And the Winner Is…

Where to even begin?

First off this post feels far different for me than I imagined it would when I wrote the first installment of this series.  On that day, I imagined writing this with self-satisfied glee.  I imagined myself as some arbiter of consumer justice, meting out public relations lashes to the business wrong-doers of the world.  But it’s just more complicated than that…

So I’m going to tell my story, but I’ve decided to withhold the name of the business.  One reason for this is that the stupid problem is still not resolved.  Local readers will probably figure it out anyway, but that’s just the way it goes.  So here we go:

A few months ago, my husband sent me out to purchase two appliances for the cabin we’re restoring on our farm.  (I know, I’m going to do a post soon…)  We needed a slide-in range and a dishwasher.  I checked out the local big-box stores and didn’t see any slide-in ranges, only tons of the free standing ones (knobs on a panel that sticks up on the back, which wouldn’t work with the bar height on our kitchen island).  So I went to a local, independent appliance dealer who carries a wide range of brands and styles, from the uber-pricey Viking and SubZero stuff to the more accessible Fridgidair and GE.  He had a couple of different slide-in ranges on the showroom floor, and told me that he could get it for us in our preferred stainless steel in two weeks.

Two weeks.

I said OK, but that we did need it soon, because our cabinet man would have to have the appliance on hand to make the necessary cuts in the wood countertops.  The owner of the business (we’ll call him Larry) said no problem.  So my husband went by later that day and paid him by check in full.  The total was $1815 and change.

Two weeks went by.  No appliances.  Three weeks.  No appliances.  I called Larry.

“Hey, Larry.  I’ve really got to have those appliances in the next day or two, because my cabinet man is waiting on you, and I don’t want him to get wrapped up in another job before mine is done.  It’s hard to get people scheduled to go up to this place because it’s so far out of the way.  Can you deliever day after tomorrow?”

“Yeah, your stuff is in.  It’s in Panama City. {I didn’t realize that having something parked 90 miles away meant that it was “in,” but whatever…}  I can deliver them day after tomorrow.”

“Great.  I’ll call you Thursday morning and set up a time.  Bye.”

Thursday rolled around.  I called that morning to set up a delivery time.

“Hey Larry.  What time does your delivery guy want me to meet him at the cabin?” {Remember people, this is 35 miles from my house.}

“Well, your stuff is in Panama City.  {awkward silence that I refuse to fill with words.} I think I can send my guy to get it tomorrow.”

**Big sigh from me.**  “Ok, so can you deliver Monday?”

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be any problem.”

Do I even have to tell you how the conversation went on Monday?  You can just cut and paste the above conversation here, because it was the exact same conversation. 

So now we’re over two weeks past the promised delivery date, and I’m grinding my teeth at night.

A few days later I walked into Larry’s store and said, “Larry, I’m sorry, but this is just not working out.  I needed those appliances weeks ago, and you promised you could get them to me then and it hasn’t happened.  I need to go somewhere that has what I need in stock and get on with it, so I’m gonna need my money back.”

“It’s HERE,” he says all panicked, gesturing toward the back of the building.  “I can deliver today.”

“Today?”  I say, skeptically.

“TODAY,” says Larry.  “What time do you want to meet us?”

“How about 3 o’clock?” I say.

“We’ll see you at 3!” he says.  I leave.

I make arrangements for someone else to pick my children up from school and drive the 40 minutes to the farm.  I unlock the gate and go wait at the cabin.  For over an hour and a half.  No delivery.

I lock up, get in my car, and start driving back to town.  I’m gripping the steering wheel tight enough to break it.

When I get back to civilization and a good cell signal, I get a call from Larry.

“Where are you?” he says.  “My guy is up there and he says the gate is locked.”

{Note:  this is where my anger gets the best of me and I LOSE IT.  I am not proud of it.  I was pretty emotionally drained, as this was just a few days after the sudden death of a family friend that set into motion the American Airlines incident.  I have prayed for forgiveness.  I’m just telling you like it is…}

“REALLY?!?!  BECAUSE IF HE HAD BEEN THERE AT THREE HE WOULD HAVE FOUND IT WIDE OPEN.  IF HE HAD BEEN THERE AT FOUR HE WOULD HAVE FOUND IT WIDE OPEN.  HIS PROBLEM IS THAT HE’S ALMOST TWO HOURS LATE!!”

“I’m sorry,” Larry says.  “I apologize.  He had a flat tire on the way back from Panama City…”

{OK, wait a minute.  This morning when I wanted my money back, Larry insisted that my appliances were HERE, emphatically gesturing toward his stockroom to make the point.  He knew that if he told me they still weren’t even in the STATE I would have insisted on my refund.  I realize now that I have not only been jerked around and inconvenienced, I have been LIED TO.  Cue anger…}

“Well, I’m done,”  I said, attempting to get it together. “I want my money back.”

“How about a big discount?” Larry pleads.

“I.  Want.  My.  Money.  Back,” I said again.

“I’ll give ‘em to you half off!” he pressed.

“I WANT MY MONEY BACK!!!”  I shrieked like a crazy person.

“OK,” Larry said dejectedly. “I’ll have you a check tomorrow.”

{Would you believe me if I told you the story hasn’t gotten bad yet?}

The next morning I arrived at the appliance store shortly after they opened, and Larry met me at the door with a check for the full amount of our purchase.  I told him I was sorry it hadn’t worked out, took my check and left.

The check went into the bank a couple of days later, I paid several bills out of the account and then we left for our trip to North Carolina.  (Yes, where we suffered the Chambers Agency incident.)  I returned home to a weeks worth of mail, which included several overdraft notices.

Larry’s check had bounced.  Causing me to overdraw and incur $220 in overdraft charges.  I wanted to run into the street screaming.

At this point I looked at my husband, the trial lawyer, and said, “Um, I think I need you to take this over.”  He agreed.

The next morning we went to the store, showed him the returned check and said we’d need cash or a certified check by Monday morning.  Larry looked at us and said he wouldn’t be able to get the money until Wednesday.

Ya’ll.  This is a business that sells Viking ranges that price out at over $10,000 a piece.  Refrigerators for $8,000.  How in the world is it possible that this man can’t lay his hands on $1815 in less than five days??  HOW do you run a business like that?

Anyway, we said OK, Wednesday.  Do I even need to tell you?  On Wednesday he needed until Friday.  In the mean time my husband and I are making daily trips to his bank and presenting the returned check in the hope that we’d get there just after a deposit and be able to cash it.  It was like playing a slot machine.  We never won.

On Friday, my husband informed Larry that time was up, and if he didn’t have the cash, we’d just take some stuff.  I swear, I couldn’t make this up.  I had to go into this man’s business like a loan shark and say “I’ll take that, and I’ll take that, and I’ll take that.”  I walked out of there with a six-burner Jenn-Air gas range and a Frigidair built-in stainless microwave that I NEITHER NEED NOR WANT. 

Larry followed me out the door promising that he was going to make this whole thing right ASAP.

I have a feeling I’m going to be running an appliance business through Craigslist and Ebay soon to cover my loses.

So why do I have trepidation about releasing his name and the name of the business?  Because I think he’s about to bankrupt.  And as angry as I am, and as unfairly as we’ve been treated, I can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for this guy who’s so obviously on the ropes.  Granted, he’s a horrible businessman.  But I don’t like watching a husband, father, and provider go down.  That gives me no pleasure, even under these circumstances.

So there you have it.  All in the space of a couple of weeks, I had the pleasure of the American Airlines fiasco, the Chambers Agency debacle, and the ongoing appliance saga with my buddy “Larry.”  Everytime I turn on local TV, he’s standing in his showroom shouting for me to “COME ON DOWN TO **** APPLIANCES!”  He’s smiling like the cheshire cat.

I think I’d rather not, Larry.  If it’s all the same to you…

The Skunk Awards – A Sidebar

Before I unveil our big winner for ‘09, I feel the need to back up and revisit why I’m even doing this series.  I have to thank my Sunday School teacher, Steve, for bringing this into focus for me today.  You see, I hope that this blog and the things in it ultimately glorify God.  I know some of it is just silly and funny, but at the end of the day, I want my life to make you think.

And let’s be honest:  I don’t always get it right.  (I know that’s shocking–take a moment and let it sink in. ) But I hope that even in my screw-ups and stumbles, a good dose of transparency in the retelling will help us all think about what a God-honoring life really looks like.

It doesn’t accomplish any of those goals for me to simply bash a business person who failed in his or her job.  Heck, serving the public in any capacity is hard, and we all have bad days.  If any of the people I’ve written about in this series had a front-row seat to my jobs (mom, wife, writer, teacher…) I’m sure they could find plenty to take issue with.  But at the same time, I do hope that talking about these experiences will encourage those who do serve others in their jobs to raise the bar and do their jobs–even on the bad days–”as unto the Lord.” (Col. 3:23)

So let’s just shell the corn:  I let anger seep into my attitudes and words in almost all of these situations, to varying degrees.  That’s my sin in this.  To feel anger is human, to act or speak based upon it is sinful.  To take that one step further–when I’m truly seeking the Lord (spending time in the Word and prayer, and staying in tune with the leading of the Holy Spirit), the anger monster is much more difficult to arouse.  Even in the most provoking situations, a heart that is thoroughly marinated in Jesus just acts and reacts more like Jesus.  And yes, I did just use the culinary practice of marinating as a metaphor for spiritual discipline.  You heard it here first.

So when I award the big Skunk of the Year, I have to make it clear that in my interaction with that particular business, I let anger get the best of me even more than in the previous award scenarios.  I’m not proud of that.  But because I’ve confessed it to the Lord and he is infinitely merciful, I know I am forgiven.  Which means that…

I have to forgive these people, too.  (That’s what I get for writing my little smarty-pants blog, right?) So I do.  I forgive “Lou” at American Airlines for stonewalling me.  He was probably just doing what the company trained him to do, and has the supreme pleasure of catching it from the flying public all day for being a good little soldier.  He’s probably stuck between the boss and the lady on the phone.  I forgive you, Lou.

I forgive Tucker Chambers for being a jerk.  That one’s a little tougher, because he’s an independent business person with all the autonomy in the world, but who knows what other circumstances were bearing down on him in his personal or professional life that day.  I forgive you Tucker, whatever that was about.

And I have forgiven the man who will receive the grand prize.  Totally.  No hard feelings.

Now, that being said, I think you can completely let go of bitterness and hard feelings and genuinely forgive another, but wisdom has to dictate how you interact with them going forward.  So forgiving doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll choose to do business with them in the future.  I can love them, pray for them, and wish them well without entering into another business relationship.  That’s my understanding, anyway. 

So read these stories and learn.  Learn how to avoid the ditches I’ve stumbled into.  Learn how to look to the  Word for the guidance we need just to get through the stinkin’ day.  Learn how to be so grateful for a Lord and Savior who loves us enough to forgive us.

Even in a bad customer service moment.

Now that’s forgiveness, people.

The Skunk Awards 2009, Part Two

For those just joining us, I am naming the recipients of a special award (created by moi) called The Skunk Award…”For customer service that truly stinks.”  Honorable Mention went to American Airlines, and you can read all about that here.

Moving along.  Our First Runner-Up is (drumroll):  The Chambers Agency of Highlands, NC.  Here’s the story:

During the summer, I began to daydream about cool mountain air and crisp fall foliage as a means of surviving the delirium brought on by the oppressive south Alabama heat.  So I began to plan a fall break adventure to Highlands, NC.  Highlands is an upscale, small resort town in the Blue Ridge Mountains known for its jaw-dropping scenery, great shopping, and cool temperatures.

I spent a considerable amount of time combing the internet for a rental cabin or home that would accomodate our family of four plus my mom and dad, who were joining us.  I finally zeroed in on a small 3 bedroom, two bath home with a beautiful stone fireplace and newly remodeled kitchen.  Highlands is a pricey market, but I felt like a had found a good deal.

My parents arrived at the cabin first, and they chose one of the downstairs bedrooms.  Now let me stop here and say that most of the online photos of the home were of the top floor, and there was a reason for that.  The upper floor was much nicer.  The two downstairs bedrooms and bath had a definite dank, “basementy” feel.  But, you know, nothing we couldn’t live with.

Then my mother went to turn back the bed, and found this:

Sweet dreams...

Now, when one looked at the stained ceiling tiles just above the bed, it became obvious that the horrific sheets were the result of a prior leak.  Unpleasant.  But, you know, nothing we couldn’t get past…Mom just washed the linens and we went on about our business.

The next day, my parents reported clouds of some type of swarming insect (termites, maybe?) in the downstairs bath.  They dutifully found some Raid and killed the pests, then swept up the carcasses.  Truly unpleasant.  But, you know, nothing we couldn’t…oh give me a break–enough is enough.  This is not what we paid for.  I don’t need luxury, but I do need clean.  And if I need clean, my parents are certifiable germaphobes.  Clean freaks.  They were being troopers, but I knew this place was making them crazy.

So I went by the agency and spoke with a nice younger woman, explained the trouble we’d had, and asked for one of the owners (a husband/wife duo by the name of Tucker and Jeannie Chambers) to call me to discuss it.  We went on with our sight seeing for the day.  No call.

The next morning I called back and spoke with Tucker Chambers.  I politely explained that while I understood that things can’t always be perfect with every home, we’d had quite a few problems with this one, and was there anything he could do about it?

“No,”  he said.  “I won’t be able to do anything.  You got that property at a discount, and you get what you pay for.”

If I’m lying, I’m dying.

“Well,” I said. “The rental rate (which was $1300 for the week) that was listed on the internet didn’t indicate that it was a discounted rate.  And I would think that cleanliness would be the bare minimum you’d want to offer in all of your properties, at every price point.  Wouldn’t you?”

“Well, sure.  But there were other sheets in the house.  I’m not going to be able to do anything for you.”

Amazing.  I mulled it over for 24 hours. 

Luckily, my mother had NOT WASHED the most offensive pillowcase, and I was able to retrieve it from the downstairs closet.  The next day, a Friday, I waited until around 11:00 am when things would have picked up around the office with weekend travelers coming and going.  I put that skanky pillowcase under my arm and told my husband that I was going to see my friend Tucker Chambers.

The office was bustling, and when they saw me walk in, pillow in tow, the blood ran out of their faces.  Jeannie was standing in the front foyer, and I sweetly asked if Tucker was available.  She glanced into his office, just off the foyer, and said that he had someone in with him.

“I’ll wait,” I smiled.  Everyone stared at the pillow and wondered what was about to happen.  Jeannie shot looks into Tucker’s office that silently indicated that he needed to step on it.

Soon Tucker ambled out of his office along with his guest, and I introduced myself.

“Hi Tucker,” I said with a smile. “I’m Dana McCain–we spoke yesterday?  Remember?  Yeah, well, this is the pillow you want my momma to shut up and sleep on.”  I was smiling as if I had just said ‘I was baking and wanted you to have this pound cake.’

His wife shuddered audibly when I stuck the pillow out in her direction.  Tucker stammered.  Everyone stared as if I had a rattlesnake in my extended hands.

Finally Jeannie ushered me and my show-and-tell item into her office, and apologized for the inconvenience.  And what I said to her was this:

“You know Jeannie, I understand that homes have leaks and that sometimes housekeeping misses something.  I understand that sometimes the bugs show up at a very inopportune moment.  And when I first called your husband, he could have offered me nothing more than a sincere apology for our inconvenience and I would have been satisfied.  He could have thrown a gift certificate for a free cup of coffee at me, and I would have said thanks and been on my way.  But with arrogance like I’ve seldom experienced, he instead condescended to suggest to me that because I hadn’t rented one of your more expensive properties, I was not entitled to a clean place to sleep.  That is offensive.”

“He’s entirely too blunt,” she sighed.  “I ought to know, I have to live with him.  He should never have said those things to you.  Let me see what I can do.”

Jeanne refunded a small portion of our rental fee.  But the damage was done.  Tucker Chambers is a jerk, and I wouldn’t rent a bucket of water from him if I was on fire.

(By the way, has anyone else noticed that while I’m married to a trial lawyer, I’m always the bad cop?  What’s up with that?)

Coming next:  Our SKUNK OF THE YEAR FOR 2009.  You don’t want to miss it…

The Skunk Awards – 2009

I don’t know what God is trying to teach me, but it’s something pretty important.  How do I know?  Because he is making me walk through Customer Service Hades.  Surely this is an effort to purify my soul from some hidden sin.  To break me and make me cry out to him in despair.  To take the veneer off of my usual affable disposition and expose me for the barracuda I really am.  Because even the sugary-sweetest among us would lose it in the string of experiences I’ve had of late.

The customer service I have experienced on three different occasions recently are detailed here.  Each of the businesses who rendered such exceptionally bad service are recipients of an award I have created:  The Skunk Award – For Customer Service That Stinks.

And the winners for 2009 are (sound of envelope ripping):

Honorable Mention:  American Airlines.

AA only receives an honorable mention because they stopped just short of truly bad customer service and did the right thing in the end.  Here’s the story…

My husband’s brother was killed in an accident during Army basic training at Ft. Sill, OK, 20 years ago.  A memorial event was schedule for the anniversary of the sad event that killed three and grieviously injured several others.  My husband bought a ticket to travel to the event and join his parents and sister there.

Unfortunately, the day before his departure, a very close family friend died in a farming incident.  While not technically family, my husband is extremely close to these sweet people, and was needed to help with the funeral arrangements, talk with the coroner, go back out to the farm and put away the machinery, etc.  There was absolutely no way he could leave.

We were so undone by the whole chain of events and the needs around us, we didn’t call the airline before the time of my husband’s scheduled departure.  When I thought about it later in the day and called customer service, I was promptly told by a guy I’ll call “Lou” that there was nothing the airline could do, and we had just lost the full value of the $300+ fare.  I asked to speak to a supervisor.  Lou informed me that he (the supervisor)would tell me the same thing, and I politely insisted I’d prefer to hear it from the horse’s mouth.  Cue 15 minutes worth of elevator music.

When Lou came back, he said that his supervisor didn’t even have the authority to give us a voucher for the ticket, so there was nothing that could be done.  My response was, “So, my husband misses a flight because of a tragic death, and your supervisor is refusing to even speak with me about it?  I just want to make sure I understand what’s going on here…”  Lou stuttered and stammered and said sorry, there’s nothing we can do.  “So you’re willing to have me quote you as having stated that your supervisor refuses to speak to me regarding this problem?” I replied.

Big sigh from Lou.  Hang on, he says.  15 more minutes of elevator music.

Whe he came back he connected me to his superior, who promptly and graciously issued a voucher for the fare, and offered condolences for our loss.  An action that just a few minutes earlier I was to believe he didn’t have the authority to perform.  So in the end AA does the right thing.  But it required the tenacity of a bulldog to get past Lou and experience that.

Tune in next time for the unvailing of our 1st Runner-Up…

Turning the Tables

Sometimes, your brother puts on his fighting gear from karate class and tries to beat you up…

…and you’re forced to stuff him into a little box…

…you know, sometimes.

Go Fish

We spent a day at my in-laws before our jaunt to the Neshoba County Fair, and much of it was spent at their pond, fishing.  It’s a beautiful spot, even at this time of year, but during the spring it’s a show-stopper.  Lots of azaleas and lush green grass around the banks–it begs you to kick off your shoes and play awhile.  They’ve even built a beautiful dock and pavilion, causing me to dub it “McCain State Park.”

As I watched the kids baiting their hooks and trying (with varying levels of success) to cast their lines in a particular spot, I was reminded of a sermon series I’ve begun listening to.  It’s called Go Fish by Andy Stanley of Northpoint Church in Atlanta, GA. (Available as a podcast on iTunes)

Stanley’s premise is this:  if you are a follower of Christ, you are supposed to be a “fisher of men.” (Matthew 4:19)  That was the one thing he promised his would-be disciples when he asked them to follow him.  He didn’t say, “Follow me and I will make you holy.”  He didn’t say, “Follow me and I will spare you from heartache and pain.”  He said, “Come with me and I will make you fishers of men.”

You gotta have bait.

So I listened to this and started to ask myself how much fishin’ I’ve been doing lately, in the spiritual sense.  The answer?  Not enough.

I think I sometimes let myself off the hook (pardon the pun) by rationalizing that this just isn’t the right time, or the right place.  By saying that I need more time to build a relationship with this person before I “go there.”  But the fact of the matter is, all of that loving people, all of that relationship-building, all of that small talk is useless if it is not eventually the on-ramp to a discussion about Jesus Christ and what he means to mankind.

Occasionally, you’ll throw your hook in the water and it doesn’t go so well.  Maybe your friend or acquaintance is resistant to Christianity because of a prior bad experience (and believe me, there are some bad experiences out there), or maybe it just goes nowhere.  You put the big proposition out there and they just sidestep the whole thing and do nothing.  You feel as if you’ve failed.

Sometimes, there's a lot of waiting involved.

But you never know how your words and your example are resonating with people in the places they aren’t prepared to talk about.  Your fishing expedition may just be the first step toward a relationship with Christ for your friend, but it may be years before he or she realizes it.  But when that day comes–the rewards, oh the rewards…

Sweet success.

So ask yourself, and be honest:  when was the last time you baited a hook and wet your line?  To follow is to fish…

Ye Olde General Store

Forgive me for moving chronologically backward, here, but I want to show you all where we stopped before our trip to the Neshoba County Fair.  It was here at the Williams Bros. Store  in Philadelphia.  This 102 year old general store is still a general store, in the truest sense of the word.  They have everything, and they still do a very brisk business.  So kiss their grits, Walmart.  Even more interesting?  The Williams family is Archie Manning’s wife’s family (mother of Peyton and Eli).  They still run the place, day in and day out.  Here’s a sampling:

These are the Frye boots I’ve been circling like a shark for at least two years.  Online they’re $219.  At Williams Bros., they were $139.95!  Why didn’t I get them?  Because I am an idiot was too overcome with all there was to see, and couldn’t focus on my own personal fashion needs…

In the next, more ambiguous department, one could find a selection of country hams, mule harnesses and Eli Manning jerseys…

This guy would slice your bacon to whatever thickness tickled your fancy…and thought I was a fruitcake for taking photos…

School uniform, anyone?  Or maybe fresh produce?  They’re only two aisles apart…

Or maybe today you’re in the market for a saddle and a pink lasso…

And, of course, every Meemaw and Papaw in the world has pictures of the grandbabies scotch-taped to the wall behind the register of the family business…notice where this one was taken…

Honestly, I haven’t been in such an authentic place in a long time.  It was packed to the gills with people, and they didn’t seem to be tourists.  They seemed like regulars, buying school shoes and watermelons and ground chuck and milk.  And if I had the sense God gave a billy goat, I’d have been buying boots.

Sigh.

Mississippi’s Giant Houseparty

The social tradition of the house party is almost as scarce as the buffalo, but leave it to the folks of the Magnolia state to hang on to a good thing with their fingernails.  Who in the world has time to stop everything and get together for days on end to just…socialize?  Why, the good people of Neshoba County, that’s who.

They may call this thing the Neshoba County Fair, but the name doesn’t do it justice.  I would recommend “The Neshoba County Cultural Phenomenon.”  Because you see, in your world and mine, the fair comes to town once a year, and you go out to the fairgrounds one night after dinner to eat corn dogs and take in the 4-H displays.  One night.  A few hours.  Not in Neshoba County.

In Neshoba County you STAY ALL WEEK at the fair, in your FAIR CABIN which has probably been passed down for generations.  Because this has been going on for over 100 years.  There are HUNDREDS of these funky, cutesy row houses strung up with party lights and flags organized into blocks with STREET NAMES.  At the county fair.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, surely it holds true here. 

Is this Seaside? Um, no. It's a county fair. A county fair.

During the day you can do the regular snowcone, Himalaya-riding, quilt exhibit looking thing.  Or you can watch the political speeches in an open-air meeting house on “Founders Square,” featuring lightweights like the governor and U.S. Senators.  Or you can bet on the horses.  What?  No horse racing at your county fair?  Odd.

Watching the ponies...at a county fair.

But for me, the place really became other-worldly when the sun went down.  As the party-lights twinkled on the porches and the music from the evening concert (country music group Little Big Town) mixed with the screams of the midway, I just walked and snapped photos of some of my favorite scenes.  Here are a few:

I asked these guys if it was OK for me to take a photo. "Shoot," they said, "we'd be flattered!"

 

Most of the cabins are arranged with a narrow pedestrian street running in between. There's just enough room between the front porches to play with your dump truck under the party lights.

 

 

The only reason many of these porches are silent is that everybody is here:

I have so many photos, I’ll have to do another post later.  But I’m here to tell you that until you’ve been to the Neshoba County Fair outside Philadelphia, Mississippi…you ain’t been to The Fair.

I…I Will Survive…

OK blog-friends.  I need your help.  I’m working on a magazine article for a regional Christian magazine called “Back-to-School Survival Guide.”  I want to cover all those little things you can do in your home and with your kids to help everyone get back into the swing of things with as little stress as possible.

So what do you do to keep things running smoothly:

• What type of bedtime routines work for your kids?  What preparations do you take care of at night to make the morning rush easier?
• How do you streamline the morning dash?
• How do you stay organized with the landslide of papers and art projects that come back home in those backpacks?
• How do you get the homework done with minimal fuss in the afternoon/evening?
• Any tips for making the after-school sports/music/dance/art/rat race easier?
• When do you fit in your quiet time/devotional time/prayer time when the schedule picks up?
• How do you decent dinners appear on your table when your entire afternoon is spent driving the aforementioned extra-curricular taxi service?

I know you guys have some tried and true methods to control the madness, and I’m counting on you to share!  And don’t limit yourself to the topics I mentioned above, those are just to jog your memory.

I can’t wait to hear from you!

When I Grow Up…

…I’m gonna be like Darby.

Darby is a newer friend of mine who lives just a few blocks away.  She’s an Auburn girl, our kids have been in the same preschool, and I’m well acquainted with her husband’s entire family.  She’s ridiculously cute, without really trying.  That kind of person who puts on jeans and a t-shirt and looks like she might have just fallen out of a J. Crew catalog.

Darby's Blog

And while I bump into Darby around town and wave as I run past her house, most of what I really know about her I’ve learned by reading her amazing blog.  By reading this I have learned that Darby can make almost anything using 75 cents worth of material and her sewing machine. 

 

When she happens upon a farmer’s market, or someone gives her a big basket of, say, peaches, she cans 50 pints of peach jam, and posts instructions on her blog for others who would like to do the same.  When someone gives me a big batch of fruits and veggies, I lament that most of it will spoil before anyone gets around to eating it…

She’s always baking, and lets her children “help.”  I threaten my children if they don’t get out of the kitchen when I try to make something…

She’s nuts about Jesus.  In the most humble, grace-filled way, she talks about her relationship with the Lord.  She candidly shares the ways that God is challenging her and growing her faith.  But the thing that most sticks with me after reading Darby’s blog is just how happy she is.  The peace and contentment that the Lord has blessed her with practically oozes off the screen.  She and her husband host a small group from their church in their home each week.  I bet they get to eat home-baked treats.  Lucky small-groupers.

She’s very close to her family, including her twin sister Erika, who’s an interior designer on the Florida gulf coast.  She’s madly in love with her children, even when she’s had a long day with her youngest, affectionately nicknamed “hornet.”  She loves her friends.  She loves her husband.

She’s been methodically redecorating her home over the past couple of years, also using a budget of around $1.  It looks like House Beautiful.

The photos she takes of her children look like professional photographs.  I, as an admitted Darby nut, have purchased the same camera she has in the hope that it will be the first step toward turning into her entirely.

If you have been looking for a modern-day prototype for the Proverbs 31 woman, Darby just may be it.  Now I know that if she’s reading this, she’s positively mortified.  Because she’s far too humble to be comfortable with this type of public praise. 

And that’s just one more reason to like her…