! But don't get me wrong, it's overflowing in the best possible ways. I feel stretched and pulled from every angle but every angle is a good one.
I started college classes again (when I say "classes" I mean it in the singular sense, really, but it sounds better when said as a plural - trust me). I honestly did not foresee this being an issue. I thought - heck, it's free (loves it!), I liked doing homework (shut up, I'm a freak), being the student, not the teacher, discussing literature with others, what could go wrong? And all those points are true. I DO love it for ALL those things - what I forgot to factor in was two out of my three free days of the week being tied up, needing a baby-sitter for a certain beautiful baby girl (I have a friend who is wonderful, by the way!), said baby girl's lack of napping skills when in the presence of others, thus wreaking havoc on her schedule and beyond that, let's review - it's now been three years since I left school. Not too long you might say? I laugh in your face! The first paper came around and I realized I was WAY out of practice. The only thing that kept me sane was remembering this class is for "fun" - I have nothing hinged on this grade. Breathe.
And homework - seriously, who doesn't stop to think that a literature class would require the reading of, I don't know, literature! Oh . . . right! I love to read, truly, I do, but at this point in my life, due to time constraints and my love of spending time with my husband and child, 100 pages a day doesn't exactly make it into my repertoire . . . until now. And I would remind myself of the point learned in writing the paper, except that I really do want to read it. Sigh. So I do.
I have gotten to the point where I literally sit down on Sunday nights, mind spinning with all the things I need to get done for the week and I make a spreadsheet. Seriously. An excel spreadsheet to schedule my life. I didn't think I'd be at this point for a couple of years when I had tiny tikes whose schedules of dance classes, Awanas, and sleepovers would begin to trump mine. But no. I have purple cells for naptimes (hers, not mine, sadly), in which I need to perform those tasks (like dishes, showers, you know) that don't work with an awake child. I have scheduled time for e-mail, Bible studies, homework, dinner (and, no, this blog wasn't on the schedule, call me a rebel). Oh, life. (and oh, life as a semi-anal-retentive nerd.)
All the while I keep promising myself, "It's just for this week! Next week will be better . . ."
01 September 2009
Dig in!
In a weekly Women's Bible Study we are currently reading through "A Modern Girl's Guide to Bible Study" by Jen Hatmaker (recommended, in case you're curious) in an attempt to encourage us all to work toward a daily meaningful encounter with God's Word. I will confess, I am one of the prideful ones. The ones who read this book thinking, "[Wo]man! Have I got this thing figured out!" The ones who read with a little smirk at the cute anecdotes of those who have failed in this struggle. And then I get daily knocked to my rear, remembering, "You're not perfect, either, sweetie. Who was the one who just last week couldn't be bothered to pick up her Bible again because she just didn't 'feel like it.'?" Oh, whoops.
But on to my point. Today Jen (I speak as if she and I have a daily intimate conversation, as if she would just call me up and say, "Hey, Ang, how's it goin'?" When we both know that's not happening) asked us to look at Hebrews 5:12-14, "12For though by this time you ought to be teachers, you have need again for someone to teach you the elementary principles of the oracles of God, and you have come to need milk and not solid food. 13For everyone who partakes only of milk is not accustomed to the word of righteousness, for he is an infant. 14But solid food is for the mature, who because of practice have their senses trained to discern good and evil."
The wording there in verse thirteen, of those who are "not accustomed to the word of righteousness" left me with a mental image not of an infant dining on liquids, but of a scavenger hungrily searching for tiny morsels to fill his belly. He crawls around skittishly on the floor, seeking out any crumb or particle which may have fallen, entirely unaware of the incredible feast laid out on the table above. He is more than happy to ignore the fact that these crumbs are falling from the mouths of those who have chosen to partake of the gastronomic riches above and that he, too, should he choose to stand and join the adults at the table, could have more than enough to satisfy his hunger. That's what those of us are who choose, rather than imbibing in the deliciousness of God's word daily, to attend only weekly Bible Studies or church services. We sit in our pews (or chairs for the more modern), graciously lapping up the tiny bits dropped for us, assuming that's the best we're ever going to get. While there in our laps lay the divine feast God has laid out for us, which we choose to ignore on a daily basis. Sad.
"All of You is more than enough for all of me, for every thirst and every need. You satisfy me with Your love and all that I have in You is more than enough."
But on to my point. Today Jen (I speak as if she and I have a daily intimate conversation, as if she would just call me up and say, "Hey, Ang, how's it goin'?" When we both know that's not happening) asked us to look at Hebrews 5:12-14, "12For though by this time you ought to be teachers, you have need again for someone to teach you the elementary principles of the oracles of God, and you have come to need milk and not solid food. 13For everyone who partakes only of milk is not accustomed to the word of righteousness, for he is an infant. 14But solid food is for the mature, who because of practice have their senses trained to discern good and evil."
The wording there in verse thirteen, of those who are "not accustomed to the word of righteousness" left me with a mental image not of an infant dining on liquids, but of a scavenger hungrily searching for tiny morsels to fill his belly. He crawls around skittishly on the floor, seeking out any crumb or particle which may have fallen, entirely unaware of the incredible feast laid out on the table above. He is more than happy to ignore the fact that these crumbs are falling from the mouths of those who have chosen to partake of the gastronomic riches above and that he, too, should he choose to stand and join the adults at the table, could have more than enough to satisfy his hunger. That's what those of us are who choose, rather than imbibing in the deliciousness of God's word daily, to attend only weekly Bible Studies or church services. We sit in our pews (or chairs for the more modern), graciously lapping up the tiny bits dropped for us, assuming that's the best we're ever going to get. While there in our laps lay the divine feast God has laid out for us, which we choose to ignore on a daily basis. Sad.
"All of You is more than enough for all of me, for every thirst and every need. You satisfy me with Your love and all that I have in You is more than enough."
27 August 2009
You're not ok, I'm not ok
I don't know if you've noticed. Our culture, the sandy environment in which we dwell, is constantly shifting. Most currently I have witnessed the change in wind from the aura of perfectionism to flaw-ism.
Once upon a time, not so long ago, everyone tried to be perfect. They strove to put on the happy face and wear the facade that their life was, in fact, everything they'd ever dreamed of. They did this in an effort to fit in because, truth be told, everyone around them was wearing the same mask and so they were absolutely certain they were the only ones on the block who were, indeed, not perfect.
Lately, however, I have noticed the trend to not be perfect. That is, in this age of social networks and blogging, we have decided to take the masks off (or at least pretend to do so), to wave our freak flags proudly. We're not perfect, we know it, we own it, in fact, we're darn proud of it. We laugh off our flaws and try in vain to identify with each other in our imperfections. In fact, now it's the perfect ones who are looked down upon - they're hiding something, we know it! It was like a breath of fresh air, a sigh of relief: everyone knows I'm not perfect and, guess what, they're not either! Woohoo!
While it seems all well and good to revel in our messy lives - not trying to hide who we really are, we fall into a trap. In not trying to hide our flaws we have also mistakenly come to the conclusion that flaws are okay. Not to say they some aren't. It's okay if I don't clean up my house every day - if I have a basket of unfolded clothes sitting in my kitchen or messy bibs strewn on my kitchen table. That's not a problem. The danger lies in priding ourselves on our internal imperfections.
I gossip. I'm lazy. I'd rather spend time on Facebook than in God's Word.
Those are sins. Slandering God's children, wasting God's time instead of seeking how to put this life He has given me to good use, these do not honor my God. And I should not allow myself to be lulled into the sense of false security sung to the tune of, "That's ok, I do it, too."
It's not ok! We've heard it before - if everyone else was jumping off a bridge . . .
Here's the deal - we who have called on the Lord are called children of God. We are not perfect, no not one (Romans 3:10). And we know that. And it's good to recognize our imperfections, but we need to be spurring one another on toward love and good deeds (Hebrews 10:24), not letting each other off the hook just to make ourselves feel better. Our feeling better is not the goal. We should constantly be sloughing off our imperfections in a never-ending goal of Christ-likeness. We should be sharpening one another as iron sharpens iron (Proverbs 27:17). Don't laugh off my fatal flaws - call me on them! We'll both be the better for it - or so promises the Word of God.
Be holy as God is holy (1 Peter 1:16).
Once upon a time, not so long ago, everyone tried to be perfect. They strove to put on the happy face and wear the facade that their life was, in fact, everything they'd ever dreamed of. They did this in an effort to fit in because, truth be told, everyone around them was wearing the same mask and so they were absolutely certain they were the only ones on the block who were, indeed, not perfect.
Lately, however, I have noticed the trend to not be perfect. That is, in this age of social networks and blogging, we have decided to take the masks off (or at least pretend to do so), to wave our freak flags proudly. We're not perfect, we know it, we own it, in fact, we're darn proud of it. We laugh off our flaws and try in vain to identify with each other in our imperfections. In fact, now it's the perfect ones who are looked down upon - they're hiding something, we know it! It was like a breath of fresh air, a sigh of relief: everyone knows I'm not perfect and, guess what, they're not either! Woohoo!
While it seems all well and good to revel in our messy lives - not trying to hide who we really are, we fall into a trap. In not trying to hide our flaws we have also mistakenly come to the conclusion that flaws are okay. Not to say they some aren't. It's okay if I don't clean up my house every day - if I have a basket of unfolded clothes sitting in my kitchen or messy bibs strewn on my kitchen table. That's not a problem. The danger lies in priding ourselves on our internal imperfections.
I gossip. I'm lazy. I'd rather spend time on Facebook than in God's Word.
Those are sins. Slandering God's children, wasting God's time instead of seeking how to put this life He has given me to good use, these do not honor my God. And I should not allow myself to be lulled into the sense of false security sung to the tune of, "That's ok, I do it, too."
It's not ok! We've heard it before - if everyone else was jumping off a bridge . . .
Here's the deal - we who have called on the Lord are called children of God. We are not perfect, no not one (Romans 3:10). And we know that. And it's good to recognize our imperfections, but we need to be spurring one another on toward love and good deeds (Hebrews 10:24), not letting each other off the hook just to make ourselves feel better. Our feeling better is not the goal. We should constantly be sloughing off our imperfections in a never-ending goal of Christ-likeness. We should be sharpening one another as iron sharpens iron (Proverbs 27:17). Don't laugh off my fatal flaws - call me on them! We'll both be the better for it - or so promises the Word of God.
Be holy as God is holy (1 Peter 1:16).
14 August 2009
Phantom Lip
I had a wisdom tooth removed this afternoon (yes, a tooth, and as my wonderful board game from the 70's purchased for a $1 at Good Will calls it: I had a tooth excavated - seriously? It's not like my mouth is an actual cave!). Anyway, my mouth, or at least one side of it, remains entirely numb. I had my husband pinch my lip as hard as he could earlier (I practically forced him to, he didn't want to cause repercussions such as a fat lip, but I thought it would be fun) just because I couldn't feel it. And now? Now my chin itches. The question is: how to scratch an itchy chin that feels nothing? I suddenly feel bad for amputees (not that I didn't feel bad before, but I now feel a new sort of empathy). Hubby tried to convince me to watch myself scratch it in the mirror, as apparently that's how the amputees solve the problem. I hope it works better for them than it did for me.
07 August 2009
Suckers 'R Us
I don't think I have ever felt the ooze of materialism and wasteful spending any more than I did this past week. I had never before been in a building which was designed with the sole purpose in mind to play on the emotions of expecting mothers and the well-meaning loved ones who plan to dote on this tiny new being.
I'm talking about Babies 'R Us.
It is true, I registered at this spending mecca in the past, before I knew the lions' den into which I was pulling those I love. However, I had never actually set foot in the building before this week. And my eyes have seen the light, or shall I say darkness, that is the baby super-store.
From the moment I entered the parking lot, my over-spending sensors began to weaken. The sight of slightly pregnant women who had just finished filling their registry or new babies being pushed in strollers after their mothers had pampered them began to cause me to swell inside with joy.
Ah . . . babies!
What could be more simple and pleasurable than a tiny human being?
As I crossed the threshold, my senses were overwhelmed with baby . . . calm music playing overhead which made me want to rock a baby to sleep (in a brand new glider sold on aisle twelve), soft baby pinks and blues decorated the racks of tiny sweaters and leggings (on sale!), I could smell the baby powder (aisle 2, next to the baby wash) and my fingers longed to reach for the soft plushness of the yellow baby blankets (which would fit perfectly into that beautiful new crib!). I saw complete matching sets of bouncers, play-yards, strollers, high chairs, car seats - everything in a young life that must coordinate because, heaven forbid the Pack-n-Play not match the baby carrier!
The registry section, an entire corner of the store, was outfitted with helpful sales associates and plush chairs for the expectant mother (so as to not exacerbate the swelled ankles, I'm sure). All angled precisely so as to allow an ample view of the necessary goods the store is there to provide.
As I shopped for a needed booster seat (purchased with a gift card which was nearly a year old, much like my little cutie), I was nearly poisoned by the toxic un-necessities of portable placemats, designer wipes covers, decorative potty training seats and tiny sandals which perfectly matched the design I had been searching for for myself.
Never did it become more real to me, though, the dangerous nature of this place, than when I began to check out. This is when I discovered that no one is actually expected to purchase anything for themselves in this wonderland. No. The sole purpose of this establishment is to suck dry the wallets of those who would only spend exorbitant amounts of money when they can justify the spending for someone else and to convince mothers-to-be that this "stuff" is necessary and will be an appropriate display of affection from those they love best, but who, also, would never dream of owning something so over-priced unless it were a gift, which somehow makes the process of spending way too much for something the child won't even remember owning (or sleeping in or riding in or playing with) all okay. Normal, in fact.
And, thus, I watched the older woman in front of me in line pay $50 for a diaper bag (for her new grandchild, most likely). Which, while cute, was a bag. A bag to hold diapers (and other necessities, it's true). An amount which, were it to be spent on any other bag, would seem a waste, but because it's for the baby somehow seems just fine.
Then, when it was my turn, I was asked (a question required to be asked or I would receive a free drink . . . from where, I wondered? The decaffeinated coffee bar in the back that I must have missed?) if I was purchasing from a registry. No. Did I want to take advantage of the free gift-wrapping service. No, thank you. Oh, and here's my receipt, gift receipt included, have a nice day. As if it's completely absurd to believe that I was actually purchasing a product for my child that would, that very afternoon, be covered in cheerios and uneaten vegetables, rather than re-gifted or returned for the purposes of buying the cheaper model at Wal-Mart and pocketing the difference.
At this point, I ran for my life from the jaws of the monster, vowing never to return or register there again. Until, you know, my next child comes along and this store happens to be the only one carrying the print for those crib sheets I just have to have . . . even if they are a little more expensive than the ones elsewhere. Someone else will buy them for me, right?
I'm talking about Babies 'R Us.
It is true, I registered at this spending mecca in the past, before I knew the lions' den into which I was pulling those I love. However, I had never actually set foot in the building before this week. And my eyes have seen the light, or shall I say darkness, that is the baby super-store.
From the moment I entered the parking lot, my over-spending sensors began to weaken. The sight of slightly pregnant women who had just finished filling their registry or new babies being pushed in strollers after their mothers had pampered them began to cause me to swell inside with joy.
Ah . . . babies!
What could be more simple and pleasurable than a tiny human being?
As I crossed the threshold, my senses were overwhelmed with baby . . . calm music playing overhead which made me want to rock a baby to sleep (in a brand new glider sold on aisle twelve), soft baby pinks and blues decorated the racks of tiny sweaters and leggings (on sale!), I could smell the baby powder (aisle 2, next to the baby wash) and my fingers longed to reach for the soft plushness of the yellow baby blankets (which would fit perfectly into that beautiful new crib!). I saw complete matching sets of bouncers, play-yards, strollers, high chairs, car seats - everything in a young life that must coordinate because, heaven forbid the Pack-n-Play not match the baby carrier!
The registry section, an entire corner of the store, was outfitted with helpful sales associates and plush chairs for the expectant mother (so as to not exacerbate the swelled ankles, I'm sure). All angled precisely so as to allow an ample view of the necessary goods the store is there to provide.
As I shopped for a needed booster seat (purchased with a gift card which was nearly a year old, much like my little cutie), I was nearly poisoned by the toxic un-necessities of portable placemats, designer wipes covers, decorative potty training seats and tiny sandals which perfectly matched the design I had been searching for for myself.
Never did it become more real to me, though, the dangerous nature of this place, than when I began to check out. This is when I discovered that no one is actually expected to purchase anything for themselves in this wonderland. No. The sole purpose of this establishment is to suck dry the wallets of those who would only spend exorbitant amounts of money when they can justify the spending for someone else and to convince mothers-to-be that this "stuff" is necessary and will be an appropriate display of affection from those they love best, but who, also, would never dream of owning something so over-priced unless it were a gift, which somehow makes the process of spending way too much for something the child won't even remember owning (or sleeping in or riding in or playing with) all okay. Normal, in fact.
And, thus, I watched the older woman in front of me in line pay $50 for a diaper bag (for her new grandchild, most likely). Which, while cute, was a bag. A bag to hold diapers (and other necessities, it's true). An amount which, were it to be spent on any other bag, would seem a waste, but because it's for the baby somehow seems just fine.
Then, when it was my turn, I was asked (a question required to be asked or I would receive a free drink . . . from where, I wondered? The decaffeinated coffee bar in the back that I must have missed?) if I was purchasing from a registry. No. Did I want to take advantage of the free gift-wrapping service. No, thank you. Oh, and here's my receipt, gift receipt included, have a nice day. As if it's completely absurd to believe that I was actually purchasing a product for my child that would, that very afternoon, be covered in cheerios and uneaten vegetables, rather than re-gifted or returned for the purposes of buying the cheaper model at Wal-Mart and pocketing the difference.
At this point, I ran for my life from the jaws of the monster, vowing never to return or register there again. Until, you know, my next child comes along and this store happens to be the only one carrying the print for those crib sheets I just have to have . . . even if they are a little more expensive than the ones elsewhere. Someone else will buy them for me, right?
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