The Night My Youth Group Almost Got Attacked By A Knife-Wielding 8-Year-Old

It’s every youth leader’s worst nightmare:

Leader: “Hey kids, how did your scavenger hunt around the neighborhood go?”

Kids: “Wowie, it was great! We almost got attacked by an insane little Asian boy wielding a 10-inch butcher knife, yelling and compulsively pulling his pants up over his bellybutton!”

Yes. As I often say, I’m not creative enough to make this stuff up. It actually happens.

Let me rewind a minute for you. Last Friday, after a grueling week of Vacation Bible School in which I made a fool of myself in front of hundreds of kids and parents (and furthered the personal torture by somehow managing to get interviewed on camera by our video team while wearing my bee-bopper costume and bouncing Styrofoam antenna, which naturally ended up being selected from the hundreds of other interviews the teams did…which meant that my sweaty mug was plastered all over the screens at our 3 sites and thousands of people on Sunday), I had a youth event.

Our youth event was our annual “Bigger and Better Scavenger Hunt”. The premise is simple: kids split into teams. Each team gets a small object–like a straw or little coffee creamer–and races around the neighborhoods near the church, knocking on doors and asking for anything “bigger or better” than what they have. All the donations either go to the church or to charity, so people are more than willing to give us their junk.

We take whatever we can carry and hike it back to our church, where we gloat over our spoils of war like brave and tired little soldiers.

This is the third time we’ve done this event. Two years ago, the winning item was a ping-pong table. (Yes, that’s right: we carried a full-sized ping-pong table all the way back to the church. Uphill. Past a police officer, who didn’t even blink upon seeing a gaggle of kids pushing a ping-pong table down a busy street at dusk.)

Last year, the winning item was a large sandbox, full of sand and sand toys.

This year, however, topped the charts with weirdness.

To begin with, the group of boys I was with got a fence.

Yup--they hauled these babies all over the neighborhood!

Yes, a fence. They pulled it out of the ground themselves.

By the time we finished our 2-hour scavenger hunt, our group had managed to procure two large sections of fence, an exercise ball, a large fake Christmas tree, several electronic toys, a plastic fire truck, 3 rusty nails, a yoga mat, a purse, a candle, a brand-new tennis racket, a box of brownie mix,  envelopes, and a car vacuum. We almost got a dog, but had to turn it down at the last second.

Despite my personal feeling that nothing could ever top the sight of 6 boys slowly dragging all this rubbish through the neighborhood on a 95-degree night, I was wrong.

Upon arriving back and meeting up with the other teams, I discovered that they had dragged suitcases, a bathroom stall door, and boxes of European chocolates with them back to our headquarters.

But, that wasn’t all they dragged back. They dragged back a wild, almost-unbelievable story about a little Asian boy with a knife.

Of course, this happened to be the group of kids who took off with my husband, Tyler. The weird things seem to stick to him like sprinkles on honey (sorry, latent VBS joke…I’m still trying to get it out of my system.)

Apparently, they had knocked on the door of a large suburban house, only to have the door creaked open by a small but fiesty Asian boy around 8 years old. He shouted at them in a language they couldn’t understand, and then screamed something about how his parents weren’t home and they had to leave him alone. As the group turned to leave, the boy whipped the door open again to reveal the said shiny knife and the pants pulled up over his bellybutton, a la Steve Urkel.

At this point, the entire group backed away slowly. The boy flashed the knife around, saying, “Come in, one at time! One at time, inside!” while the group shouted their apologies and made a hasty exit to the street.

No harm, no foul–but boy, was I cringing as I listened to the kids tell their parents how they “almost got attacked” at the youth event. It was one of those rumors I wasn’t too excited to have posted on Facebook that night.

When the kids clamored around me, shouting their versions of the story, my knee-jerk reaction was to pretend I hadn’t heard this. It’s the same sort of feeling I got after finding out that one of the high schoolers had shimmied up the very slick roof of our student center to chase after a loose frisbee–like if I just pretend that I didn’t hear it, I can continue to revel in my ignorance.

And I wonder how I earned the endearing nickname “The Fun Stopper” from my dear husband?

Thankfully, in the end, no one was stabbed by that pesky 8-year-old with the knife.

But, if they had been attacked, they could’ve used the bathroom stall door to defend themselves.

I guess next year I’ll just have to send the kids out with army tanks….

How One Extravagant Shoe Purchase Turned Me Into A Bee…Oops.

Do you ever find yourself doing things you never imagined doing?

Like, if someone predicted what you would be doing in a year, you’d laugh hysterically and somehow manage to smack them on the back while congratulating them for coming up with such a fantastical yarn. And then you’d go about your day, inwardly chuckling at how off-base some of your friends can be.

Then, suddenly, before you know it: surprise. You find yourself doing something totally out-of-character.

 Welcome to my life.

First, let’s get a few things straight: I know myself very well. So well that during my freshman year of college, while sitting through the mandatory meeting with their “career advisor counselor”, I informed the counselor that I didn’t need her help in understanding my “personality profile”. She urged me to take the test, and I flat-out told her exactly what my personality profile was going to be. Somehow, she seemed utterly shocked that I accurately predicted my own personality to a T.

I like writing, painting, and running things. I like people and dogs. I dislike celery and pointless meetings. I hate cilantro and math.

And, I especially hate acting goofy in front of large groups of people.

Don’t get me wrong–I have no qualms about being on stage. I’m in charge of so many things that I sometimes feel I perpetually have a clipboard and agenda glued to my arm. I’m used to knowing and repeating facts, making presentations, and teaching kids and adults alike. I’m even prepared for the random, on-the-spot question that I have to announce to the entire congregation every Sunday morning (which has actually happened, on occasion).

But, for whatever reason, I’m all facts and figures in front of people. Some people (hmmph, Tyler) absolutely adore being on stage and hamming it up. The goofier they can be, the better.

That’s just not me.

So, how exactly did I end up being the lead character in this year’s Vacation Bible School skits and hamming it up in front of hundreds of kids, scores of parents, and my entire staff?

Thanks, shoes, for getting me into this....

I believe it’s due to my shoes. I blame them.

You see, about a month ago, I stopped by a shoe store to scope things out. I found the most adorable pair of bright yellow shoes. I put them on, and felt like I was walking on a ray of sunshine.

But–while they weren’t really expensive, they were totally unnecessary. I fear sounding like a lunatic if I actually tell you how many pairs of flats I own (13).

Naturally, I purchased them immediately and decided to make up my mind later.

Just a few days later, my friend Dawn asked me to consider having the role as the lead bee in this summer’s VBS, which is all about a beehive called “Planet Zoom”. As soon as she presented her offer, I thought of those yellow shoes.

“Hmm,” I said to myself, “I could actually justify keeping those shoes, since they would perfectly compliment that bee costume they’ll undoubtably make me wear.”

And now, a month later, here I stand: Barb Bee, Hive Director.

Ten long skits and about nine thousand lines to learn.

I never, ever would’ve imagined myself as the lead character in a huge VBS production…but here I am.

Darn those yellow shoes.

But–I did justify their purchase. And they do look pretty darn good with my bee costume.

Who has the last laugh now?

“I’d Like You To Meet Fabio, My Squirrel Assistant…”

It’s amazing to me how little things, like finding out that your friend is raising an orphaned baby squirrel and is willing to let you come over and fawn over it for an hour, can totally brighten your day.  

Such is the case with me.  

My work week this week is simply not for the faint-of-heart (or the crotchety old geezers who like to eat at Denny’s in time for the lunch special and retire for an early evening of reruns in front of the TV): five straight days and nights of working with seventh and eighth grade students at our D Camp, a special educational camp for our confirmation students.  

Yep. Over ninety kids, for five days in a row. Technically, it’s almost six days in a row, since I’ll be spending most of my day Sunday with a whole hunk of these ragamuffins. To those of you counting, those are twelve-hour days, my friends. 

I guess it’s a good thing I like my job…and these kids.  

However, simply knowing that I had a visit with my baby squirrel friend, Fabio (named by a thirteen-year-old, if you couldn’t figure that out on your own) was enough to chase the doldrums away this week.  

Despite Fabio’s unwillingness to take a bottle of puppy formula from me without dumping most of it on my arms, the fact remains that he might be the cutest little critter I’ve ever seen in my life. This tiny guy scampered all over me, snuffling away and making an almost imperceptible cooing noise. When you set him down on the ground and walked away, he followed you like a little shadow, bravely hopping through the tall grass like a bunny.  

Fabio, the cutest baby squirrel you've ever seen...

 

I even forgave the fact that he dumped smelly formula all over me as he stood on his hind legs to hold the bottle of milk in his front two paws.  

Pure bliss.  

If only I could keep Fabio in my desk and sneak him out to answer emails, phone calls, and pesky drop-in guests for me. He’d give new meaning to the term “office assistant”.  

I can picture it in my head, right now…  

Random Stranger Looking for Me To Do Something For Them Because They Didn’t Pay Attention To The Instructions Themselves: “Hi, I’m looking for Cassie Moore…is she here?”  

Fabio: “Chhhmmmmkkkkchhhrrrr….”  

Random Stranger: “Well, uh, I really need to talk to her about…hey, you’re adorable….”  

Fabio: “Chhhrrrrmmmmchhhrrrr….”  

Random Stranger: “You know, that’s ok. I’ll just find that document and print it out myself…I don’t need to bother Cassie with this menial task.”  

Fabio: “Mmmrrrccchhhhhkkkk….”  

Random Stranger: “You’re right, Fabio, I should leave her a note of appreciation. Thanks for the great idea!”  

Oh, if only Fabio didn’t smell so bad–I might actually be able to get away with converting my middle desk drawer into a squirrel cage…

ESPN Was My Daily Devotion?!

Never in a million years did I ever think I’d actually be writing something meaningful about sports.

But right now, my husband has control of the remote, and he’s insisting on watching ESPN.

My dear husband is addicted to sports—and unfortunately, also has a penchant for writing, which manifests itself in the form of posts on endless NBA and MLB discussion boards. He’s won unofficial “most popular” awards in those very forums, and even has professional basketball insiders who contact him with private information before anyone else knows anything.

In fact, he literally impacted the entire NBA by being the first to leak pictures of several new team logos before they were officially released—which actually caused at least one team to scramble and eventually modify their new logo, out of public embarrassment over the premature leak.

Yep. My husband. He’s a darn good writer, and has a heck of a nose for networking over the Internet.

If only he applied a fraction of the energy he spends on his sports posts on our laundry, instead.

However, despite my chagrin at watching a sports show with him, I find myself drawn to the story of Ricky Williams, which is playing right now.

Ricky Williams was a Heisman winner, an NFL superstar, drafted first by the Saints and then the Dolphins. He was an odd character who abruptly quit football in his prime, in 2004.

Ricky Williams, in his prime

 

Ricky’s departure from football shocked the world. As one friend said, “He threw away all of things we value—money, fame, his celebrity status–everything.”

As another person said, “He blew people’s minds, because he consciously and conspicuously ran away from the American dream.”

As Ricky said simply to his sister at one point, his calling wasn’t football—he felt his gift was helping to “heal people”. He walked away from his mega-star, glamorous life, to live in a small house and live a life of simplicity, quietly dabbling in holistic medicine.

Eventually, Ricky rejoined the NFL he abandoned—but never again to be the superstar he once was.

What intrigues me with this whole story of Ricky Williams is that he’s been so utterly lambasted for walking away from money, fame, and fortune. He’s estimated to have lost out on over thirty million dollars in his career. Of course, Ricky has a lot of complicated issues—including a rocky past that included drug abuse.

But, in his own words, “People don’t find spirituality until they hit rock bottom. My goal was to be rich and famous and have everyone love me. And I worked and worked, and eventually I was rich and famous and everyone loved me. But, I lost any chance of knowing who I was. When you’re rich and you’re famous, what sort of stress could you possibly have? But, I got deep into spiritual stress…I hit rock bottom. But [during the last few years of learning I had], the money I lost wasn’t a big deal, compared to the experiences I had.”

I can’t help but thinking whether the way people view Ricky Williams is the same way people viewed Jesus, when He lived on this earth.

No doubt people were confused by Jesus—clearly, people are unsure of what to make of Him even now. Just like Ricky abandoned everything that we would want—recognition, influence, fame, fortune—Jesus continually shied away from those same things.

People just had to wonder about Jesus.

Why would someone with the power to upend the universe with His pinky not want to flex His miraculous muscles every once in a while?

Why wouldn’t He summon down heavenly fire and a whole host of angels to force the entire world to its knees, to recognize that He truly was the Son of God?

Why would He give His very life to save people who would never really understand Him, and would write Him off as a liar and a lunatic?

Why would He continually offer love and grace to people who spit out His name as a dirty, polluted word?

Like Ricky, whose choices and preferred way of life are difficult for me to understand, I don’t think I’ll ever really understand who Jesus is and how He remained perfect and unwavering in His commitment to save my soul.

But, He did.

Just don’t tell my husband that I actually got something out of watching ESPN with him.

How to Single-Handedly Fix the Travel World…and Save the Melted Ferrets

It’s a strange phenomenon, really—when you really want to be sleeping, you simply can’t. And, when you’re trying to lie still and not move a muscle, suddenly everything itches and you’ll probably die a slow and painful death if you don’t scratch those itches in places you didn’t know existed.

Such is the case with me tonight. And, for the sake of my poor husband, getting up at the crack of dawn, I removed myself to the living room and settled myself there to scratch away and ponder life.

After successfully dragging Tucker off of our cozy, super-sized Lovesac (which has basically become the most overpriced dog bed in the world) and spending an hour battling him in his unsuccessful attempt to win back his sleeping quarters, I finally decided to do something useful.

Life, as usual, has been crazy. For the last week, I’ve been catching up on all of the

Our family, together in California, celebrating my brother's graduation

 

 work I missed while on vacation the previous week in sunny Southern California, where I caught up with family and saw my younger brother graduate from college. Upon my arrival back to the office, one of the receptionists quipped, “You know, you never really ‘take time off’, you just borrow time from someplace else.”

Oh, how true she is.

Nevertheless, I did have a great trip to California—that is, after I was done dealing with the airports. One could go on and on, bemoaning the world of air travel…but there’s no sense in giving myself premature ulcers.

I did have an excellent idea while standing behind a clueless middle-aged man, shuffling along in what appeared to be shoes that were popular before I was born.

After standing in the security line for over half an hour and listening to the same message drone over the loudspeaker roughly nine thousand times (you know the one–something to the effects of, “All liquids must be 3 ounces or less and in a clear container, all metal and cell phones must be removed from your body, and all dynamite must be stowed in your checked baggage”), we finally inched our way up to the security conveyor.

No stranger to travel (I’ve been flying solo since age 12), I whipped off my shoes, tossed my cell phone and watch into the basket, and had my purse onto the table before you could say, “Frequent flyer miles!” The security guard even raised one eyebrow, he was so impressed by my efficiency.

However, my lightning-fast maneuvers were to no avail. I was still second in line, behind Mr. I’ve-Only-Flown-Once-And-It-Was-About-One-Hundred-Twenty-Three-Years-Ago.

With pure, incredulous shock, I watched this nearly extinct Travel Dinosaur crack open his suitcase right there, on the actual conveyor. Deaf to the promptings of the security guards all around him, he slowly peeled back his piles of clothing to reveal—I kid you not—full bottles of shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, and a razor.

A razor. At the airport. Did he forget what century he’s in? Did he think this was the Wild West?

On the spot, I decided that the airline world needs a makeover. For too long, passengers have been jumbled together and expected to put up with each other’s foibles—even the things beyond stupid, like those people who still think they can bring full-sized snow globes in their carry-on luggage.

We need a highly efficient organization system—one that sorts people into categories, based on their proficiency at air travel.

Those who fly on a weekly basis can earn a level 1 card, which entitles them to no-nonsense treatment at the airport—they can fly through check-in and security, and board the plane first since they don’t need three hours to find their seat and stow their carry-on bags in the overhead compartments. Another name for this particular level would be “I brought my brain with me to the airport today.”

Those who fly pretty regularly can earn a level 2 card, and cards would progressively continue down the line. At any time, someone who demonstrates consistent speed and efficiency in their airline travel experience can obtain a higher level card. And, conversely, anytime you do something stupid—like try to sneak a machete into your purse—your card drops down to a lower level, and you have to earn back your elite status.

It’s genius. Admit it.

Now that I’ve shared my revolutionary, world-impacting plan, there’s really not much to say about my vacation. It was blissful. I always enjoy people-watching in Southern California, the land where most people wear shoes more expensive than my monthly rent payment.

I did get attacked by a bird at an outdoor mall—I suppose that’s noteworthy. And when I say attacked, I mean malicious and repeated dive-bombing and subsequent entanglement in my hair.

I hate birds. I may be one of the only people in the world who can claim to have been pooped on 4 times—3 times on the head, and 1 time in my armpit.

I know, the inevitable, “How is that possible?!”

I’ll tell you how: I sat under a tree for two hours last summer, reading a book. Upon completing a chapter, I leaned up and stretched my arms above my head for a fleeting second. Instantly, I felt the warm spatter hit my underarm, and heard a blackbird cackling with glee and soaring away.

I hate birds, and clearly birds hate me, too.

Well, in retrospect, it could be worse. I could have nearly cooked my pet ferret to death in a hot car.

Yep. That’s precisely what Tyler and I saw this weekend, after popping out of a Walgreen’s.

A woman wearing a cowboy hat and dragging on a cigarette climbed into the gigantic pickup parked next to us, and sat smoking her cigarette and drinking her Diet Coke (a true picture of contradictions). We were looking up directions, so it took us a few minutes to catch on to what she was doing.

When we finally looked up, we noticed her absolutely bizarre behavior. After being in the store for quite a while, she had apparently cranked on the air conditioning (it was about 90 degrees out), and was holding her albino ferret up to the air vent.

It’s one thing to leave your pet ferret in a car.

It’s a whole different thing to leave your pet ferret in the car when it’s 90 degrees out.

And it’s complete lunacy to think you can re-freeze your poor pet ferret after leaving him in the car to cook to death, like a pint of ice cream you can just pop back in the freezer after it got just a little too melty.

I don’t know how that woman can sleep at night, with animal cruelty like that on her conscience.

(Please, draw no conclusions between my insomnia and Melted Ferret Lady…)

Well, after recounting these odd-but-true stories, I think it’s about time for me to try this sleep thing again. I’m thinking I might have better luck now—I removed the half-destroyed plastic Nyla bone that I’ve been laying on for half of the night now, and the Lovesac feels much more comfortable.

Maybe I’ll dream happy fantasies involving efficient security lines, birdless skies, and well-cared-for ferrets….

But, I must be honest here, Melted Ferret Lady wouldn’t get a Level 1 Air Travel Card from me.