As I was driving through town on my way home from the library last week, I was in a rather analytical mood, and I flipped the radio to a secular music station for a moment to see what was on and to see whether I could evaluate the worldview of what was being said.

On this particular day, at this particular moment, the song that came over the radio was Pain by Three Days Grace, and the lyrics were startling for a number of reasons:

You're sick of feeling numb

You're not the only one

I'll take you by the hand

And I'll show you a world that you can understand

This life is filled with hurt

When happiness doesn't work

Trust me and take my hand

When the lights go out you'll understand

Pain, without love

Pain, I can't get enough

Pain, I like it rough

'Cause I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all

What immediately struck me about the words and the way in which they were sung was that this guy isn't looking for answers...he gave up. He is bitterly resigning himself to a fate he despises, despite the agony that it obviously is costing him to admit that that's what he's doing, and now he's turning to the antithesis of everything that he truly wants.

He sought happiness, strove to discover meaning in life, and asked in agony if there was purpose for his life? And in all of his searching, he missed the answers, and he missed the point...so he turns instead to a cheap masochistic substitute and wallows in hopelessness and self-mutilation, deliberately forging deeper into his own private hell, violating others and himself in a deliberate sort of psychological and spiritual hara-kiri...because he would rather feel pain and know that he has not completely lost the sensation of feeling than to feel nothing at all, and so forget that he was once a man who was meant to feel things, meant to BE something great.

It was the saddest thing that I have ever heard, and the words continued to chase each other through my head as I drove along. I was pondering their true significance and wondering how many people could truthfully echo that chorus and claim it as their own personal anthem of defeatism and despair when I passed a bright orange sign.

It had been placed by the road to warn people that there was a crew of men up ahead painting white lines on the pavement for the enlightenment and instruction of Wausau drivers, and it was supposed to say "Paint Crew"...but the T was missing.

Pain Crew.

Yes, that's right. I checked to see if they were singing.

Big boys with big toys

Ha, I'm posting these just because I'm super proud of my big brother (and his lovely wife, who is not picture here...love you, Kels!). I thought these pictures of him with the little Schoepplers were really pretty cute. ;-)

The boys...

...getting a slightly higher view...

...and this is probably right about the point where Joshua completely freaks out? Bless his heart.

The "New Look"?

Some of us got a bit bored with our old hairstyles and our natural haircolor by the end of this week, and since we have so many options available to us in America, we decided that while there may come a day when the courage of men fails, and we break all ties with hairstylists, today is not that day. Today, we change. And here are the results, which I sincerely hope are not permanently traumatizing to any of you, my dear viewers:

I think we were going for the emo/homeless punk look here...

And this would have been...a Weird Al Yankovic impersonation, perhaps?

Josiah as...Blondie? He wasn't crazy about this 'do.

Our history class is studying the '60s, so this one seemed fitting, somehow.

And this one was...just because we love each other.

So there you have it...Saturday night at the Beatys...minus one brother, who was sensibly occupied the entire time reading Grimm's Fairytales. Go Seth! A very sensible chappy, that.

Before you were sleeping...

It was Thursday night, and a sliver of a moon had risen; the stars were out, and the air held just a twinge of frost as a subtle reminder that the sunny days of summer were drawing rapidly to a close.

Classes had gone well, and physical therapy had been rewarding—but it had been a long day, and I was sleepy as I crawled into bed that night. My two youngest brothers were standing in the bedroom doorway, chattering lightheartedly about the things that had made their day special as they supervised to make sure I got safely aboard the bunk without seriously damaging either the bed or myself.

I was listening to them, nodding, and smiling absent-mindedly as my hands smoothed the top of the quilt, winding down for the night. Suddenly my fingers encountered something foreign. Something soft, but firm. Something flesh-like—and dead. A corpse.

I freaked.

The boys looked on with wide eyes and incredulous little grins as I snatched up the small intruder and flung him onto the floor, spluttering and squeaking and generally going ballistic as I did so. They looked at him...and then at me...and then at him again...and then they both gave me one of those you’ve-certainly-got-to-be-kidding-this-time looks. Yes, I am embarrassed to admit this, but my unwelcome guest was a fly.

Normally, I simply find flies annoying, but when they crawl onto my covers and die, I despise them...utterly and completely. And they become objects of a repulsion I cannot even begin to describe—something bordering on phobic.

After informing me that it was indeed just a fly, Seth and Josiah decided that I needed some time alone to face the formidable dead insect by myself and conduct some self-help therapy sessions, so they retired to bed, snickering softly and casting a few amused backwards glances over their shoulders as they ambled off.

Which left me to wonder...why is it that I find flies so completely repugnant when I have no problem handling toads, who are every bit as ugly and germy, most likely? Why do I hate snakes, and yet find lizards intriguing, despite the similarities?

The philosophical side kicked in right about then: why do I tolerate so many types of fickleness and varieties of phobias in myself when I chalk them up to immaturity in other people?

As I gazed at the small black body lying motionless on my carpet and thought of all the unlucky fellow’s insect children who are buzzing around over the face of WI and who will probably never miss him, I was reminded that a) life is too short to waste on sweating the small stuff, and b) people are too valuable to alienate over that which is forgivable, redeemable, and changeable.

And then it was several minutes past bedtime, and Old Man Slumber came knocking gently at my door to take me away to a warm sunny place filled with happy flies who sat on flowers all day long and debated whether or not their ancestors had turned into ghosts, and whether the ghosts of flies who had died violent deaths (such as by swatting or frog-slurping) were rather misshapen...although no conclusion was ever reached on that score, as far as I can remember.

Hey all! It’s been an eventful week—in a quiet, intense sort of way—and I have so many things to be thankful for as it draws to a close that I decided I probably owe everyone a brief update:

On Tuesday, I went in to have reconstructive surgery on my right knee to replace the ACL that was unhappily murdered during my last game of racquetball. Memories of Tuesday are limited. I recall lying on a gurney and hearing a nurse say in a far-off, fuzzy voice that she’d given me a sedative—I remember smiling at her quizzically, wondering why on earth she’d sedated me…didn’t she trust me? She grinned back, took my right hand in hers, and mumbled something about an IV...and then there was a pricking sensation…and there it was again…and again…and again. The nurse forced a desperate little smile as she said, “Wow, you have really tough skin! And really tough veins!”
She dropped my right hand with a shrug, and took my left. Aha! I thought to myself, hence the sedatives…

The next thing I remember was waking up with an IV in my left hand (yay! They got it in!) and a massive bandage on my right leg…I always wondered what it would feel like to be an elephant for a day…I think I have a better sense of that now.

Kinda cute, eh? But no thanks, really...

There was a nifty little pump attached to my leg, pumping some type of drug into one of the major nerves, so there was little to no sensation in the leg itself. Thank you, Lord, for technology!

My lovely mother came in from the waiting room (apparently what seemed to me like a few minutes had, in fact, been over four hours—wow! Thank you, Mom!). Boy, was it good to see her!

Shortly after entering the room, however, she sank into a chair, and the blood left her face. “Quick! Get a bed!” the nurses scurried to get her safely aboard one of those comfy racing mattresses with wheels (the kind you only see in hospitals? Doctors must have so much fun vrooming around with those after hours!). Tada!

(They're a lot faster than you'd suspect...I think we had one up to at least 15 mph on the way to the operating room--my nurse had had a bit too much coffee that morning, I'm fairly certain.)

So there we were, parked happily beside each other, Mom trying to regain enough strength to hop out of bed again, and me trying to stop the uncontrollable shaking that is apparently part of coming out from under anesthesia.

We were soon on our way home, but had to make a quick stop at ShopKo to fill some prescriptions. I stayed in the car, because of the elephantine leg syndrome, and also because the multiple tubes/hoses attached to various parts of my body made locomotion a rather cumbersome task. Mom returned a few moments later, and when I asked how it had gone, she told me weakly that she had passed out again in the store. At that point, we both knew that it was more than just a psychological, “my-child-just-had-surgery” type of deal. As we hit the road again, I think we were both praying with everything we had.

“God? If Mom passes out behind the wheel…there’s no way it’s even physically possible for me to get up to the front in time to take over this vehicle...You know that. So we ask for Your protection, Your mercy, Your grace…” Thank You, Lord, for getting us home!

Mom grew progressively weaker throughout the day, and when Dad came home from work, he stayed just long enough to get Mom into the car so they could head to the clinic. As we kids waited and prayed, and waited some more, reports started trickling in. Dad called to say that Mom had passed out again and was being transported to the hospital by ambulance. Nearly an hour later, Mom called—what a trooper! She explained that she had passed out while they were collecting some blood samples for testing, that her blood pressure had dropped to 50/40, and that the doctors had panicked and shipped her over to the hospital. Now they were waiting on test results…suspecting maybe a heart attack, since Mom’s Dad was about her age when he had his first one. I felt my heart sink. Heart attacks? Those happen to other people’s families…why us? Why now?

The waiting went on, and finally, around midnight, Mom and Dad returned home. I don’t know when I’ve been so glad to see two people as I was to see them! Mom said the blood work had tested negative for a heart attack (YES!!!), but that she was frightfully anemic, had a kidney stone, and was battling a mild UTI. Whew. So…it looks like we’ll both be lying low for a week or so…but we’re so excited to all be home! Thank You, Lord, for Your faithfulness and Your mercy!

Dad and I went to my first physical therapy session the day after surgery—so neat to be starting right in on rehab! When all the bandages came off, the knee was so ridiculously swollen it looked more like an overgrown puffball found out in the backyard than anything I’ve ever seen in Kingdom Animalia, but hey, it can only get better from here, I’m thinking…and despite the puffiness, it bends…sort of…which was comforting. Maybe someday, it will return to full bendiness. (As Michelle says, “Now would be good!” You have no idea how good…) But we shall take the slow way and learn things that would have been overlooked on the fast track. ;-)

Mom and I continue to mend well, and the boys have been amazing—so amazing that I think I’m pretty much out of a job once I get back to full capacity. Except for the cooking thing—the boys are forever indebted to all of the gracious people who have brought food and thus spared them the psychological trauma of cooking. Thanks so much to everyone for your prayers, support, and thoughtful contributions! Ya’ll are the best!

Oo, and...I couldn't possibly forget this! Happy Anniversary to my awesome parents, who are celebrating 26 years today! Know it hasn't always been easy (not like your angelic kids would ever have, um, played you off of each other, or anything like that...little brats...*cough*), but just wanted to say that I'm SO proud of you both for your commitment to each other, to making your relationship grow, and for encouraging each other to passionately pursue a living relationship with Christ. I love you!