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“Hah ahm stenly,” he said, shaking my hand with what must have been a bionic appendage. His fingers were like miniature coils of steel cable.

The first time I spoke with Stanley, who was the gardener at Rocketer (which is the name of the estate on which our little cottage was located), I could hardly understand a word he said. His Welsh accent had so many meandering sounds that listening to him was like trying to write out the movements of a stream. Think Alex Ferguson from Manchester United, but with marbles in his mouth.

He was showing me where I could find cut up logs to split for firewood. He even gave me access to his axe and wedge and the shed where he dumped all the cut-but-not-split wood. I discovered that I could understand him better if I squinted and turned my head slightly to one side. He was a nice man. He probably thought I was a little touched, what with the squinting and head-turning and all.

“Chust doont cuh-ulf yrrr fult,” he said over his shoulder, laughing.

* * * * *

The whole reason I was even chopping wood was due to another half-misunderstood conversation. After we had been living in our quaint little drafty cottage for a few months the utility folks called, asking how we wanted to pay for the first quarter’s worth of electricity we used.

“How much do we owe?”

“480 pounds.”

“I’m sorry, it sounded like you said 480 pounds.”

“Ah did. Four hundred and eighty pounds.”

Ouch. We had just moved to England. We still did the conversion with every pound we spent. Four hundred eighty pounds was equal to about $750.

“Would you like to pay in installments?” the kind lady asked.

Yes please.

* * * * *

“It’s got to be those electric baseboard heaters,” Maile said. She was right.

“We’ll have to use that thing,” I said, pointing to the furnace in the wall. “And that thing,” I said, beckoning to the fireplace in the front room. So off I went to find the wood that our landlord had so graciously offered us months ago. Which is when I met Stanley. And he told me to “just don’t cut off your foot.”

* * * * *

That night we switched off the baseboard heaters and got the fire in the furnace cranking. So hot, in fact, that it heated up all the radiators in the house to scalding levels. So hot, that I had to get up in the middle of the night and open most of the windows, let in the winter before the entire cottage floated away like a hot-air balloon.

Then, when we woke in the morning, we could see our breath in clouds. We shivered our way downstairs and lit the fire again, crouching beside it, shivering.

“Wood burns too fast,” I said, my teeth chattering. “We need coal.”

* * * * *

To read other stories from our time in England, click HERE.

Today I’m guest posting over at The House Studio. They have published some great books, things like “The Kingdom Experiment” and “Economy of Love.” You can check out a full list of their products HERE. Or you can read my guest post, which asks the question, “Would I be a better Christian if I lived in the city?” That link is HERE.

Now on to today’s regularly scheduled programming.

* * * * *

I sat at the far back corner of the Panera. As I settled in for the morning, I couldn’t help but overhear three women talking at a neighboring table.

“So then I asked if they could put us in a room with a refrigerator, but the woman on the phone said that she thought that came with an extra fee!”

“What?” another lady said.

“That’s ridiculous!” spouted the third friend.

“I know! But then she asked me if I needed the refrigerator for medicinal purposes, and of course I said yes – just figured that way I’d get it for free.”

“Of course,” said the one, in a self-righteous voice.

“What else would you say?” said the third friend.

My first-born, judgmental, follow-the-rules brain automatically thought, People are so dishonest.

Then I caught myself, like someone who has taken a bite of chocolate cake at a party, only to remember that they were giving up sweets for the week.

That stupid judgment fast, I muttered to myself.

* * * * *

From morning to night, I judge people. My first impressions are laden with critical observations: in shape or out of shape, too heavy or too skinny, too loud or too reserved, ugly or attractive, nice car (obviously they must be materialistic) or junkyard piece of crap (they probably don’t work very hard). All of these thoughts sprint through my mind in an instant.

I have been awake for only three hours this morning, but already I have judged myself for waking up too late, mentally berated a gas attendant for being so judgmental toward a customer the last time I was there, judged the driver in front of me for tailing the person in front of them, judged the driver behind me for unsafe driving, judged the lady who took my order at Panera for not being very nice, and judged the lady for not wanting to pay the refrigerator fee. I also judged this guy next to me for wearing really ugly shoes.

It’s hard work, being so judgmental.

* * * * *

Francis Frangipane writes:

Perhaps the most life-changing fast is (when)… I ask them to take a month and fast from judging. It is interesting to watch their reactions. “What will we think about?”they query. I am only saying, do not let your concluding thought end judging a person; rather, let it end in a prayer for mercy.

The instinct to judge, to criticize, is a curse…and it brings death upon us as individuals.

When I say, “fast from judging,” I do not mean we should abandon discernment. No. But judging people is not discernment. Fault-finding is not a gift…When we see something wrong, instead of turning only critical, we must learn to pray for mercy for that situation.

* * * * *

Henri Nouwen raised similar questions in my mind before.

What would life look like, if I released myself from the responsibility of criticism?

What if, for one day, I gave myself the freedom not to automatically place labels on everyone I came across?

Wouldn’t that be true freedom?

* * * * *

Don’t forget to head on over to The House Studio and check out my guest post, Would I be a better Christian if I lived in the city?

That’s right, I’m going there. Today we’re talking about the top ten things from junior high. Can’t think of ten?

Join the crowd.

I’m breaking them down into three groups of three: footwear, fashion and relationships. Deep breath. Here goes: the top ten things about junior high:

FOOTWEAR – this one is easy

1 – Air Jordans – did I ever own a pair of these shoes? No. Did I ever dream of owning a pair, soaring over the heads of my 8th grade classmates, performing a reverse dunk with my eyes closed to win the intramural basketball championship for Mrs. Reid’s class? Perhaps.

2 – Bo Jackson’s Nike Air – when my best friend got a pair of these in junior high I finally knew the true meaning of the word covet. Was that the first of the 10 commandments I ever broke? Probably not.

3 – Reebok Pumps – I did own a pair of these. I cannot recall the exact number of times I stopped a neighborhood basketball game to “pump up,” but I’m pretty sure the number is greater than 300 and less than 40,000.

FASHION

4 – I may or may not have sported spikey hair for the duration of my junior high years. The spike is the coolest hair cut ever.

5 – I may or may not have pegged my trousers at some point in junior high, creating parachute pants out of an ordinary pair of khakis.

6 – I may or may not have had an entire wardrobe of Bugle Boys clothing

RELATIONSHIPS (many of my junior high friends read this blog, so I’m keeping it cryptic)

7 – The Note

8 – The Bus

9 – The Fieldtrip

#10 is still up for grabs. What’s your favorite fashion, footwear or cryptic relationship term from your junior high years?

* * * * *

(Other popular Tuesday’s Top 10’s include Reasons to Leave Paradise, Things I Always Said I’d Never Say, and Children’s Stalling Tactics.

Recently the folks who have guest posted here have one thing in common: writing has helped them navigate pain. Brenda Boitson is no different. I met Brenda on Twitter, and then eventually in real life at Square One Coffee. Her husband died on October 28, 2008 due to a rare Angiosarcoma tumor when she was 24 and he was 36. Today she shares her reasons for writing with us.

* * * * *

When I was “trapped” in the hospital at Johns Hopkins while Kevin was being treated for cancer, I was going stir crazy.  I was used to being in social environments, not stuck in a disinfected room, only able to talk to doctors, nurses and specialists.  I began the blog to not only keep everyone up to date on my late husband’s health, but to keep me connected with a world in which I had been cut off.

After Kevin died, I found myself unable to be in large groups.  I became claustrophobic to an extent, and I dreaded answering the phone.  I would text friends and send emails, but I did not want to talk to anyone.  It was too difficult.  So instead, I wrote.  When it was 2 am, I would get on my computer and just type out my feelings on my blog.  Sometimes I felt as if I was over-sharing, but I didn’t feel I could share these thoughts with anyone specifically, so I typed them to whoever cared to read.  I didn’t want to wake up my sleeping parents downstairs to bawl when I felt these deep emotions.  Frankly, I wanted to be alone in my grief, but I still needed a way to speak out.

It occurred to me, not quite a year after losing Kevin, and after I began becoming more involved on various social media platforms, that writing, whether it be a blog, tweet, or facebook status, allowed me to connect to the outside world.  If I didn’t want to deal with the feedback, it was a safe way to connect.  People had shared, in person, things that I didn’t want to hear.  I heard about their stories of grief and loss, their comparisons on my loss and theirs, and I knew if I heard another platitude, I was going to hurt someone.  If my friends wanted to reply to me, they could, and I could delete it, or ignore it.  Or I could reply back because it was something that I was ready and willing to accept.

Writing was and is my venting outlet.  Over the past 2.5 years that I’ve been actively blogging, I have diminished the content that I share with my audience, and I am hoping to change that.  I want to be real with my readers, but mostly, I want to speak the truth to others who are grieving.  I want and need to share my experiences with them, however intimate and intimidating they may be.  Writing has given me freedom, which is something that often fails me when I speak.  I become flustered when I speak: I choose the wrong words, and sometimes I make situations worse by speaking.  With writing, I can review what I am going to say, and weed out what I want my audience to be able to understand.

I do believe that if I was not able to write what I was feeling, I would still be in my old bedroom at my parents’ place, unable to connect with the outside world.  Writing was initially a safe place for me to reintroduce myself to society as a widow.  Now, as I adjust my roles and work to becoming Brenda again, instead of just a widow, I can write about those transitions and brace myself and the world for the new me.

* * * * *

Check out Brenda’s blog (www.crazywidow.info) and follow her on Twitter @crazywidow.

The other day I was innocently driving along when suddenly I realized I had been arguing with someone in my mind over something that happened about a year ago, something I never brought up with them and never planned on bringing up. I was really letting them have it, and in my mind I felt vindicated because they were finally feeling terrible for the way they treated me.

I am a very, very disturbed individual.

Do you spend as much time as I do thinking about the future, reflecting on a recent rejection, regretting something said (or written) the day before, or wishing things could be just a little bit different?

If the brainwaves in your noggin are as overactive as mine, check out Henri Nouwen’s thoughts on thought and prayer:

Our minds are always active. We analyze, reflect, daydream, or dream. There is not a moment during the day or night when we are not thinking. You might say our thinking is “unceasing.” Sometimes we wish that we could stop thinking for a while; that would save us from many worries, guilt feelings, and fears. Our ability to think is our greatest gift, but it is also the source of our greatest pain. Do we have to become victims of our unceasing thoughts? No, we can convert our unceasing thinking into unceasing prayer by making our inner monologue into a continuing dialogue with our God, who is the source of all love.

Let’s break out of our isolation and realize that Someone who dwells in the center of our beings wants to listen with love to all that occupies and preoccupies our minds.

Join us this week at The Red as we talk about prayer.

The hallway is short: when I sit down, with my back against the strip of wall separating two bedroom doors, my feet stretch to the end of it.

To my right, an opened door. The bathroom. The sounds of splashing water: our youngest two children, nearly 3 and 18 months, giggle and dump water on each other’s heads. They suck on wash cloths. They stand up, then slip with that squeaking skin-on-plastic sound and fall and cry for a moment. They drink the water. I tell them not to. Then they play again.

Jon Foreman’s voice sings to me from my iPod in the next room:

I’m not sure why it always goes downhill
Why broken cisterns never could stay filled
I’ve spent ten years singing gravity away
But the water keeps on falling from the sky

And here tonight while the stars are blacking out
With every hope and dream I’ve ever had in doubt
I’ve spent ten years trying to sing these doubts away
But the water keeps on falling from my eyes

I pick up my book: Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down. It’s the first novel I’ve opened this year, who am I kidding, the first for a long time, and it feels good. It’s one of those fancy “Library of America” volumes, my favorite kind, with the sleek black dust jacket, the thin, heavy paper. And it’s a compilation, so I have Cannery Row, The Pearl and East of Eden to look forward to (even though I’ve read East of Eden four or five times, it’s my favorite book of all time to I’ll probably read it again when I get there, at the end of all the new things).

Steinbeck can say so much, with so little.

By ten-forty-five it was all over. The town was occupied, the defenders defeated, and the war finished. The invader had prepared for this campaign as carefully as he had for larger ones…

And from the other room, John Foreman.

And heaven knows, heaven knows
I tried to find a cure for the pain
Oh my Lord, to suffer like You do
It would be a lie to run away

***so as not to confuse anyone who knows my children, the picture is actually of our older two, when they were younger. How time flies.