Martha and the Vandellas had no idea.

It’s 1965. Al Gore hasn’t invented the internet. I am a little kid. The group’s hit Nowhere to Run To, Nowhere to Hide presciently pegs cyberspace as the world’s bathroom wall.

It’s painful to “unfriend” and “unfollow” while building a platform, particularly when the person on the receiving end is more than just a name or profile. But profanity and snarkiness negatively impacts their “brand,” and by association, mine, making less-savory traits hidden before twitter and facebook overt.

We’re busted.

These flaws impact me because my audience is generally conservative. To honor that position, I spend a couple of hours each week reviewing the profile or page of most “likes” and “follows” to see if they drop the F-bomb, post vulgar images, or are consistently unpleasant. (They have the right to all those things, but not on my watch.) I block when I find offensive material. Their less-guarded moment can dilute my cyber reputation — in which I’m investing money and time.

I didn’t associate with bullies in grade school; the fundamentally entitled and angry in middle school; or those whose vocabularies included stupid (yes, that’s what it is) language in high school and beyond. Why start now?

When did cyberspace become the globe’s bathroom wall? When did posts become graffiti? Where are verbal filters? No one looks cool or intelligent when sinking to a low common denominator. They just look…common.

Roll through your posts. Would you associate with the persona you project in cyberspace? If the answer is “no,” remember nothing is ever erased in the world wide web.

You have nowhere to run to, and nowhere to hide, baby.

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In days of maid and steamer trunk, someone else transported junk.

But now I’m on my own, I fear, when gallivanting far and near.

From fishing pants to slickered coats, and hiking boots the size of boats.

High-powered DEET to repel bugs, converters for assorted plugs.

And don’t forget prescription drugs!

So I rely, for cords and lotions, lingerie and facial potions,

Dirty clothes and filthy rags — the all-encompassing ziplock bags.

(Our Peruvian adventure begins this week, solidifying research for manuscript three in a region whose archaeology remains largely unexplored and unfamiliar. Stay tuned!)

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Happy Birthday to me. (By the way, it’s chocolate or die.)

Long ago and far away, my parents brought into this world a bouncing baby girl. She was followed two years later by her brother, who’se been chasing her ever since. (Nanny nanny boo boo, and your mother dresses you funny, Stuart.)

I’ve been faithful in every way, but must confess a long-running affair with chocolate — the darker the better. Hot chocolate, chocolate cookies (I’m dieting, and this blog is killing me), chocolate candy, and especially chocolate cake with chocolate icing. No lightweight red velvet, strawberry, or pound for me. “CHAW’-CO-LET.”

As a “from-scratch” organic cook, cakes rarely happen in my kitchen. They’re a hassle; baking at altitude can be disastrous; we’re empty nesters; and the freezer is always full of high-quality protein — hard to find in this valley unless you shoot or catch it yourself.

The cake in this photo has to be my perfect cake: it has M&Ms on top. When I married Mr. Wonderful — longer ago than I’ll share — people dear to us didn’t throw rice or rose petals when we sashayed from the church. No, indeedy. They threw M&Ms. My oldest friend, Kathleen, was photographed patiently sweeping piles of colorful candies in front of an antebellum chapel. It was a very good day.

I ration chocolate now, being careful about boring things like calories while facing a slowing metabolism. But tonight, my blog friends, I’m going to find the biggest piece of the best chocolate cake this valley has to offer. And I’m not sharing — one fork only, please.

Happy Birthday to me.

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I just returned from a writer’s conference where I, an unpublished David in the Elah valley of literature, was privileged to pitch manuscripts to editors from various publishing houses. Most were large corporations, some were divisions of Big Six Imprints — Goliaths — and all were extremely interested in my work. From here, the ball is in my gracious literary agent’s court, from which formal proposals will fly in coming weeks like tennis balls from Serena Williams.

My literary agent, Mary G. Keeley of Books & Such Literary Agency, and me.

But here’s the thing. When I was at seminary as an <ahem> older female student, my profs repeatedly asked one question: what are you going to do with your seminary degree? It wasn’t a casual query. They were genuinely interested in what a middle-aged woman not destined for traditional ministry (by choice) would do after three years of hard labor chasing deeper knowledge of God. My truthful response was, “only God knows.”

I’ve dwelt on faith’s fringe all my life. As a kid wondering how the seven-day Biblical creation dovetailed with scientific eras of earth’s development. As a young lady pursuing afine education when others were marrying young. As a single adult building a business, knowing there might not BE a Mr. Wonderful. As a mother homeschooling while managing a thriving business, trying to sustain a relationship with the late-arriving Mr. Wonderful. As a mature woman at Dallas Theological receiving a doctrinally sound platform on which to stack boxes of experience, education, and enthusiasm.

The truly AMAZING conference news is every single editor loved the work and wants more, appreciating my desire to be a vigorous, joyful voice for intelligent women of faith while espousing a global worldview.

Brace yourselves. I am empowered by Almighty God. Hallelujah!

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We have a decent snow base in the Colorado Rockies now thanks to a little storm last weekend. Mine were not the only prayers of thanksgiving for this watery, God-given gift.

When it snows, I cross-country (XC) ski. Downhill is for the more balanced and adrenaline-saturated. I stick to a swooshing, deliberate, cardio-pumping walk slide in the park, regularly passed by diabolical children and crazed geriatrics. Dang it.

But as I rocked along humming disparate tunes (I Will Wait for You by Mumford & Sons, Angels We Have Heard on High, the 1812 Overture), I thought about how much I improved the more I practiced (DUH) — right before Methuselah flew by. How much easier it was to slide, almost gracefully, body centered over skis, motion steady, thanks to experience.

Between Methuselah and Dennis the Menace, epiphany struck. (It didn’t knock me down.)

The more I practice, the easier it is to slide. The more I sin, the easier it is to sin. At this point, I stepped from the course to avoid being creamed by a speeding bullet or skate-skier. (Never, before you ask.) Although I have a sin nature, sin is a practiced art. (Avoid discussion of commission versus omission.) I become progressively desensitized with each missed opportunity to seek forgiveness and repent. To continue my bobbly XC analogy, I got further from the clubhouse — God — with each smoother stride.
I have much to learn and winter will draw to a close in a couple of months. Until then, I’ll swoosh/crash pondering my sins, asking for forgiveness, surrounded by God’s magnificent general revelation of Himself.

And I’ll include thoughts about rotten little kids and immortal geezers laughing happily over their shoulders as they careen past on their speed-addicted ways. Dang it.

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