Bathroom or Bakery?

I can tell from his stride whether he's had a good day or bad.

Hii Mom! he projects stills 1000 feet away strutting his stuff.

I don't call back but do smile when he reaches the car door.

Can we go to Isabelle O'Briens. I have to use the restroom.

I burst out laughing, Are you kidding me?

I can think of 30 restrooms and 3 bakeries that were closer than Isabelle Briens.

You mean you want one of those almond croissants?

Why, yes I do, he said smirking with me.

He is nothing if not a connoisseur of musicals, soundtracks, and cinnamon rolls. A foodie after my own heart. Hers are the best, made of a legit French pate a choux rather than the heavy American pastry we settle for on Sundays from Panera. Don't even get me started on the almond croissants.

What could I say? Sure, let's go and I'll get some almond cakes for Dad. (Best gluten free pastry one could concoct.)

When do our kids learn that we will almost always say yes to a potty request? Toddlerhood? Grade school?

This is a new skill for Reid; call it theory of mind, manipulation, humor, or creative communication. Anyway you slice it, I'll take it.

“My dream went like this: I saw three wicker baskets on my head; the top basket had assorted pastries from the bakery... Genesis 40:15-17 

Someone Paid My Way

It's the second time in a month, so I guess I need to tell you. God's immense love gift manifested in my concrete day. All while I was out to lunch.

The first time it happened, Reid had had a tough day at school. By the time I saw him at 2:30, he had already apologized, had consequences doled out, and thoroughly debriefed with his multi-layered school staff. If, as they say, it's not over til the fat lady sings, I figured that was my job.

We cranked the radio up and moved on. Ready for a change of scenery, Reid suggested going straight to Las Olas, our favorite Mexican place on the beach. I obliged. Fringe hours before the dinner rush are my favorite mercy. I hustled after him as he entered through the margarita bar to the host stand.

Table for two pleeease!  He projected over the fray.

Then with elevated glee, Mr. Wickman!

There at the bar sat his classroom teacher, with what looked like the rest of the athletic department, having a pint.

How did he beat us here? I puzzled. Apparently, his day had been rough as well. We exchanged awkward niceties about the infraction.

Aw it was no big deal. 

He is always the one who rolls with the punches and relieves my sheepishness.

Reid and I had a lovely time doing a word search on the kiddie menu. We wolfed down our refried beans and several baskets of chips at a table on the patio. A woman eating alone smiled in our general direction. I half wondered if she had a son like mine or where I'd seen her before.

When the waitress told me someone had picked up our tab, I was dumbfounded. The woman with the knowing smile was the one I might have thanked but she had already left.

Reid's tough days leave me feeling depleted...tired of hearing about the same failures, inadequate as a parent...helpless to bring about lasting change. Like a flashing amber arrow on the freeway, this unexpected diversion woke me to the reality that God has it covered.

The incident, the bill, our lives. His Son on the cross paid the price for our sins--big and small, continual and integral to our very nature. Our inability to measure up is as human as our need for another meal. He knows us; He made us. He loves us beyond reason. Which of course, is why He took care of it.

By contrast, today was a good day. Reid finished his laps at the YMCA. To celebrate we headed to Sammy's Woodfired Pizza. Why not? Jim wouldn't be home til late. Our timing was optimal again, sandwiched between the lunch and dinner crowds. Still, I surveyed the landscape of other patrons to avoid offending or being offended. Smiling preemptively goes a long way if something goes awry later, I have learned.

After this messy sundae, the waiter returned my debit card, Someone paid your check but I can't tell you who.

What? Who? Oh that is so nice. Why...? 

I stammered looking around for hidden cameras and eyeballing neighboring tables. An Italian family of three generations? Two women slightly older than me? A teenager taking his little brother out? One of the waiters? No idea.

What possesses someone to do that? I never have...forty bucks is forty bucks.

I don't think we looked especially down-on-our-luck or needy.

Had they seen us taking selfies in the car?

Did they see Reid laying down between courses on the banquette and take pity on me? 

Perhaps they recalled pouring sugar packets in their own water glass once? 

Maybe when he picked the pepperoncinis out of the greek salad with his hands, they admired the kind and skillful way I inferred the desired action: Here's your fork.

Or did they just understand the amount of the practice that went into getting this even close to right?

My mind retraced the hour we had been there wondering what would have prompted such intentional generosity. Again, no idea.

I guess that's the point. It has nothing to do with us. God loves us that way--when we're dirty, silly, picking our noses, making bad choices, self-conscious. He's for us when we're good. He's for us when we're not. Our behaviors don't change His provision nor impact His forgiveness, healing, salvation, and deliverance, one iota.

We don't earn it. We don't see it coming. We don't ask for it. We definitely don't deserve it. We barely know how to say thank you.

Has this ever happened to you? Then you know the feeling. All you can do is receive.

While He was reclining at the table in the house, many tax collectors and sinners came as guests to eat with Jesus and His disciples. Matthew 9:9-11

How joyful is the one whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered! Psalm 32:1-3

God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God. 2 Corinthians 5:20-21 

Door Dings

Have you ever stood up to a bully? I don't think I really had, until last month.

I can certainly recognize one; my inclination for most of life has been mostly to avoid, walk the long way around, or ask Jim to do anything remotely confrontational. But I'm changed by a vulnerable child/young man who seems a barometer for all the bullies and demons of the world, if not a magnet. Hanging with him as closely as I must, exposes them in plain sight. Then, one has a choice, whether to coexist, feed them, or put them in their place. Ignoring or denying them is no longer an option.

After long seasons of skepticism, scrutiny, and experimentation, I've emerged convinced, convicted and confirmed that we do in fact have authority in Christ to overcome all the power of the enemy. I had a chance to exercise it last month.

We go straight from school to piano lessons on Monday. There isn't quite enough time to run home, but we arrive with 10 minutes to spare beforehand. Our routine is to sit in the car with the radio on and brush up on Top 40 lyrics. When a car pulled up in the empty spot next to us, I had the fleeting thought to be careful the two open doors didn't collide. When its female driver sat still talking on her phone, I dismissed the concern. She'd be gone by the time we were done.

Ten minutes later, at the digital stroke of 3:15 Reid pushed power off, "Let's go up to Angela's!" He opened his door, tapped a dormant volcano and set off a torrent.

She went off like a rocket, "What the %^&%^;*! You just hit the door of my BMW. What do you think you're doing?! I can't believe this..."

Whoa! I circled the back of my car and put my sturdy body between our vehicles. She was up and out bumping her own rearview mirror. "I've been watching you," she addressed Reid.  Then me when I got between them, "I saw him acting disrespectful to you. I can't believe this."

Her nose was up against the glass of my resolve, close enough for spit to splatter.

Like a reflex fueled by boiling blood, my words stopped her in her tracks, "He has a disability. Don't worry about your car. We will take car of it. You need to calm down RIGHT now. There is no need for you to be this angry."

Reid has a tendency to reflect whatever emotion is in the air. Fear, anger, hatred as well as love, kindness, worship. Indiscriminately, his incredible sensitivity to his environment means he mimics the spirits he's aware of in and on people (even those who are able to stifle it).  He can magnify x10 what he senses around him. This is not always convenient.

My main concern was that her display might set Reid off in a dramatic instant replay, thus the physical blockade between the doors. A ding is one thing. Ramming do-overs would not be welcomed. Dousing her explosion like a bucket of water on a campfire was my first intent.

She was out like a candle in the wind. I turned my back on her to address Reid.

"Reid, I'm gonna close your door now and move the car. This woman is very angry so we are going to park somewhere else." He seemed fine.

As I walked back around to the driver's side, the spiritual reality flashed before me. I had just taken authority. I was not afraid. That had been a stand off with the enemy. I recognized rage as a separate entity from that particular woman.

We moved our used Prius to the far end of the lot next to a dumpster enclosure. I forced a few deep breaths to recalibrate my adrenaline level and heart rate.

"Okay Reid, that was an accident. You dinged her car door and she overreacted. I'm not mad, but she is. We might have to pay for her to get it fixed. Here's what we're gonna do. First, pray. "Lord, in Jesus name, we bind that spirit of anger and any unclean spirits associated with it." 

"Amen," he's heard this before.

"When someone is that angry, I want you to know, you don't engage physically or take it into your own hands. You take authority over it in prayer instead."

"Now, we still need to apologize to her in a nice voice. Let's go over and say, 'I'm sorry I hit your door' in a calm voice. Then, you can go up to your lesson and I'll talk to her some more."

"Okay mom. I'm calm."

As we approached, Reid delivered his line through her car window as directed. She hardly let him finish, "I had no idea. I'm so sorry. It's no big deal. I have this car on a lease. They won't even notice."

What had been cause for a tirade was now a moot point. It works people, it works. Whatever had come over her left without a trace.

Praise you Father for the victory we have in you. Teach us to stand in that authority.

I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions and to overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you. Luke 10:18-20 

A curse on their uncontrolled anger, on their indiscriminate wrath. I’ll throw them out with the trash; I’ll shred and scatter them like confetti throughout Israel. Genesis 49:6-8 

Post this at all the intersections, dear friends: Lead with your ears, follow up with your tongue, and let anger straggle along in the rear. God’s righteousness doesn’t grow from human anger.  James 1:18-20 

On Being Home for Christmas

*A year ago today, Nana heard the angels sing for real. She enhanced the meaning of Christmas for us, both in life and through death. I am reposting the words I shared at her memorial service.

Paris 1969

I wanted to share the rush of thoughts that flooded my mind Friday, December 21, 2012 when I got the news about my Nana. None of us live forever.  Surely, we all knew this was coming.  At 100 years old, Nana had definitely lived a full and complete life.

Being in California, I was not able to visit her in Sandusky, Ohio very easily or often. Over the past few years, I was painfully aware that every phone call might end up being our last goodbye.

As it turned out, I was in a long line at the post office waiting to mail Christmas presents that Friday so, I didn't take my mom's call when it came in. She had joined the hospice workers at Nana’s side the day before so I sensed I might want more privacy to take her call. I did play back her voicemail though while I waited my turn, to hear her say, “Mother is in the arms of the Lord.”

Time froze at that point and all I could hear was Phillip Phillips, “Home” song piping through the post office loudspeaker. Perhaps you know it from his American Idol fame or from the U.S. gymnastics team theme song from the summer Olympics.

Music has a way of ushering us back and forth between the physical and spiritual realms.  As I sat in my car for awhile, called my mom back, and absorbed the poignancy of Nana's passing and the timing of the song, I couldn't help but be impressed by the tenderness of God.

That very week, I was waiting for my daughter, Allie, to return home from her first semester at college in Boston.  She was due back December 22^nd and it wouldn’t really be Christmas until she got here.  I could so easily imagine how Nana must have felt during so many Christmasses past as she welcomed all of our extended family--her 4 children, 10 grands and 21 great grandchildren--home for the holidays.  It was the heart of God in her to welcome us home.

For my entire childhood, we came home to 44^th Street in Sandusky for Christmas.  It was “heaven” to us as kids.  Nana made it so. Without fail, she greeted us at back door as arrived from various out of town places.

John 14:2 says, “In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you?”

Waiting to descend Nana's stairs one Christmas morning

Like heaven, Nana’s house had many rooms. Each one bore the mark of her attention to detail and meticulousness. Like her, they emanated a clean distinctive air, an unattainable blend of Bon Ami, Fels Naptha soap, and peroxide all doused in powder puffs of Crabtree & Evelyn "Nantucket" talc and violets. The kitchen had a bulletin board with pictures of the entire family arranged neat as a pin and prominently displayed for all to see--or find themselves.  You could bank on the cookie jar being full of her trademark ice box oatmeal cookies and a not-so-secret drawer stocked with Snickers, York peppermint patties and packs of Wrigley’s gum. The showpiece of the kitchen was her 1940’s Frigidaire in mint condition inside and out.  It was vintage before vintage was hip.

Her dining room boasted custom mural wallpaper depicting a plantation landscape.  It looked brand new and stylish though it was hung thirty years prior.  Her silver service and glasses were always polished and ready at a moment’s notice.  

In the family room were four built-in knotty pine cubbies, one for each of her children, filled with school photos, wedding portraits and other milestones in that particular branch of the family tree.

Like her, the house was always the same: furnished, appointed, and maintained in picture perfect condition.  She set the bar on cleanliness that Py women ever since strive to attain.  It is no exaggeration that you could eat off her basement floor, maybe even the garage floor.

But she was not a “Martha” about it--the woman in the Bible remembered for being slightly frazzled, harried, perturbed, even resentful.  Quite the opposite, Nana went about her tasks gracefully, as if she were royalty.  She was never rushed or busy bodied.  She always had time to sit and tickle your arm or take a phone call. Try as we might, we will never meet her standard, nor her calm.

There was one room in her house that retained a certain mystery.  The door was often closed, especially if you got up as early as her in the morning.  With practical dark brown carpet and hunter green upholstery, it was not exactly off limits but, we all knew to knock.

There was a safe in the closet of this room that I don’t think I ever entered.  We knew it was there though, for on Christmas morning she’d unlock it and retrieve the traditional minted coin sets for all the grandsons, pearls for the girls, savings bonds and distribution checks for her children. This den was where she kept the valuables.  

It was also her sanctuary. The Lord’s Prayer was framed on the wall; a needlepoint kneeler was poised before an open Bible on a stand and a wood carving of praying hands.  Nana prayed there every morning and told us of having done so with Papa when he was alive. I believed her the many times she told me, ”I pray for you everyday.”

Her faith was real, active, consistent and pure, even if private. Her statement of faith might be summed up in these words she told me more than once, “God said it. I believe it. That settles it.”

She had no need to beg to differ or debate. She believed the Bible as it was written and applied it daily and consistently with pressure as if polishing that silver so it was ready at a moment’s notice. I think the most valuable legacy she leaves us is her unwavering faith and those prayers for us.

As we’d leave Nana’s house after a holiday, she’d send us out the back door with lunch for the road, ham sandwiches, Snickers bars, and a jar of mustard pickles. As we’d back out the narrow, hedged driveway she’d scamper to the front window, poke her little gray head out between the dining room drapes, throw a kiss and stand there waving until our car rounded Hancock Street.

"Mim" Py

As she left us last Friday, my mom and Betsy, one of her favorite nurses, were on either side of her bed singing old familiar Christmas carols. Music was the conduit ushering her into the heavenly realm.  They sang all 3 verses of Silent Night as we will do at the end of this service. I believe Jesus welcomed her to a place He’d prepared with more care then even Nana could imagine. (And would you believe that very same song, Silent Night, came on the radio this morning as we watched them carry her out of Groff Funeral home?)  God is so tender with us.

For me, the meaning of Christmas was enhanced this year by thinking of Nana’s new reality. At last, she could see what she’d believed for so many years. 

This Jesus, whose birthday we just celebrated, was Lord at his birth and Christ her Savior was born. He made a way for her to come home. As they sang those lyrics to her, I believe she was literally seeing "glories stream from heaven afar.” The Son of God, love’s pure light, surely greeted her with “radiant beams from His holy face.”

2 Corinthians 5:1 says, “We know that if the life we live here on earth is ever taken down like a tent, we still have a building from God. It is an eternal house in heaven that isn't made by human hands.”

“God said it. Nana believed it. That settles it.” She was truly home for Christmas. 

I can picture her at the back door of heaven waiting for each one of us to arrive so the fun can really begin!  As she would say, “There is always a light on in the window” and it’d be “wunnerful" if you would be there too.

Oh how she loved Pavarotti!

Top 10 Tuesday: Juvenile Christmas Books

Juvenile books maintain their edge as attention spans diminish in the digital age. We appreciate their intensity of flavor that's been reduced like a demi-glace to its essentials--not to mention the illustrations that convey the message visually as we're now accustomed.

Here are the favorites I just moved from the garage to our living room. Since my toddlers are now teenagers, I notice most of these are available used, dirt cheap, on Amazon, except for the few that are out of print.  Gives you motivation to visit your local library or thrift store!

10.  Wombat Divine by Mem Fox. There's a place for everyone in the Nativity.

9.  The Best Christmas Pageant Ever by Barbara Robinson. The original #brokenChristmas that breaks through religious spirits to experience Jesus.

8.  Jotham's Journey: A Storybook for Advent by Arnold Ytreeide. A daily dose of cliff-hanging historical fiction set in the time of Jesus' birth.

7.  Tabitha's Travels: A Storybook for Advent by Arnold Ytreeide. Similar to above with a girl heroine.

6.  The Christmas Miracle of Jonathon Toomey by Susan Wojciechowski. Taps my healed father wound. 

5.  The Legend of the Poinsettia by Tomie dePaolo. Nothing but the blood of Jesus foreshadowed!

4.  B is for Bethlehem by Isabel Wilner. Illustrated by Elisa Kleven. It's all about the pictures.

3.  Santa's Favorite Story  by Hisako Aoki. How I reconciled the Santa myth multi-culturally.

2.  A Dozen Silk Diapers by Melissa Kajpust. I love practicality and inclusion of all the animals.

1.  Luke from The Message by Eugene Peterson. Doesn't get any better than the true story.

The Truth of Seuss: #BrokenChristmas

I loved having another foodie in the house. Our winsome niece, Kat, unpacked her Patagonia duffels, slept in "the drawer" as we dubbed Allie's trundle bed, and fit right into our family for just shy of a year. It ended all too soon as we stood motionless in the driveway watching her drive into the sunrise. To us, it felt like the wrong direction. Our happy pack of puppies was forever depleted by one, neither the runt nor alpha dog, but surely the one with the wettest nose, keen on frolicking with all the others.

We packed a lot into those months as she pined for a lifestyle marketing job in California. All my household chores were more fun with this Cornell Hotel and Restaurant management graduate. Whether we were kicking tires on used Volkswagens, stocking my pantry with antioxidants from Whole Foods, squeezing specialty produce at Chino's farm stand, or mixing ginger and pear mocktails in our Vitamix, it was more luxury than I'd indulged myself in years. The affectionate nickname she gave me, "DG" (for Domestic Goddess), egged me on. Her tongue must have been in her cheek, when she dubbed herself "DiGiT," (Domestic Goddess in Training). We did nearly everything together. Except when she was playing big sister to Allie.

Sharing a room with a cousin 10 years older gave Allie more insight, foresight, and camaraderie, than we knew she'd been missing. It was a double portion of intimacy, compensation for waiting 15 years in vain for her twin brother with autism to play with her or converse. In one easy stride Allie could step into Kat's shadow on the sidewalk of life.

Living so far west, we had not experienced family as part of our daily grind. It was a gift as well-tailored as the ones she gave us that Christmas. Kat takes shopping to Olympic levels, both online and off. She presented inspired gifts to each of us: a Lego model of the Guggenheim museum for Jim, a bright turquoise space dye Lululemon jacket for me, Lulu pants for Allie, and a theater-sized poster of Singin' in the Rain for Reid demonstrated both her generosity and keen insight into each of our passions.

My only annoyance with her the entire year was her insistence on reading the Grinch Who Stole Christmas daily during December.

Oy vay, had she not seen the stack of more scriptural Advent devotionals and juvenile picture books I unpacked with the ornaments? Of all the books to reinforce in one's mind right before entering a sub-conscious dream state, why that one? And must we begin our day with it too? I'll admit, it irked me, to hear it's relatively vacuous rhyme being recited as if it were gospel. More than once, I offered alternatives, hand-carrying an illustrated edition of Luke 2 to her bedside. Propping Ruth Graham Bell's luscious summary of the New Testament, A Wintry Night, open on the kitchen table. No nibbles.

I let it go. And like proverbial true love, it came back.

Christmas Eve we grazed on our traditional salade Nicoise and champagne in front of the fire.  The kids, even our newly arrived eldest, nestled themselves into flannel sheets aware that Jim and I would want time to arrange presents under the tree. Hustling to get to bed ourselves, we were mindful that Reid's body clock did not adjust for our champagne consumption. He had been the first one up for many a moon. Holidays were no exception.

I awoke to a whimpering, crestfallen teen, "Maaom, Reid's downstairs. I think he unwrapped all the gifts."

"Huh...?" I mumbled from under the covers.

"Will you go check?" she pleaded with me. I sensed the recurrent, unutterable feeling we worked to repress: he ruined everything. The subtext my mother's heart heard was, can't you fix it?

All I wanted was to rewind to silence and a cup of coffee, or more sleep. I think it was 4 am. I trudged downstairs without stopping in the bathroom. Sure enough, the place had been ransacked. Shredded paper littered the living room. Anything that was not aVHS, DVD, or CD lay discarded haphazardly like a Jackson Pollack splatter painting.

A two year old could have done this, I thought.

I can't believe he's almost 16 and we're dealing with this? 

Will he ever outgrow this impulsivity? 

Why can't we have a normal Christmas?

The injustice of it hurt. I couldn't give Reid a lifetime supply of self-control anymore than I could promise Allie he'd answer her, play with her, interact with her, or tease her like a typical brother. I felt like an utter failure. Failing her...failing him...failing to provide harmony in my home.

Jim joined me, groggy in his slouchy pajama bottoms. Somewhere in the rubble was a new pair that would fit him better.  Together, without talking, we tried to salvage our expectations.

We repurposed any available packaging. Putting books in gift bags, folding clothes in piles, searching for tiny treasures, trying to recall what was missing, we embraced recycling at a new level. Channelling Christo, the environmental artist, we wrapped every store-bought thing. Ribbon bound gaping torn paper in creative disguise. We fluffed and swaddled until it looked how we thought Christmas ought to look.

Jim broke the blur of silence, fatigue and resolution, "I think we're handling this pretty well, don't you?"

As we ruminated, two things dawned on me. The joy really is in giving. Our actual presents were unharmed. Everything we'd chosen was in tact, there in plain sight. What had been taken was the experience of handing each one out expectantly watching how it was received. As the giver, in most cases, I wanted to be present to enjoy each person opening what I'd picked for them.

Second, it was like the Grinch had come through here.

The words of the storybook, practically memorized now, woke me like an alarm: It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags....What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store? What if, Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

It was true! We believed that. Could we actually do it now?

We went upstairs to console the girls. They sat sulking and whispering with arms akimbo. It's not fair. Those were mine, steamed from their nostrils into one conjoined bubble above their heads. Their breathing was audible: a strained inhale then forced exhale.

I couldn't help notice the stack of unharmed, picture-perfect parcels Kat kept stashed beside Allie's desk. Her mom had sent them from designer stores on the other side of the Mississippi. Let's just say at this point they were grossly mismatched with what was under our tree. Their creased corners and glossy graphics salted the wound, underscored the shabby salvage like "wash me" scratched in a cracked windshield.

Plopping on the trundle with them, I asked, "Kat, where's that Seuss book you've been reading all season?  Read the last page."

Seuss left it open ended. I wasn't going to risk confusion. Truth needed to be declared in the face of this attempted robbery.

After some succinct theology, we clustered in the chill around a wooden manger Jim had built as decoration for our front door step. Filled with evergreen boughs and a baby doll wrapped in a linen napkin, it was a semblance of the first Christmas.

We sang I Love You Lord, which was more of a solo but, I didn't care. They really did rally for Happy Birthday to Jesus.  And even a little Fahoo fores...Dahoo dores...

A poignant memory was born out of the hullabaloo Reid caused. He hadn't ruined anything. In fact, God may have sent him to fix a few things.

I’ll give you a new heart, put a new spirit in you. I’ll remove the stone heart from your body and replace it with  a heart that’s God-willed, not self-willed.  Ezekiel 36:23-25 

“Where can we find and pay homage to the newborn King of the Jews? We observed a star in the eastern sky that signaled his birth. We’re on pilgrimage to worship him.”  Matthew 2:1-3

A hurricane wind ripped through the mountains and shattered the rocks before God, but God wasn’t to be found in the wind; after the wind an earthquake, but God wasn’t in the earthquake; and after the earthquake fire, but God wasn’t in the fire; and after the fire a gentle and quiet whisper.  1 Kings 19:10-12 

Five Minute Friday: Reflect

Taking Lisa Jo Baker's prompt here:

Reflect....is that not all I do? "A Mother's Reflective Voice in the Hullabaloo" is the subtitle on my auto signature promoting this blog--my attempt to summarize all I post in one pithy phrase.

Reflect: to look back at what has happened in an attempt to find meaning or make meaning out of it.

Reflect: to shine from a light that is not your own.

Sara Groves has a song about this and I'm certain she had more than 5 minutes to write it. "You are the Sun"...I am the moon.  I have no light of my own...but find purpose in reflecting yours in the dark places of the world.

Gotta get in His presence if we want to shine, not flicker out....(Boy, I write slowly....STOP)