A Fairy Tale Life

To hear her tell it, she's had a pretty rough life. Saddled with the disadvantage of having a brother four years older than her, she would not be allowed the "luxuries" an only child is given, or the privileges the firstborn receives, especially a male heir. No, she would have to fight for everything she wanted. While everyone doted on "golden-boy", she would be Cinderella, forced by cruel fate to sleep in the ashes of the hearth with rags for clothes and kitchen vermin her only friends.

But that would be her story, though, not mine. She started out as a normal little girl, loving dolls, stuffed animals and all things pink. She had a short bout with colic as a baby, but by the time she was two, it was obvious that she was all girl. Which was a great relief to me, by the way.

When my wife was pregnant with our daughter, I had two main fears. One was that when she was born she would look like me, or worse, look like me in drag! When she was born, she did look like me, but my fears were unfounded. If she looks like I would look in drag, I'd look pretty good (minus the beard, of course).

My second greatest fear while my wife was pregnant with child number two was passing along my temperament. I am a less than jovial person on average. My Grandpa Zimmy was much the same way, a rather gruff old poop most of the time. After his funeral, Grandma Zimmy asked me if I thought he had been a good Grandpa. She had forgotten all the times he had chased us around when we were just little kids, trying to pinch us with his thick, workingman fingers. I guess he just enjoyed hearing us squeal. He could be very caring and soft, but that side was usually hidden away from public view. When he laughed, he laughed wholeheartedly. But usually he was just a gruff old poop. I told her he had been a terrific Grandpa.

On the drive home from his funeral, my wife began having contractions. This was early January, and our daughter was not due until March 17thApparently she felt left out over not getting to see her great-grandpa before he died, or maybe she felt the need to fill the Zimmerli-shaped void Grandpa had just created. Luckily, modern medical science, pharmacology and bed rest prevailed and she was denied early admittance. We should have been paying attention, because that was perhaps the first glimpse of her independent nature. The next came when she was due to be born. After trying to join us six-weeks early, she decided she wasn't coming out without a special invitation. When she was two weeks overdue, the doctor induced my wife and convinced our daughter to come out to play. My mother-in-law took one look at her first granddaughter, our new little bundle of joy, and said, “This is the one. This is the one who will pay you back.” Nice.

When our daughter first became mobile, I remember her crawling over to where her older brother was quietly watching television. “How cute,” I thought. “She's going to lie on the floor next to her brother and watch cartoons.” Not this child. She crawled over to his head, grabbed a handful of hair on either side and pulled upward. He howled in pain, but could do nothing about this sudden new threat to his safety. He had spent four years as master of his own domain, and suddenly there was this “thing” that crawled around the floor and ate lint and cat food, and it was attacking him. She had yanked on his hair just to hear him squeal. I immediately had flashbacks to Grandpa Zimmy, chasing us around the house, trying to pinch us, just to hear us squeal.

The knowledge that boys can't hit girls was very frustrating for her brother, as well as one of the things she exploited. This was brought home early one Saturday morning when she was about three. I had to be at work by six o'clock each morning, and played in a band on weekends. Sleeping in on Saturday morning was pretty special to me. On this particular Saturday morning I was roused from a deep slumber by the indignant cries of my daughter downstairs. I went to the top of the stairs and hollered down for an immediate cessation and explanation. She came to the bottom of the stairs in her pink bathrobe, her long, blonde hair framing her head like a halo, and, like a princess who has just been treated rudely by a vassal, announced, "He hit me back!"

I do believe she fancies herself a princess. Perhaps the King had to send her away for safekeeping from an evil stepmother and had his trusted servants (that would be us) raise her until he could safely bring her back home. I know someday in the not-too-distant future Prince Charming will come along and take her away. As the new Mr. and Mrs. Prince Charming depart for a long and happy life together, we’ll shed a tear or three. Then, when the happy couple is out of sight, we'll do a happy dance head and over to the King's castle to collect our bonus for raising the Princess!


© 1996-2006 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

Free Refills

Here's another of my favorites from ten years ago. -- MKZ

My son still has nightmares about it. Even though it happened years ago, the details of that day remain vivid in his memory. They lurk just below the surface of consciousness, waiting to be released by sleep or a well-turned phrase.

We were at a Bakers Square restaurant in Minneapolis, having a nice, normal meal during a weekend getaway to the Twin Cities. We had been to a Minnesota Twins baseball game, and had spent a day at the Minnesota Science Museum and the Omni Theater. I don't recall what was showing at the Omni, whether the Twins won or not or what hotel we stayed at. We had made this pilgrimage several times before, all good family outings, just like this one. We were at Bakers Square, filling the voids in our stomachs in anticipation of the trip home when it happened.

“The boy” (our affectionate term for him to this day) had been going through a growth spurt, meaning always hungry and always thirsty. The Bakers Square – “come for the food, stay for the pie” - offered free, bottomless refills on soft drinks.

It’s important to understand that restaurants did not always offer free soft drink refills. I think this was the first time we had encountered this marketing strategy.

“The boy” had his usual half-pound hamburger and a large Mountain Dew, his poison of choice because it’s chock full of caffeine chased with plenty of sugar. It’ll get you wired pretty quickly. He drank the first Dew before the food came and his second one during the ritual inhalation of his meal. He drank his third glass while we were finishing our meals. His eyes had begun to take on the golden hue of Mountain Dew when the waitress came back with yet another refill. We were having after-dinner conversation and coffee by then. This fourth large glass went down more slowly than the first several. He had just finished the last, slow drink of the sweet, stimulant-laden beverage when the waitress appeared again and asked if he'd like another.

His eyes began to dart back and forth, like the eyes of a chipmunk cornered by a cat. There was no exit. He was sitting in the inside part of the booth, nothing but wall and window to his right, his "stupid sister" to the left and a crazy woman standing there asking him if he wanted a fifth Mountain Dew. His parents were just sitting there, looking at him with no measure of reproach, no looks filled with subtle messages, no glares, no hidden clues, just sitting there, waiting for his answer. It wasn't costing us anything extra. It was his decision, an opportunity to drink as much as he wanted.

By now, though, the half-pound burger and the four previous glasses of Mountain Dew were getting friendly in his stomach, and the message had finally begun to get through to his brain that he had, in fact, just ingested a large meal. Fluorescent yellow-green letters the color of Mountain Dew began igniting in his brain. Messages were coming in fast and furious from various portions of his anatomy. A signpost up ahead told him he had just crossed over into the Twilight Zone.

He mumbled something about being full, and the waitress hesitated, and then asked if he was sure. It was free, she said. Bottomless. We told her to go ahead, bring him one more, and with a perky "OK" and a quick about-face, she was gone, returning in record-time with another large Mountain Dew. Total liquid volume if he drank all five: about a hundred ounces, nearly a gallon. He looked at the Dew for a moment, and then excused himself to go to the bathroom. He was gone for a long time. When he came back, he said he was ready to leave. The Dew went untouched. To this day, when we go to The Cities and ask where the kids want to eat, Bakers Square is, sadly, not on the list.

Jump ahead several years. Back in our hometown, “the boy” is now fifteen. It’s a Saturday night at a local pizza establishment. Partway through our meal, our waitress stops to check on things. Seeing his empty glass, she asks if he wants more Mountain Dew. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead, his breathing quickens, and his eyes start zipping from side to side, searching for exits. Struggling to regain control, he looks to me for a sign. I smile slowly, seeing the terror behind his eyes as the scene from several years earlier at Bakers Square replays itself on the movie screen in his brain. Finally I say, “I think he's probably had enough. We’re about ready to go.” Yes, I let him off the hook. Flashbacks can be a terrible thing to behold.

© 1996-2006 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

Once More Into the Breach

Author's note: I wrote this ten years ago, but stumbled across it again the other day. It still made me chuckle, and shudder a bit, as I remembered some of the trials of raising children. -- MKZ

Into The Breach

I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen. I told her it was too dangerous. No one could go into that place and come away unscathed. There were things too terrible to comprehend in there; this sort of thing was better left to trained professionals hardened to the type of atrocities those four walls contained. I tried, but my words fell on deaf ears. I insisted she tie a stout rope around her waist in case things got too rough and we needed to haul her out, and, reluctantly, she agreed. Giving my hand a quick squeeze, and my lips a brief, soft brush with hers, she turned away. Her face became a mask of determination as she edged closer to the threshold where mortals normally dare not go. A few steps more, and she was gone. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was to be our final parting. My wife had bravely gone into our daughter's bedroom, vowing not to emerge until it had been thoroughly cleaned. Our daughter, you see, is a pig.

No parent likes to admit a child of theirs is a slob, but our daughter is a bona fide pig. We have even toyed with giving her the nickname TOD, which stands for Trail Of Destruction. If we call her TOD, though, she simply rolls her eleven-year-old eyes back in her head and stomps off, something she is quite good at. Some may say she is best at whining or biting sarcasm, but her forte is definitely stomping. She's no slouch at door slamming and her hands have jammed down on her hips so many times she has permanent divots, but for pure perfection, that girl is a stomper. And, unfortunately, she is a pig.

It’s as though she thinks the whole house is her personal trashcan. Things are dropped wherever she happens to be. Her grandmother, after a weeklong visit with us told me, "She just doesn't look behind her." I had turned to my mother-in-law for advice, or, at the very least, support and empathy. I knew she had raised at least one daughter (NOT my wife, to be clear) who had kept a, shall we say, “less than perfectly-ordered” bedroom.

"Less than perfect?" MIL hooted. "We didn't see her carpet for two years! One time we got out the garden rake to drag things out from under her bed. We found Jimmy Hoffa!"

Okay, I made up the part about Jimmy Hoffa, but she did concede that one of their two youngest girls had been a bit slovenly in the room upkeep department. In her defense, though, she turned out all right, once she was on her own and Mom was not there to pick up after her. In truth, she came up against roommates who were her slobbish equals. One day, the light came on for her, and she suddenly began to keep things picked up better. Not perfect, but better.

There was a plaque in my parents’ house when I was growing up which read: “Our House Is Clean Enough To Be Healthy, And Dirty Enough To Be Happy.” I point to this as way of explaining that I do not go around with a white glove and petri dishes to check for pathogens. I just knew my daughter's room couldn't pass an inspection by even a blind health department official. If dirty was synonymous with happy, she must have been the happiest person in the world. Her happiness was not shared by my wife, though, who had reached her breaking point. So when our daughter was away for the weekend on a church youth retreat, my wife grabbed an extra large garbage bag, gritted her teeth and said, "I'm going in." My son and I looked at each other and were sore afraid.

Five hours later, my wife emerged from Becca's room, and announced, "It is finished."

During her ordeal, we kept track of everything removed, discarded, uncovered or retrieved from the abyss. Here is the accounting: My wife filled two extra-large garbage bags, found sixteen pencils, eighteen cassette tapes, nineteen pens, thirty-five socks, two dirty bowls and several spoons. She found a book the library had called about six months earlier, and unearthed over a hundred Q-tips that had been pressed into service as paintbrushes. Two giant bottles of glue were discovered, two unused rolls of masking tape, a used, empty tape dispenser, and a partially used roll of electrical tape. She located my fishing light, the one that clips to the bill of a cap, and a spool of fishing line. Also in the tally were untold numbers of Halloween candy wrappers, five pair of scissors, two unopened bags of fruit snacks and a can of soda in her nightstand, a cookie on her dresser, several wrappers from individual cheese slices and a couple snack cracker wrappers.

My wife told me she thought she heard a strange, mechanical whimper as she was bringing the vacuum cleaner to finish cleaning the room, and said that whenever she would stop vacuuming for a moment the vacuum cleaner would try to make a break for the door. Who could blame it?

When our daughter came home the next afternoon, she screeched at the sight of all that cleanliness and order where disarray and filth had once been her happy bunkmates. To her credit, though, she did not accuse us of violating her privacy. Personally, I think she was glad she had not been forced to do it herself, because she knew it would have taken her days to get it this clean. She did, however, inform us that she was never leaving again. Ever.

Through it all, my son kept a silent vigil outside his sister's room. He watched wordlessly, eyes open wide, as his mother waded through the piles of trash threatening to escape the confines of the bedroom and spill out and take over the entire house. He watched quietly, holding onto that rope tied to his mother's waist, and prayed. Prayed that she wouldn't finish and move on to HIS room.

© 1996-2006 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved

A Promise of Strength

Isaiah 40:27-31 from The Message ...

"Why would you ever complain, O Jacob,
or, whine, Israel, saying,
"God has lost track of me.
He doesn't care what happens to me"?
Don't you know anything? Haven't you been listening?
God doesn't come and go. God lasts.
He's Creator of all you can see or imagine.
He doesn't get tired out, doesn't pause to catch His breath.
And He knows everything, inside and out.
He energizes those who get tired,
gives fresh strength to dropouts.
For even young people tire and drop out,
young folk in their prime stumble and fall.
But those who wait upon God get fresh strength.
They spread their wings and soar like eagles,
They run and don't get tired,
they walk and don't lag behind."

A friend of mine emailed me the other day after finding out he will need to have a couple of stents - at least - and possibly bypass surgery if the blockages are too extensive. He was one of my first Christian friends after I accepted Jesus' gift of salvation over 30 years ago. Now he lives just south of here in Florida. He admitted that, though he had emailed earlier and said how everyone's prayers had given him a sense of peace, he was actually quite frightened and upset.

I told him that it is normal to be anxious and scared when faced with our own mortality. Even though we have the promise of eternal life, there is still plenty of fear to go around when it comes down to brass tacks about death and dying - more the dying part than anything else, I think.

While I was on my morning walk today, talking to God and trying to listen for His still, small replies, I got to praying and talking with God about my friend's situation and being "ready to die." And very clearly in my head I heard, "You're ready to die, but are you ready to live?"

Most of us don't have a deathbed conversion; many of us receive salvation as teens. There's a lot of living to be done in between when we take His hand in acceptance and when He takes our hand to welcome us home. It's more than being in a club and getting jackets with our names on them. Are we ready and willing to follow Him despite what lies ahead?

When the teacup tips whatever is inside spills out. What comes out when you get tipped? Fill my cup, Lord!

Habbakuk 3:19 (HCSB) Yahweh my Lord is my strength; He makes my feet like those of a deer and enables me to walk on mountain heights!

Have A Nice Day

We all have heard the verse - and read the devotional and Sunday School lesson and heard the sermon! - which says we should not be anxious about anything. Philippians 4:6 NASB "Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." Maybe the Apostle Paul was able to put this into practice, but in my case it's definitely "Do as I say, not as I do." Don't follow my example!

Monday I made my first appearance ever in traffic court. Suffice it to say: Whatever state you live in, do a google-search for the state statute regarding yielding to a funeral procession. I can tell you that it is NOT printed anywhere in the Minnesota or Georgia driver manuals.

Back in March I encountered a funeral procession, my first one since moving to Georgia two years ago. I followed the lead of the half-dozen other cards around me and pulled over as it first approached and passed us (going in the opposite direction we were headed). After a bit, the drivers around me pulled back into traffic and drove very slowly as the funeral procession continued in the opposite direction. The funeral procession eventually began to thin out, and a few drivers made right-hand turns off the road while others continued on. I noticed that there were about 3-4 car lengths until the next vehicle, and old pickup, and it was not operating headlights or flashers or carrying a funeral procession pennant, so I turned left - across the road - and continued on my way. About a mile down the road, I looked up and saw the blue and white lights filling my rear-view mirror. I pulled over and was informed that I had illegally cut through a funeral procession. The statute calls it failure to yield to a funeral procession.

The police officer was gone for a long time with my license, and when he came back I asked him how I am supposed to know that the procession is over. He replied that there would be a police car at the front and the end. He also told me, "We take respect very seriously down here," an apparent reference to my main driving record being from Minnesota - a Yankee state (where we don't take respect seriously at all, right?). He also said he didn't know how much the fine would be.

It turned out to be $250!! So I checked the online version of the statute (my wife made the initial discovery), and it said the fine should not exceed $100. Now I was starting to get suspicious. A check at the local clerk of court showed that the patrol car at the beginning and end is not actually part of the local ordinance or the state statute; it's a local preference. I decided not to pay the fine.

Monday morning, my wife and I arrived for our "educational field trip," as she called it, at 9 a.m., having been warned to get there early. The clerk at the city office said they start taking names at 9:15 and just go on down the list in the order they come in. We were not first in line - we were about 20th - for 10 a.m. traffic court. Eventually they crammed about 90 of us into the courtroom with about 65 mis-matched chairs. What a great place to people watch! And all cross-sections of life. People from all walks break traffic laws.

When my turn came, I pleaded No Contest, and the judge asked me to tell what had happened that day. I told him what I told you - minus the "respect down here" comment, which I was saving for later.

I also told my wife to be prepared to launch into a song from our upcoming Vacation Bible School, complete with hand motions, if it looked like things were going badly for me!

The judge heard me out and then said, "Have a nice day, Mr. Zimmerli. Case dismissed." Keep in mind: I was guilty. I had cut through a funeral procession. The judge showed mercy because of my driving record and because there is no way to know the exact law unless you break it once. No fine needed to be paid. In our case with God, Jesus paid the fine already, so the verdict will be the same: Case dismissed. What a relief.

Don't be anxious for anything. God is in control. Shape your worry into a prayer, sandwiched between praises and give it to God and leave it there.

I love how fresh that Scripture is from The Message: Philippians 4:4-7 ...
"4-5 Celebrate God all day, every day. I mean, revel in Him! Make it as clear as you can to all you meet that you're on their side, working with them and not against them. Help them see that the Master is about to arrive. He could show up any minute!

6-7 Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life."

I'm trying, and each victory makes me trust Him more, but "Do as I say, not as I do ... most of the time!"


Postscript: Driving to work today (Wednesday, 2 days after traffic court) I came upon a funeral procession just leaving the funeral home. I had to wait for the entire procession to pass, but at least there was no question when it was done, since there was a police officer blocking the road for traffic coming toward the funeral procession. I found it funny to be stuck there, and thanked God for His sense of humor and for reminding me that I received mercy instead of judgment when He forgave me in my sin and continues to forgive me and lead me daily. -- MKZ

© 2006 Mike Zimmerli All Rights Reserved