My sincerest apologies to the Gig Harbor Chevron station...

Yesterday I pulled a Zach Braff in the opening scene of Garden State. If you haven't seen the movie, that's the scene where he accidentally drives away from the gas station with the gas pump still in his car. Idiot. That makes two of us (although I guess I'm the bigger one, since my experience wasn't in a movie).

I was driving my grandpa's beautiful ride--a 2005 Suburu Outback. My grandpa was in the passenger seat while I pumped the gas for our road trip back to Lake Oswego. To up my chances of one day inheriting his incredible car, I decided to give the windshield an impressive wipe-down while I waited for my latest paycheck to wither in my gas tank. After finishing, I climbed back in the car to hear my grandpa "ooh and aah" at the windshield glimmering in all it's glassy brilliance. Ten points. It was a glorious sight as we drove away--sun beams bursting through the windows, an uppity Oldies song playing on the radio...then suddenly an abrupt CRUSH. It sounded like I was driving over the top of a rug made of alluminum cans. Woops.

"Probably just the curb, " I said as I continued to drive. The only thing that stopped me from pulling out of the gas station parking lot was a bearded man who jumped in front of the car, bouncing and violently flailing his arms around like a rag doll. "What's his problem?" my grandpa said in a moderately sarcastic tone. The man started to point behind me, so I turned around. How embarrassing.

After a quick "Thank you dear Jesus we didn't just blow up the gas station and ourselves" I went inside to apologize for the damage that I didn't exactly know how to repair. Ofcourse, there was a line of customers waiting behind the counter staring at me as I tried to explain what had happened in a frantic tone. And ofcourse, the attendant spoke very little English (which led to me trying to explain, with elaborate guestures, three or four times how I had managed to rip the gas pump out with my car). Without any luck in successfully explaining what had happened, I finally had to take the attendant out to the "crime scene" with me. He just stood there laughing out loud and shaking his head then he waved me and my grandpa on.

"I guess we can go now," I said to my grandpa. Then, in his grandfatherly sweet tone he said, "I'm sure they see this happen all the time."

Let's hope so.

In my defense, I must say I have been an Oregon resident for a whole year now. Perhaps in my moment of stupidity, I had just forgotten what it was like to pump gas on your own.

A Love That Will Not Let Me Go : A Story of Provision

A resounding silence blanketed our office this morning. It’s typically quiet from opening till eleven or so, with the occasional chirping of the phone. With little to do, everyone in the office was reading-- buried behind their respective desks, book of choice in hand, and a sideways smile reflecting the amusement that can only be aroused by the pages of a story . I opened up the daily devotional from Oswald Chambers. March 19: Abraham’s Life of Faith:

He went out, not knowing where he was going —Hebrews 11:8

Living a life of faith means never knowing where you are being led. But it does mean loving and knowing the One who is leading. It is literally a life of faith, not of understanding and reason—a life of knowing Him who calls us to go.

My eyes widened. I dog-eared the page, highlighted, and underlined. “Impeccable timing, Lord,” I thought. It certainly was. Ever since I’ve decided to return to India this August, I’ve been brimming with questions as to why God wants me to go. And yet God’s voice continues to lure me into action. It’s time to leave. Even though preparations are being made, airline tickets are being purchased, and plans are finalizing, I’ve found that I am still lacking a solid answer to the question that keeps darting my way, “Abbie…why are you going back to India?” I’ve finally succumbed to the fact that I can’t entirely answer that question…yet. And somehow, even though I don’t have an answer on how I will serve there, I’ve had an unmatchable peace in my heart about returning.

The past three years of waiting to return have been a journey in learning that God Himself is the way maker. Generally, when we receive a sense of calling, there is that internal need to rush into action. In reality, the most important action we can be taking is spending more time with the One who is leading, to grow in the understanding of His character and His ways. To learn to know His voice. To learn to love to obey. To learn to take joy in waiting on Him. This pursuit after the leader always results in action—action as He sees fit.

What I’ve been so pleasantly surprised with is how cared for I have felt in the process of waiting. This morning alone was reason to give thanks to God for His provision. My boss came in and pulled me aside to share news with me that had been “heavy on her heart for about a week”. She was obviously nervous as her eyes kept pelting around the room. “Abbie,” she proceeded, “I talked with my boss last week and because of lack of sufficient funds, it looks like we will have to be whittling down many jobs. Even phasing some out. And, I don’t know how to say this, but you’re job might be one of those that will become part-time in the near future”. She explained how terrible she felt that I wouldn’t be able to receive benefits any longer, and how she would completely understand if I needed to leave in pursuit of a better job. Little did my boss know that I had already planned on leaving to go to India. I had kept it from her with hesitancy, because I wanted to keep my job through the month of May for financial reasons. One of my greatest fears in leaving was the “I quit” conversation that I dreaded since the day I knew it was time for me to leave. But God, through His provision, made a way for me to leave without any accompanied unnecessary guilt. It was as if He had hand-picked this job for me for the exact time He knew I would reside in Portland, and now He was freeing me to step in to the next phase of life. Sharon finished by telling me that things would remain as they are till the end of May. The exact date I had planned on leaving. What perfect timing! Pretty brilliant on God’s behalf if you ask me.

Along with God being the great way maker, he is also a beautiful match maker. For the past three years, I have been praying for someone to return to India with. Although going alone the first time turned out to be an enriching experience, I longed for company while I was there. Someone to share the little “nothings” with at the end of each day. Someone to debrief with. Someone to pray with in my language. Someone who fully understood my culture. After years of prayer and feeling the call to return to India, I was ready to return alone again—if that was the case. To my surprise, last week Billy Paulose (the pastor in India) told me that there would be another young woman with me in India at the same time. Tiffany. He gave me her phone number and immediately I called. I was ecstatic. Without reservation, I began to pour out my heart over the phone. Where she should probably should have been nervous about the hysterical freak on the other line telling her what an incredible answer to prayer she was, she was quite the opposite. She was gracious, loving, and returned the same joy. She went on to tell me her story—how she had just returned from a three month solo trip to India and was ready to go back. She and I realized we had almost identical first-time India experiences. I couldn’t have ever on my own planned someone better to go back with. I continued to talk to Tiffany for four long hours on the phone. There was so much to be said…and it was only the beginning.

This week I have felt so cared for, so unbelievably known by God. So thrilled by the fact that “we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them” (Ephesians 2:10).

This beautiful hymn of God's love (by George Mattheson) has been running through my mind all morning:

O Love that wilt not let me go,
I rest my weary soul in thee;
I give thee back the life I owe,
That in thine ocean depths its flow
May richer, fuller be.

O light that foll’west all my way,
I yield my flick’ring torch to thee;
My heart restores its borrowed ray,
That in thy sunshine’s blaze its day
May brighter, fairer be.

Peng and the Puppy

Today began with incessant text messaging between my siblings and I. All five of us were involved. The task...come up with a name for the newest addition to our family, a little red dachshund.

Wiener dogs. Gross. I know. I thought so too, until my oldest sister Lindsay texted me a photo of the puppy. Seconds after seeing the picture, I was convinced by the little fluff ball's shiny red coat and sparkling beady eyes that she was God's glittering will for our family. She sure is a darn cute puppy. As long as she stays that cute, I will willingly show her my love and affection. So, I figure we'll at least be good friends for the next ten to twelve months. After that, it's negotiable. It kind of freaks me out that where most dogs (and living things in general) grow upwards, weiner dogs grow outwards in length. It reminds me a bit of that trick when you scrunch a straw wrapper and dabble it with water to watch it grow like a slinky. Perplexing.

So, we ping-ponged text messages back and forth:

Heidi: "Let's name her Carrot!"

Me: "You can't give dog's vegetable names, Heidi. But if we did...we should name her 'Potato' and call her 'Tot' for short."

Lindsay: "Eww. How about 'Patsy'?"

Ellie: "No! Let's name her 'Pearl'."

Josh (Lindsay's boyfriend): "I like 'Thor'."

Lindsay: "Josh, that's clearly not a feminine name."

Ellie: "What about 'Petunia'?"

Heidi: "What about 'Nordlund'?"

Me: "Mom's maiden name? Hmm, I like it. We could call her 'Nordy' for short..."

...and so on....

Hours (and thirty-something text messages later), we still didn't have a name.

Meanwhile, the only thing cuter than a puppy walked in the door to my office around 10am. His name is Peng (pronounced 'Pong'). Peng-Peng is what his mom calls him. He is a darling four-year old boy who was adopted a year ago from China.

There really was something magical about Peng-Peng's pomegranate pink cheeks and wide smile revealing two perfect little rows of baby teeth that convinced me this morning I should have adopted him myself. I think his mom could tell I was a little jealous as I stared at him from behind the cabinets. Creepy? Of course. But you would have done the same. This boy really was too cute for words.

Peng's mom asked me if I would "do her a huge favor" and "walk Peng Peng to the ladies' room to help him 'try potty'." He had been wiggling his legs around in a funny little dance for awhile and I knew something was up.

"Sure!" I said and took Peng's hand to guide him to the bathroom. Before I knew it, he bolted ahead of me down the hall and ran into the men's room. All by himself.

I stood outside the door waiting for a few minutes, assuming he'd done this on his own before. After ten minutes of waiting and hearing no flush, I started to get a little worried. "She did say 'take him to the ladies' room', " I thought. Peng's mom was preoccupied, so she didn't bother coming to check on the situation. I couldn't leave Peng, so I just kept waiting. And waiting.

Waiting turned quickly to worrying as I imagined little Peng falling in the toilet water and drowning (the boy was seriously small enough to fit in the bowl). Hypothetical catastrophes were darting, right and left, into my mind.

Meanwhile, the lady working in the front office of Pinnacle Insurance just opposite the bathroom door was staring me down. She had been watching me like a hawk for the past ten minutes as I stood within inches of the men's bathroom door with a petrified look on my face. The only thing she failed to see was Peng. She didn't even know I worked at the adoption agency down the hall, so of course she wasn't expecting that I would be waiting for someone else's four-year-old Chinese son to exit the men's room. I kept glancing at her, then back at the door. Insurance lady-door-insurance lady-door. I was a bit paranoid. The more I looked at her, her fire hydrant red lips seemed to get redder and her cotton ball poof of grey hair seemed to grow. She just shook her head at me, her broccoli-floret hairdo waving with each nod. I felt like walking in to her office and explaining what I was doing, but I was more worried about Peng. Finally, I pressed my ear to the door. Nothing. So, I started to shout, "Peng! Peng! Peng!"

Just as I was shouting, the FedEx man approached me from behind. On a side note, the FedEx man always seems to catch me doing the strangest things--like singing musicals when the rest of the office has gone home. So, though this was probably not at all a strange sight for him, he still seemed a bit uneasy. For all he knew "Peng" wasn't even decipherable as a name and he probably thought I was shouting "Bong! Bong! Bong!" (and we all know I don't abuse drugs).

Finally, exasperated, I asked if he could go in for me and check on the situation. I explained everything to him and he willingly agreed to go rescue Peng from his potential watery grave.

Fortunately, seconds later, little Peng came out in one beautiful, protected piece....with a giant wet spot covering the front side of his jeans. He had been hiding in the bathroom because he was afraid his mom would be upset he peed his pants.

"It's OK, Peng", I assured him. "Did you remember to wash your hands?"

He shook his head, "no". So, I grabbed his tiny hand and led him into the ladies' room--the original plan. There, I hoisted him up (carefully avoiding his bottom half) and helped him scrub and dry his palms. Before long he was smiling again.

Together, we walked out of the bathroom, hand in hand, while the Insurance secretary continued to shake her head in utter confusion.

As soon as I stepped back into the office I gave him a sticker from my top drawer. Before long, my phone buzzed. Another text message. It was from Heidi.

"Let's name the dog Penny!"

"How about Peng?" I replied.

"Huh?"

"Oh, never mind."

I smiled as I thought about Peng and the new puppy. Both so adorable and innocent...and so desperately in need of house training.

Confessions of the Over-heated.

When does a bad habit become a way of life?

I'm afraid the answer is: when that bad habit becomes such a repeated offense that others begin to attribute it to your personality.

"Oh, that's just who she is!" they say.

"Oh no," you think. "They're absolutely right."

In attempts to detach some of these bad habits from my lifestyle, I figured I should start with confession--get them out there in the open in attempts to override them with new, pleasant and positive attributes. Here's my confession of the day...

CONFESSION: I still don't know how to use a microwave properly.

"Why do you even use a microwave at all?" you may be asking. That's a great question. I should have bagged using the "death box" (as my roommate refers to it) a long time ago. But once and awhile, when it comes down to watching a yam bake in the conventional oven (and poking it with a fork for what seems like hours only to find that it is tougher than sandstone) versus a little beep-beep-done, I opt for the latter. So sue me.

Generally, I try to limit my microwave use to reheating things. Coffee at work gets cold multiple times a day because I sip slower than molasses in January, so I reheat it. Abuelo asks for a bowl of ice cream, which might-as-well be an ice block, so I soften it...ever so slightly. Or so I'd like to think...

You see, my problem doesn't lie in using the microwave, it's how I use it. I tend to overestimate the time needed to heat a bowl of soup or warm a muffin. It's just a bad habit. If something should be heated for 10 seconds, I punch in 3 minutes. If it should be heated for 3 minutes, I punch in 9 minutes. It's weird, I realize. Weird like my obsession with filling the gas tank until the price is rounded to the nearest 10-cents. Stop pumping gas at $23.39? Heck no. Tug that trigger to make it $23.40.

I always intend to keep an eye on the food I am microwaving. I like to overestimate the time required, then just watch it till it's done. This way, adding additional seconds is never needed.

But, from time to time--life calls. The phone rings? I go answer it. Some one's at the door? I leave the room. Meanwhile, tub of ice cream becomes a river of life springing-up-a-well in the microwave. Reheated coffee blows up like a time bomb. Yam becomes toasted, undecipherable black ashes.

I exercised this "bad habit" today in the office. My coworker brought cinnamon scones. Delicious. I thought "I'll just do everyone a favor and heat them up." I slid the plate in the microwave and punched in 4 minutes (note: should have been 20 seconds). I sat watching and waiting, sniffing in the savory goodness and--RING!--darted out of the break room (with all intentions to return quickly) to answer the phone.

Turns out it was a lengthy call by a long-winded caller (who took much longer than four minutes) and before I knew it--BEEP BEEP BEEP--Oh my.

After hanging up the phone I ran to the break room, but it was too late. By this time the cinnamon aroma had immersed it's way into the entire office (and beyond) and people from the insurance agency down the hall were meandering to our office to ask why it smelled like Thanksgiving.

Burnt frosting caked the inside of the microwave. A smoky haze lingered in the air. Our breakfast was torched. Sorry guys, my bad.

Lesson learned. From here on out, my food will spend less time in the death box.

Curry Hangover

I had a serious curry hangover this morning after attending a Pakistani mission’s banquet last night.

The food was incredible. Awesome food and spending the evening listening to missionaries with hearts for the Muslim world…it was a beautiful thing.

You don’t get to eat Pakistani food everyday; well, at least I don’t.

Aware of this, I piled my plate high with samosas, naan, rice and curries…

Upon coming back to the table, my friend Brinda’s fifteen year old son stared at my plate (jaw dropping) and said, “WHOA”. After a long pause he finished, “I hope my wife can eat like that someday!”

I think it was a compliment? Maybe? I shrugged my shoulders. Like I said, I don’t get to eat Pakistani food every day.

The group I sat with at my table was as spicy as the food on our plates.

My favorite was Scott. Or at least I think his name was Scott. Something with an “S”… He must have been in his late fifties and he was cracking jokes the whole night.

Brinda leaned over to her son after dinner and said in a very mom-ish slow tone, “Nick, you should introduce yourself to the table of Pakistani men behind us. Ask them where they are from in Pakistan”.

Nick replied, “What if they aren’t Pakistani mom? What if they’re from India?”

Good boy.

Scott chimed in, “Watch, they’re all from Toronto”.

Scott continued to entertain as he gave his wife fist pounds every time the speaker talked about the powerful ways God is moving in Pakistan. Some “hallelujahed”, Scott pounded. Genius.

When I asked how he met his wife, Scott replied, “E Harmony. Duh.” A statement which his wife laughed at, then quickly corrected, “We’ve actually been married 35 years.” I was loving this guy.

I also loved the people to the right of us. The unidentified Pakistani/Indian/ Toronto clan. Cynthia bet they were all New Yorkers. We were all dying to ask at this point.

Finally, ecstatic, I recognized one of the men at the table. Raj. (Raj is an Indian man I met when I moved to Portland. He has an East Indian fellowship he leads over in Beaverton).

“Raj! How are you!” I said. “I’m Abbie—we met earlier this year”.
“Oh yes,” he replied. “Let me introduce you to my friends”.

Yes.

To my surprise, one of them was from Tamil Nadu. This is where I was in India three years ago, and where I hope to return this summer.

Eppati irukkinga? (How are you?) he asked in Tamil.

Nallaa irukéan! (I’m fine) I replied.

Yes. He asked me the one question I remembered how to answer.

I just hoped he wouldn’t ask any more as my Tamil vocabulary has pretty much been whittled down to pambu! (snake!) and Nandri Yesu! (Thank you, Jesus!).

En Thamizh romba mosam (My Tamil is very bad) I told him. We laughed out loud together.

I missed India for a moment and sighed deeply.

On the way home I thought about how I have got to start practicing my Tamil.

Cynthia tried to help me the other night. We opened my book “Learn Tamil in 30 Days.” A bold promise of a title, considering the Tamil word for “lemon” has more letters in it than our English alphabet.

Near the end, there was a section called “Practical Conversations”. Perfect, we thought.

“Ok, you be the ‘foreigner’ Abbie and I’ll be the ‘tour guide’,” Cynthia said.

It was a hypothetical conversation that was “likely to take place when touring a temple”. It went like this:

Foreigner: "Athoh, Oru Yaanai Nerrkerrathae! Athu Appade Engu Canthathu?”
(Yonder. I see an elephant standing! How did it come here?)

Guide: "Athu Unnmaiyana Yaanai Alla. Athu Orae Kallel Chethukkappatta Cherrpam."
(It's not a true elephant. It is a monolithic sculpture.)

Very useful indeed. Definitely a practical conversation.

Who’s used the word “yonder” since Laura Ingalls Wilder anyway? And how many of us really know what a monolithic sculpture is?

“Learn Tamil in 30 Days”…

I think the book should have been called “Learn Tamil in 30 Years Without Breaking Down and Weeping in the Fetal Position…I Dare You”.

I guess I’m back to square one…pray a lot and keep practicing.

A Post-Lunch Break Up Note

Dear “Eating Right” Safeway brand microwavable Frozen Meal,

Why did you lure me in with your box cover of a beautifully photographed bowl of pasta? A photograph that was so enticing, you weaseled me in to buying eight of you. Little did I know that when I peeled back the plastic mask you were wearing, you really looked more like the cerebellum.

You took advantage of me in a vulnerable moment. You know I am a woman of character and smart-eating choices, and yet you tricked me with your smooth talk and smart marketing.

“Uniting Flavor and Nutrition” you told me from behind the foggy frozen doors.

You should have told me the truth. “I contain modified corn starch and xanthan gum.”

You should have let your true colors shine, Frozen Meal. But even they are probably derived from food coloring, you sack of lies.

“You will make a good companion on those days I can’t cook for Abuelo,” I thought when I first met you. Well, you should have introduced me to your best friends, High Blood Pressure, Clogged Arteries, and Kidney Stones. You really do hang out with bad company.

“Inspected for Wholesomeness by the US Department of Agriculture,” you told me. Since when is fluid retention due to excess sodium consumption wholesome?

You’re so unwholesome-- you could be a metaphor for sin, Frozen Meal.

I’m headed back to Brussel Sprout. He knows how to treat me right.

It's too late to aplogize. We’re not speaking anymore. You can take the rest of your friends and leave my freezer.

(Un) affectionately yours,

Abigail

Two Weeks After

He wears her around his pinky finger,
In an oxidized ring, turned green with rust--
Last piece he took before leaving her side
to walk past triptychs seen in deepest dreams
through bleak doors he will never reenter.

Beside me tonight, dapper in his suit
He’s wearing white on black on white again
His tie, slung like a fox tail round his neck
with hair disheveled like ashen rice straw

He fumbles his fork through a plate of peas
As if nothing is running through his mind
Though I know everything is on his mind

I’m afraid he’s receded like a bloom
That coils, and then closes into itself
Like the mums, once a golden centerpiece--
Their heads now hidden behind turning leaves
Collapsed brown bodies over table’s edge

I heap them, gently in to new water
Not ready to throw them away just yet.

VSD

I almost killed myself again this morning.

It’s a repeated offense—I fall asleep in cars. Simple as that. I don’t know if it’s classical conditioning, sleep deprivation, or both—but put me in a car going anywhere and within minutes I am like a two-year old in a carseat, eyes heavier than anvils, nodding off like a bobble-head. It’s embarrasing, really. Though, most of the time, there is no one to be embarrased in front of. There are, on the other hand, plenty of people I could potentially crush with my car and seriously injure (including myself) if I don’t nip this one in the bud. Trust me, I am well aware of the danger.

Most of the time when I fall asleep it’s just for a split-second. But there have also been those events I like to refer to as “the scary sleep scoldings”—little moments of God’s discipline intervening in the world of my vehicular sleep disorder. (Let’s just refer to it as that from now on, actually,VSD).

There was the time I was cruisin’ along at sixteen in my red jeep with zebra print seat covers (this was during the “early stages” of my VSD), and within moments of heading northbound on I-5 I was out like a light, driving the left side of my jeep into the guard rail. I remember sitting on the curbside just outside a Denny’s, crying so hard I was snorting, staring at the giant dent in the side of my jeep. “I’m so-o-o-o sorryyyy God!” I wailed, my face wet with snot and tears. An elderly lady with a plastic sack over her head (protecting her perm from rain damage, maybe?) was exiting Denny’s with her husband and heard my yelping. She and her husband just stood there staring at me like I was some caged animal at the zoo. No words of comfort, just staring. Eventually the lady with the rain bonnet reached her hand out slowly and offered me her Denny’s left overs. “Thanks,” I choked out between tears. It was kind of a strange gesture, I thought, and a little gross—but I took the box and smiled.

Another time, the VSD hit so hard I managed to doze off and wake up to the sound of the blaring horn of a truck headed straight for me (as I had trailed into the other lane). “Whoa Momma!” I screamed (although, I probably didn’t say “Whoa Momma!”) and I veered as far left as possible, driving myself off the road and into a grass field. Praise Jesus it was a tree-less spot. I just sat there (this time I was in our family’s white minivan) staring dead ahead. “I will never fall asleep in the car again”, I promised myself.

I did. Several times. The worst of them probably being the time I tried to drive home to Gig Harbor from Bellingham for my sister’s graduation. It was 2 am and I was so close to my house I could almost smell it. I had been fighting the VSD off all night by rolling the windows down and listening to hard-core rap music (the anti-sleep agent). Every once and awhile I would put on a musical soundtrack and sing along at the top of my lungs while slapping myself in the face till my cheeks were red and raw. If that didn’t work, I would hold my breath and think about really ugly/scary things like sloths or open wounds so that if I did fall asleep I would have a quick nightmare that would wake me right back up. I had been on the road for 2 hours, but it felt like I had been driving for three weeks. Suddenly, the Tacoma Narrows Bridge was in sight and I smiled as it was the “almost home” marker. My eyelids blinking heavily, I was shocked to see an elephant stanging square in the middle of the Narrows Bridge. “How weiiird,” I thought as I stopped for the elephant (I didn’t have much of a choice; he was blocking both lanes). I just sat there until several horns began honking. Something about the familiar sound of honking horns jerked me back into alertness and, embarrassed as anything, I realized there was NO elephant and started driving again. Was I going crazy?!

The next day, our entire family was gathered around the table at a local restaurant celebrating Lindsay’s graduation.

“You will never believe what happened to me last night,” I said to my uncle Gerry. “I was so tired when I was driving home, I actually thought I saw an elephant on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge” I said between laughter. He didn’t even crack a smile. He just stared at me with piercing dissappointment. My uncle Gerry is a physician (the wrong person to tell).

“Abbie,” he said in a Dr. Phil-ish tone, “it sounds like you had a hypnagogic hallucination. If you are that tired, you can actually start hallucinating—it’s like dreaming with your eyes open.”

“Oh snapdragons,” I thought (or maybe I said it outloud-though that too would have been embarrassing). “Hallucinations, huh? I thought you only got those when you were dehydrated in the desert or trippin on LSD.” My uncle highly encouraged me to get a sleep test. As he was counseling me, my dad chirped in.

“Abbie, that is soooo strange,” he said in a perplexed tone, “I remember when I was about your age and driving home from Malibu, I saw an elephant on the road, too!”

“Oh shoot, it’s a family deal,” I replied. It appeared my dad and I were fellow bondservants of VSD.

I never did get the sleep test, but my dad did. He had a whole number of sleep issues—from mild narcolepsy to restless leg syndrome ( a sleep disorder that, frankly, just makes me laugh out loud).

This morning on the way to work, VSD struck hard again, and I woke up as I hit the rumble strip. I was passing a carwash on Barbur Boulevard that weekly changes the saying on a billboard they have just outside their business. This week it was a Zig Ziglar quote that read:

“Will you look back on life and say, ‘I wish I had,’ or ‘I’m glad I did’?”

Prophetic. I think I’ll go get that sleep test.