Highlights, Underlines, & Notes #1

Want to know more about this post series? Click HERE for the intro

Underlined:

In the beginning, God

(Genesis 1:1, incomplete)

There is more to that verse, but that is all I underlined. I don't remember when I made that mark, only that it still speaks to me. 

"In the beginning, God" 

There is no period, and I won't add one. It comes with its own timpani-like resonance. There was a beginning, and God was IN it.

Let's put this in more finite, tangible terms, shall we, and see how it explodes into God's Grandeur:

We all have a beginning. I was the second child born to my family, due on Thanksgiving, but I didn't arrive until December 15th--and then only by Cesarean section, which was fairly major surgery in 1972. That is my beginning, but if circumstances and history had not been lined up correctly by a divine hand who cared immensely for his creation, I wouldn't be here now. 

Why am I? 

Ah, the universal question. "Why am I here?"

Here's the answer, as best I see it:

In the beginning, even before the first spark of Earth was formed, God knew that sin would enter this world and soil his perfection. He knew that, as a consequence of that sin, womankind would struggle throughout the centuries, in various ways, to bring forth children into this fallen world. Some mothers would struggle so much that their babies wouldn't even be able to exit the womb in the way he originally designed. 

In the beginning, God also knew that thousands of years later, in a year we would label 1972, one particular mother (mine) would need medical intervention in order for us both to survive her pregnancy. So, at some point during the time in history celebrating the Roman Empire, God loved me enough to give an added bit of knowledge, skill, and risk-taking adventurousness to Mama Caesar's Family Physician. 

Yes, c-sections have been around for a long time. And yes, he had me in mind when he allowed the first one to be successfully completed. Perhaps you, as well. At the first c-section: God. At the ones that trained centuries of doctors and surgeons to successfully complete the procedure: God. And at the one which culminated in my first cry: God.

In the beginning, God

The beginning, my beginning, your beginning.

"Beginning" is a pretty big concept, isn't it? It's bigger than a birthday or a date on the calendar; it's the reference point for all-action-that-follows. It's the nothing-before-now point where everything resting in the glare of potential energy becomes a sense of kinetic hope.

It's a pretty big deal, the beginning. And God is IN it. 

In. It.

As an author, I know how much I struggle over the first line of every book. This one is perfection, before the sentence is even finished. "In the beginning, God" The very structure of the seemingly dependent clause is a big picture statement before the verb that follows is even given breath.

In the beginning, in my beginning, in your beginning, God. I can't look at those first four words of the Holy Bible and not see the personal nature of a divine creator. And if "in the beginning, God"-- if, on that gargantuan canvas of hope, he thought to paint a pixel of me, then how can I ignore worshiping him in the Now?

God, your knowledge and presence are vastly greater than my mind can ever hope to comprehend. Please forgive my narrow vision and inject your life into the dryness of my shale-like heart. For love of you and for your glory, may I read, write, pray, and live. Amen.

Random Epic Fail: Bunnies Edition

(see, I told you this blog would be random.)

We have teensy little baby bunnies in our yard. More precisely: we have baby bunnies in the section of the yard that is fenced and reserved for our 65 pound dog.

We have a biggish yard and only a small area of it is fenced off for Albus to do his business. So I ask you: what sort of stupid rabbit makes her nest/warren/whatever-you-call-a-baby-bunny depository in the middle of dog's bathroom?

Of course, we did not discover the bunnies on our own. It was Albus who discovered them when, stupid me, I saw a bunny sitting out in the middle of his area and thought, "Oh, maybe he'll be curious and they'll make friends!"

You see, I had a dog once who was a friend to all rabbits. He was a Cocker Spaniel named Friskie. He was not what you would call a good-natured dog. He had a terrible temper. He was very territorial and would nearly bite your arm off if you came near him with scissors (needless to say, he wasn't groomed very closely very often.) We were very careful around Friskie. But bunnies? Those guys were perfectly safe. In fact, nearly every temperate day, you could look out the window and see Friskie in the backyard, touching noses with a wild bunny.

So now you understand how my early childhood experience with the dog/rabbit connection might make me think my sweet teddy bear of a Goldendoodle, Albus, would consider a bunny rabbit a potential friend.

Epic. Fail.

He chased the bunny. The bunny ran and scooted under the fence. Safe. Right?

Not exactly.

Albus sniffed around the area where the bunny had been sitting, which was right in our pine-needle strewn side yard. He stuck his nose right down in there and really seemed to be concentrating. Then he pawed at the ground a bit, stepped back, and stared into what appeared to be a small hole. I figured, "Oh, great. He's going to eat rabbit poop." So I hollered at him. When he didn't immediately abandon his sniffing and nosing about (big surpise.) I went out to get him.

In the hole he'd uncovered, there were at least 5 baby bunnies, right there in the middle of the flippin' dog yard!

Stupid, mama rabbit!

So, Albus was hauled inside (quite literally) and I, of course, grabbed my camera and set one of my girls to Googling what the heck we were supposed to do to SAVE THE BUNNIES!

The internet says mama rabbits only come to care for their babies intermittently and only through the nighttime hours (it had been nearing dusk when she'd been there, so I guess "nighttime" is a loose definition of the bunny timeline.) Other than that, the baby bunnies are pretty much on their own. So I'm thinking... Okay. How do I make the bunnies safe during the day? How do I do that? A cage? A box? A fence? But how do I make it so that stupid mama can get in?

I look out in the garage. Nothing. No ideas. Down in the basement, however, I see... the antique bird cage. It has no bottom. It will be perfect. Or so I thought. But even though I tied up the door with ribbon, I worried that if I left it out there all night, mama bunny might not go in and take care of her babies; so, since Albus spends his nights indoors (and most of his days, too) I brought it in at bedtime. This morning, I put it back out, but closed the door so Albus wouldn't be tempted to stick his nose or paw through the hole.

After a while, Albus needed out. He sniffed around the cage, of course, but seemed like he would leave it alone, so I went about cleaning the kitchen.

A little while later, I hear my eldest holler, "Albus, NO! NO! Bad dog! Mom, he's eating the bunnies!"

Well, he wasn't eating them, but he did manage to dig under the cage and pull one out. It squealed. (Bunnies can make a horrible sound when they are scared -- this I knew from years back and a housecat who was fond of "playing" with them.) Even though it is so tiny--only about 5ish days old, according to a vet's article I read last night--the sound about broke my heart.

Delaney recovered the baby from Albus--still alive--and put Albus in the house while I checked on its bunny siblings and tried to figure out how to keep these babies safe.

I know, I know. It's nature. I'm an Iowa farm girl--I understand the food chain and all that, that it's Albus's nature to "retrieve" and to be fascinated by small things that not only move but squeak, but I'm a sucker with a capital S when it comes to animals. And helpless baby animals? Please.

All the mama bunny fur that had insulated the babies beneath the pine needles was now soaked in dog-dug mud, so I had to figure out some other way to keep them warm. (Did I mention it was raining? Yep. It was raining.)

Delaney went inside to get some tin foil to cover the birdcage to keep the rain off the babies, but how to keep them warm? The fur was destroyed, the pine needles all soaked and muddy.

What would have the sort of water repellent nature as rabbit fur? I had no idea. Cloth might smell funny and make mama rabbit stay away. Or it might get wet and only make them colder. Delaney suggested I take some of the down filling out of my comforter.

Thanks to Albus "losing" his tennis ball in my bed last week, there is a torn edge on my down comforter, and being that I'm something of a procrastinator and not great with a needle and thread, I haven't fixed it yet. So, I reached in and pulled out a hand full of soft, fluttery down. I then cut up a thin dish towel, wrapped a strip around the down, and put it on top of the bunnies with some more down on top.

Yes, I just sacrificed part of a king-sized down comforter for wild baby rabbits that are probably going to die. For all I know, down is poisonous to rabbits. Or they'll inhale and it will block their little noses up. Or (insert all the horrible possibilities you can think of)

GREAT! What did I just do?

Well, the best that I can. And that's all I can do, right?

I imagine it's going to be another epic fail and we'll have a bunch of dead baby bunnies within the next 24 hours. But ... who knows? Maybe it will work and my neighbors will curse my ingenuity when their gardens suffer from an influx of vegetable predators.

Introducing: Highlights, Underlines, & Notes: A Post Series

My trusty old NIV Bible

When I was growing up, my family did not darken the door of a church very often, but I attended a lot of Vacation Bible School programs on my own. For my formative years, I lugged the family Bible, a Good News Translation with odd stick-figure pictures, to the various Methodist, Lutheran, and Mennonite Sunday School classrooms and VBS programs I attended, while living in the small town of Kalona, Iowa. Finally frustrated with trying to "follow along" at one particular VBS that used a different translation of scripture, I finally convinced my mom to take me to the local Christian bookstore. There, the proprietor (a rather gruff, elderly Mennonite woman named Katie Yoder) helped me pick out a Bible of my very own. I took it home and wrote my name in it when I was 13-1/2 years + 3 days old. 

"Well, that's rather precise," you say with a slight eye roll.

Indeed. But you can't compliment my memory for that precision, because... I cheated. On the inside of the front cover of the aforementioned and above-pictured Bible, the date (June 18, 1986) is written in my youthful handwriting, right under my maiden name (I later added my married name further down the page in case it got lost) and "age 13 1/2" (the half was very important all those years ago!)

It's brown, it's old, and the spine is pretty loosey-goosey, but although I own many other Bibles in many versions, it's the one I'm most likely to turn to when I'm at home. This favorite book is an NIV Bible, published by Zondervan Bible Publishers of Grand Rapids Michigan, and it's been highlighted, underlined, notated, spilled on, sticky-noted, dropped, shoved in bags, and otherwise abused over the past 27ish years. But it's also been cried upon, rejoiced over, and the occasional precious note from one of my kids can be found tucked in here or there. 

The other night, as I was flipping through its thin, worn, and colorful pages, I had an idea:

INTRODUCING: A NEW POST SERIES

As in impetus to myself to "dig deeper", I will use this post series to go through my old Bible mark by mark, starting in Genesis and working through Revelation. I will study these highlights, underlines, and margin notes--some from more recent years, some made in my youth--and I will challenge myself, through this reading, musing, and reflecting, to recapture a sense of passion for my Creator, my Savior, and my faith; a passion that, sadly, has become too much of a hit-or-miss, depends-on-the-day sort of energy as I "mature." 

This series of posts will take a while. There are 27 years of markings in this Bible, after all! But I will try to pause and linger on at least one each week. I won't promise polished prose or wisdom, but I will do my best to approach these markings with honesty and openness. 

Will you join me?

"Parting is such sweet sorrow. . ."

(William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene 2)

My husband is out of town on business this week. I love it when he goes out of town for a few days. Yes, you heard that right. I love it. I. LOVE. IT.

"What?" you cry, dismayed, thinking me the worst wife ever. "What did you say?"

Now hold up a sec. I don't mean that like you think I mean that. Here's the thing: my Dave has been gone just over 24 hours and, already, I'm really excited for him to come home! 

"If you're so excited for him to come back," you ask, "why do you say you 'love it' that he left?Did something bad happen at home? Are the kids being rotten? Did the basement flood?"

No, none of that. None at all. Things are running rather smoothly, in fact. But the reason I am not only glad he left but am counting the days to his return is this: his absence has made me appreciate his presence. I'm entirely jazzed that, come Thursday night, I get him back!

It's not like the old days, when we had babies and toddlers and I needed him to hurry home because Mama needed a SANITY BREAK. (Besides, I've long since accepted that sanity is not something I can achieve for any extended period, regardless of home staffing.) We're in our forties now (although I'm just barely there. Only six months in. Yes, for some reason, I felt the need to clarify that, LOL.) Now our kids are older and fairly self-sufficient and completing way more chores than their activities create (woot!) But we are busy people, and in the day-to-day of our careers, hobbies, and extended family commitments, we don't connect on the sweet my-lover-is-my-best-friend level as often as we should. Yes, sometimes in the evening we might glance up from our various e-readers and tablets to comment on the yumtastical goodness Guy Fieri is tasting on the Food Network's Diners, Drive-ins, & Dives (my True Love's go-to, wind-down-from-the-day choice in television programming), but there isn't a lot of conversation most nights . . . or even eye contact, to be honest.

When you've been married for 18-1/2 years, it gets pretty easy to construct your own little island of solitude within the marriage dynamic. Life is distracting. Sometimes, it's darn near exhausting. The way life and its cast of characters pull you and your partner in separate directions is both frustrating and strangely addictive. All too often, the typical evening scenario finds us collapsing into our cushy chair of choice in front of the idiot box, attempting to let someone else think for us for a while. We spend the evening hours sort-of-watching a collection of TV personalities "relate" to insignificant strangers for our entertainment, while barely actually interacting with our flesh-and-blood-and-present One And Only. Yes, we might occasionally glance across the room when one of us laughs at something, and in that spare moment of connection, grin, because we like to see our partner happy. But most of the time, we're unknowingly lonely, "missing" each other while living the day-to-day, monotony of modern life... until one of us is called to travel.

When he goes away (or I do) for a day or two or, like in this case, four, we get to miss each other for real. And that is awesome. 

"Awesome?" you ask, bewildered. 

Yes, awesome! because, at least in our case, absence may not make the heart grow fonder, but it reminds the heart of that with which it is already fond. An unemotionally-charged separation, like traveling for work or fun-with-friends, is a good reminder that what we have within our marriage partnership is not only GOOD, but worth missing--and even better: worth remembering and worth LIVING, in a more connective state, when we reunite.

Yes, I'm glad he left: because I can hardly wait until he gets back!

To that end, I'm emailing him a link to this post, complete with a hug (note the goatee: that's my man!) Even though we'll most likely have a quick phone call tonight, I want him to know that I'm thinking about him today... and I'm counting the hours until he's home again.

Welcome to my Brand New Blog!

Welcome to Quirk Central. My name is Serena, and I'll serve as your tour guide through the randomness of my life and into that crazy space beyond the stories.

Those who know me have been forced to accept that "in person" I tend to ramble a bit. I am a daydreamer and I am easily distracted, yet I am often so focused on other worlds (I write fiction) that I forget to do stuff like, um, make dinner. In fact, even as I'm writing this, some kids in my house just pulled a pizza out of the oven. A pizza that I had no hand in preparing, other than saying, "Um, yeah. Sure. Pizza. Good."

(Yep. I'm "that mom." But before you call DHS, it should be noted that my kids are 12 and 16 and fully capable of safely operating an oven.)

Perhaps you've deduced that I am a little... odd.  If so, you are correct. *bwah-ha-ha-ha!* If you look to your right, you'll see a picture of giggly-me with somewhat fiery hair. (No, I'm not a natural redhead. At this writing, I'm not any sort of redhead, actually. Today I have more of a brown-meets-platinum streaky thing going on. *see welcome message below picture!* Tomorrow... who knows? But that's enough about my ever-changing hair for now--although it's bound to be mentioned here from time to time because I like to experiment with cut and color.)

Still here? Wow. I'm impressed! Still, at this point you're probably wondering what in the world you've stumbled upon. Who is this disorganized, rambling crazy woman?

This is me. This is my {personal} blog. (I put that in funny brackets because "personal" can sometimes imply "private" and the internet and privacy are a bit oxymoronic.) This is my {personal} blog, but it's not private. It's just not about the stuff I normally write about. It's about the random quirkiness of living life.

I'm going to write some stuff here on this blog that might not seem like it comes from the "Serena Chase" you know from reading The Ryn, The Remedy, or my book reviews, but rest assured: we're the same person. Yes, this blog is going to seem pretty random at times--pretty different from what you're used to from other authors, too, no doubt. And while I will continue to work hard to make my "professional" and fiction writing excellent, there is a certain amount of chaos in my life and brain that makes me "me." This blog is my attempt to connect with readers outside of the books I read and write on a "real" level that allows for a little more honesty and a little less polish. 

Is that quirky? I'm a quirky sort of girl. This blog is going to reflect that side of me.

What you can expect from Serena Chase: The Blog
I plan develop "theme posts" at some point, as is so popular among my fellow bloggers. I'll write about things like Late Night Guilt, Snort-laughing, Anxiety, and Dieting vs. The Desperate Need For Dr. Pepper. You know, the stuff that matters.

Did I also mention that I am frequently sarcastic? (Hmm. Probably should have put that out there in the opening paragraph...) Well, I am. You can expect a fair amount of that, too.

And now: THE TOTAL HONESTY ALERT

On this particular blog, I fully intend to write about the most random things imaginable. If you thrive on chaos, you might find yourself visiting often. If you're a fan of order? Maybe not. (Or maybe you order-hounds will surprise me and drop by regularly, just to assure yourself that, compared to me, you are totally sane.)

*shrugs with a smile* I'm cool with that.

Informality reigns
at Serena Chase: The Blog

I do not intend to review books on this blog. Places like Edgy Inspirational Romance and USA Today's Happy Ever After blog have dibs on my book reviews and author interviews, so follow those links if that's what you're looking for. If, however, you're looking for quirky random nonsense, an occasional honest devotional, or a photo commentary on something from my little corner of the world? Congratulations! You've arrived at Quirk Central. 

My posts may be funny, heartwrenchingly honest, sad, affirming, or simply a revel in the ridiculous, but . . . I'll try not to let it be boring. This is a put-your-feet-on-the-furniture kind of blog, so go ahead: make yourself at home. I'm glad you're here!