A horse is a horse of course, of course....

"Everyone gather around, they'll assign you guys to your horse and then we'll begin the trail shortly."

Oh my Moses. I was so excited.

I loved horses growing up. Did riding lessons, had my room packed with figurines, squealed ridiculously like a mouse when My Little Pony Tales came on, the whole bit.

And now it was here.

I was a teenager, and we were going on a TRAIL!

A REAL TRAIL!

WITH TREES!

AND FOREST-ED-NESS!

We were at Turkey Run in Indiana, and there they were, beautiful stallions prancing toward us like they've known us forever and loved us since before that. I watched a few of my fellow youth groupers grab their pony and sling themselves on like pros.

And there she was.

Glorious steed.

Is that sunlight in her mane, or a halo? I chuckled to myself. What a dandy young lady...

Maybe not so young. As she cantered closer, she might've had more years on her then they care to adm---

Oh who cares! Let's get on with it!

I whispered in her ear, telling her we were about to have the best day ever.

Her eyes looked a little glazed and she was making a few weird noises, but I figured she was maybe speaking another language....perhaps she was a foreign horse, imported from the finest Arabian breeds across the Atlantic. That's it.

I swung my legs over and nestled into the saddle. She seemed a bit uneasy at first, but I think she just couldn't handle this massive spiritual connection we had with one another.

Yeah.

The riding began. We all formed a line of horses, marching through the trees as if we were cowboys in the ol' West.

Feels good to be alive.

I could feel what seemed like rumbling. A kind of strange vibrations against my calves. Is she purring? I'm sure she's purring.

That is really a lot of rumbling. Can a horse become pale? She looks pail. She's looking more pale. This horse has gone from grey to white.

I tried to shake it off, pet her neck, talk to her, but then I heard the strangest noise! It sounded like a can of Spaghettios forcing their way through a trumpet while someone played God Bless America.

I looked behind me.

I shouldn't have looked behind me.

Her once lovely tail was now propelling like a military chopper and things I have never wanted to see in all my life were flying out of her rumphole.

"HELP! THE HORSE HAS EXPLOSIVE DIARRHEA! NO REALLY I DIDN'T THINK HORSES COULD HAVE IT BUT FOR SURE SHE DOES THOUGH!"

End scene.

That was not my proudest moment. I thought for sure that this day was going to be my finest, one of those golden memories that you always look back on and tell your children about, and instead it is a projectile memory that randomly comes up every time I hear the phrase "loose stool."

Some days don't turn out the way we planned. Some situations don't turned out the way we intended. Our dream job wasn't what we thought it was going to be, our marriage isn't that fairy tale it was supposed to be, and that day you finally had off to relax and enjoy blew up right in your face. What do we do then?

Joel once said to a hurting nation something to the effect of, "Fear not, O land. Be glad and rejoice, for the LORD will do great things." That's what I think of in these instances. Great things can still come of this. It all comes down to perspective.

It's a day I could've cried my eyes out, or laughed my hiney off. I'll let you guess my response. ;)

Toe up from the flo' up.

Well, I should just say it.

I will never have pretty feet.

Again.

I used to. They would glisten in the moonlight, shine brightly in the sun, even be admired by passersby for their lovely coloredness and french manicures that I used to get on my toes every couple of weeks.

Then, it all went down.

I'll never be the same.

I received a pedicure from a new place that had opened up in town.

Seemed legit.

Too legit to quit.

A couple of days later, TMI but some type of barbecue sauce began to expose itself from underneath my nails. Then they decided to leave my feet altogether. My toenails, that is.

I have ugly feet.

Because of one trip.

One bad pedi.

It's embarassing.

The last time I went and got a pedicure, I was too embarrassed to let my friend know that I was missing a few nails, so I decided to see how far I could go in the pedi process....and then the lady came.

Beast of a woman.

Standing an intimidating 5'1", she grabbed my foot like she'd been doing this all her life, and started to scrub my foot.

Oh boy.

She stopped.

She's staring......long stare.

She's starting to frown.

She turned my foot from side to side, zoomed in, face scrunched.

Don't ask.....

She asked.

"Why you ain't got no nail?"

I bit my lip....I didn't want to tell her. But I did.

I leaned over and in the hoarsest whisper I could muster, "Bad pedicure. They fell off. They'll never grow back."

I thought she'd kick me out. Yell, scream, say, "YOU AIN'T GOT NO NAIL! NO NAIL NO SHAME NO SERVICE!" and maybe throw a chair at someone walking on the sidewalk nearby.

Sometimes I overdramatize situations in my head.

She looked at me seriously for a moment, looked at my stub of a toe, and then smiled.

"It ok. I give you new nail."

I know I had a crazed look in my eye as she went and grabbed a fake toenail from her little drawers and glued it onto my toe.

A NEW NAIL!

It looked just like my old one used to!

I feel pretty, oh so pretty!

My toenail is one of the smallest and unnoticed parts of my body, but I chose to focus on it and put all of my unnecessary time, attention, and shame into it, claiming worthlessness because I lacked something small and not vital to me as a person.

I wonder how often I've done that in life. Lacking something I desire, maybe a talent, maybe a possession, maybe the inability to take a bad choice in my life back, so much so that I've taken my mindset off of what is beautiful and made in the image of Christ. What He's given me that is still in tact, that still works, that isn't broken....that I refuse to focus on.

One bad decision, one bad pedicure can take a piece of you. But you're still usable. You're still beautiful. While waiting for the shame of your imperfection to be exposed, He'll smile and reassure you. It's ok. He makes all things new.

Even if it's just a toenail.

Headgear.

I love motorcycles.

This surprises people.

Mainly since I don't wear leather chaps, have a Mike Tyson tattoo, chainsmoke cigars, and my name isn't Beersheba.

I don't feel this stereotype is fair, because if you've ridden a motorcycle at any time, you know how amazing it is, no matter who you are, where you're from, what you did, as long as you love motorcycles. (For those of you old schoolers singing the Backstreet Boys song I tossed into this paragraph, I appreciate you.)

There are a few things that you will do in your love for motorcycles, whether or not it's a good idea.

You ride in the cold. This idea is preposterous. Seriously. Sometimes it's a gorgeous day. A crisp 50 degrees, and just nice enough for a light jacket. But if you're going 70 mph down the interstate on a bike in the same weather, you begin to wonder if you're a stunt double for Jack in Titanic, as it feels as though you've met an icy grave. There is nothing more attractive than pulling up to a car at a stop light with your runny nose draining out the bottom of your helmet. You see the driver and passengers in said vehicle do a double take as they realize that's not your hair glistening in the sunlight, it's your snot. Riding in cold weather is the only time one will consider urinating on themselves in order to feel warmth. We don't though....usually.

Motorcyclists do the "two-fingered wave" where, upon passing the other motorcyclist, will put their left hand beside the bike and stick out the index finger and middle finger, as if to say, "Sup." It's a precious time in a rider's life, realizing they're in this big VIP club, something that cannot be taken away from you as long as you're on that blessed two-wheeler. This happened to me for the first time summer of 2013 TODAY, and let me tell you what my face looked like when another rider passed me and gave me "The Wave":

Yeah, glad they couldn't see me either.

Night rides. Oh man, this one is key. Riding in the day time? Awesome. Riding at night? It feels like you are literally flying off the ground. I love it.

One problem.

Everything looks like an animal.

Running at you.

Riding on a motorcycle at night is the ONLY time in your WHOLE life where a mailbox looks like a herd (pack, school? Ugh...) of deer and where a "No Passing Zone" sign appears to be the only existing wild moose in the state of Illinois. I am so unbelievably paranoid about hitting a creature on my bike. I swerve more than I ride in a straight line at night, but I continue it nonetheless. I must say though, when you ride over a hill and your headlight catches the eyeballs of a not-so-distant animal, the Jaws theme track will inevitably play in your head as well as cause you to pray to your Creator for mercy.

Entertainment.

Few and far between when you're on your bike.

Guess what cars have?

Radio.

Guess what my bike doesn't have?

Yep.

So I am forced to entertain myself. Inside my helmet. All alone.

Do you know what it's like to be stuck with no one but your own thoughts on a 30-minute trip? You read this blog to be entertained, but when I'm left to my own vices, it becomes a terrifying fight again self-inflicted cabin fever. Helmet fever, if you will.

Sometimes I sing at the top of my lungs. God help the person who realizes I'm rapping Sir-Mix-A-Lot while waving at them as they pass, or the person who doesn't realize I just quoted the entire Anchorman movie while waiting my turn at a 4-way stop.

I wear a full coverage helmet just so that other people don't realize that I'm laughing so hard at my own jokes that tears are streaming down my face.

I would never want anyone to know what goes on in my helmet. It's too much for any other person to handle.

If people really knew what I was like in my helmet, I would be mortified. That's why I am the way that I am when I have it on, because I know that no one else knows what's happening inside of it, therefore I can't be judged for it.

A lot of times, it's that way for me without the helmet, only it's my thought life. I would be mortified for people to know what goes on in there, and most of the time, I think the things that I do in there for the soul purpose that no one else knows what's being said or thought there.

If someone lifted up the helmet of your thoughts, what would they think? Would they still have respect for you? Would they still think you were a good person?

Our actions speak louder than our words, but our thoughts are the seeds of our actions.

May we stray from the thoughts that lead us down a negative or uncomfortable path. It's definitely worth it in the end!

Get out of my dreams....get into my car.

My car is many things to me.

My heart and soul? That's obvious.

But more than that.

Lately it has been a changing room (much to the relief of some bored truckers....not my problem), a dinner table (I am assured to find at least two pounds of shredded lettuce that's dropped off of McChickens and 3-18 Starbucks coffee cups upon vacuuming the Bonne of it's contents), a bed (yes, I look homeless sometimes, sleeping in a stray grocery store parking lot as customers check to make sure I'm not an infant, even though I'm crying softly and in the fetal position), a library (nursing textbooks are too heavy to carry, so since I bought them all together I have adjusted them under the seats as I would on a bookshelf, and pull them out PRN (that's nursing for 'as needed')), and most importantly, a sound booth. Sometimes I just need to sing to destress. And no, I do not get embarrassed when someone catches me belting it out as I drive....I make eye contact with them, and continue singing until it's weird for the both of us. I also yell. If someone or something is frustrating me....I yell. To myself. Very good for stress. Also good for people to not cut the schizophrenic girl in the right hand lane off because they don't want her to follow them to Wal-Mart and murder them slowly in front of their entire family.

My car has lasted me many years and many miles.

In fact, the other day, it, yet again, got me out of a tough situation.

I was hours from my college of nursing, but I had to be at class shortly.

I am not a speeder.

Every time I speed, I get pulled over.

Cops don't like me.

I have cried, joked around, been honest and told them why I was getting pulled over and deserved justice, but no. The only time I've gotten out of a ticket was when I had an asthma attack. Heretofor, I've had an asthma attack the past two times I've been pulled over....and it's been "Warning City" for this gal. Aww yeah....respiratory failure equals cop compassion up in here.

But this time, I made an exception.

I sped. Oh did I speed.

I felt like a rebel. I even rolled the window down and let the wind whip through my hair.

I rolled it back up quickly. Turns out wind whipping through your hair hurts your face.

In order to make sure I didn't get pulled over, I consistently followed someone faster than me. I would watch carefully for....you guessed it, brake lights. The moment that happened, I knew I was just seconds away from a po-po spotting.

I was right.

Brake lights=brilliance.

I can't believe I'm so smart.

Towards the end of my trip, I realized I had compromised my well-known grandma-like driving skills. Sure, I made it on time, but I'm not a speeder. I don't like reckless drivers! I have road rage! I would've yelled at me any other day!

How often do I live my life that way though? I'm doing something that I know isn't right, and I'm just watching for those brake lights to make sure that the people that really count, the people that keep me in check, won't see what I'm doing? Or better yet, I excuse the act for a silly reason? Maybe it's something ongoing, maybe it was the way I spoke to someone or responded in a situation and refuse to right it/fix it, maybe it's whatever just popped into your head!

It's called being a hypocrite, everyone does it, but this is a real kicker for Christians. This is our downfall. This is what others judge us on. Knowing what's right and doing it, knowing what's wrong and not.

Sorry for the Belay....

Exercise and exorcise are two very similar words.

Need I say more?

Anytime I try to do some various form of exercise, I feel like I'm trying to get demons to leave my body. I writhe back and forth, sweat my bum off, and scream things that don't make sense.

I tried rock-climbing the other day.

Do you KNOW what rock-climbing is? DO YOU EVEN KNOW?!?! You see these people in commercials climbing the tops of mountains, with no moisture on their foreheads, looking as though they have barely exerted any effort. They make it look heavenly.

THIS IS NOT WHAT ROCK CLIMBING IS.

We went to this "top-secret" rock-climbing place (I call it top-secret anytime I can't find something without my GPS) inside of a silo right next to a dog-food plant. (Sounds like the beginning of a Lifetime movie, am I right?) We walked into this amazing facility where they had harnesses, special shoes, and bags of chalk. I knew we were either going to climb some rocks or do some very risque sidewalk graffiti. After paying a rather small amount of money, we walked into the rock climbing area. We made the AWESOME decision to go on Youth Night, which should be called "Embarrass Newbie Adults By Destroying Their Self-Confidence Through the Visual Slap in the Face of Spiderman-Like Children" Night. These kids were crawling up the walls like arachnids on crystal meth. I couldn't believe how easy they made it seem! Definitely built up my "let's do this" mentality. I had chalk all over my hands and I was ready to go.

I am a waitress. I lift heavy trays for hours at a time. I am well aware that my upper body strength is 10x the average human being's. I AM WAITRESS. HEAR ME ROAR.

"OH MY SWEET MOSES."

I had barely even pulled myself up the first ledge when I realized that lifting your body with your hands and knees is HORRIFYING. Who knew one could look so thin but be so heavy underneath all my ridiculously good-looking muscle?

I thought I'd reached the top....I could almost smell the metal of the bell we rang when we got to the top of our wall, when I chose to look down. That's so weird....the people didn't look like ants like I thought they would....they still looked their regular size. Also, they could reach out and touch me if they wanted. I was only four feet from the ground.

Really? I mean, really?

Also, I was exerting more bodily fluids than I cared to admit. No, little children, I had not gone swimming right before entering this place of death. I was just sweating. Sweating unGodly amounts, all over my yoga pants. That chalk was turning into play-doh, and I could do nothing but hang my head in grief.

Needless to say, I'd go again.  Moving four feet probably burned 2,000 calories, so without doing much of anything, I worked out quite a bit. And for $20, I certainly wouldn't mind it. But I'm not going on Youth Night anymore. I'm going on Rookie Night.


While waiting my turn to climb, I noticed a young lady reaching ridiculous heights. I followed her rope down to another young lady holding tight at the bottom. They call it "belaying" someone. They're able to climb higher and with more confidence in their ability as long as someone is at the bottom, holding them steady, giving them verbal encouragement, and watching them to make sure that they have help the moment they're needed.

Are we a friend that belays? Haha....it sounds interesting enough, but really? It was a random thought that crossed my mind at the moment, but it's straight truth. There's a saying that says, "Be kind to everyone, because everyone's having a hard time." Each and every one of your friends either has gone through, is going through, or is about to go through an extremely difficult time in their life. The knowledge that someone is standing with them, holding them steady, giving them the encouragement that they need and being there the moment that they start to let go allows them to get through and accomplish things they wouldn't be able to without you. I suppose this can be directed in any relationship in life. Consider it, think on it. I hope we're being a support system rather than a shallow one to those who need it most.

Pop it, lock it....OH HECK NO.

:phone rings:

"Thank you for calling Geico, how may I help you today?"

"Hello, my name is Kendra McBee....I locked my keys in my car."

"MY NAME IS KENDRA TOO! KENDRA POWER!"

"Wooooo....Kendra, this Kendra needs her keys."

"I can't believe it, I have never spoken to another Kendra on here."

"Well I'm so lucky I LOCKED MY KEYS IN MY CAR so that I could be your first one! How do I get my keys, Kendra?"

"Wow...Kendra....so crazy to be talking to another Kendra! Let me get you some help."

I can't have a normal conversation on the phone. Not when it's urgent. Anyone else, call the number, give the policy number, get the keys. Me? No, it ends up being a weird random conversation that causes slight tension in Kendra's shoulders (the one who locked her keys in her car, other Kendra seemed to be doing great) and patience is encouraged as she allows Kendra #2 to get out the excitement of speaking to someone with the same name. Crazy....maybe we should be Facebook friends.

Anyway, I needed to be somewhere STAT. I have never locked my keys in my car before. I've had that blessed Bonneville since 2007. I always have my keys when I need them. Only when I'm on my way to someplace URGENT does this happen....and only when I need it taken care of URGENTLY does God laugh and put Kendra on the phone with Kendra, prolonging the solution to my problem.

The ministry is a lot like that day. Frustrating sometimes, but we laugh about it later and realize where the blessing was. I can't use this story if it didn't happen, I can't compare this to my spiritual life it Kendra hadn't spoken to Kendra.

When I locked my keys in my car, I was stuck in a tough situation. I knew who to call to fix the problem, my only job was to call and notify them, and expect them to fix it for me, because I had insurance.

When I find myself stressing over situations in my life or ministry...finding the time to work with people, having difficulty accepting that some teenager or friend might be making the absolute wrong decision, realizing that I am not the one in control of my life, missions, or much at all, I know Who to call to fix the problem. My job is not to fix it, but to rely on the One Who can and wait for the results, until then, I just need to keep doing my thing....I don't call it insurance, I call it assurance. And it's good, really good.

Don't sweat the small stuff....

I am not a smelly individual.

I wear deodorant.

Keep reading.

At least I don't think I'm a smelly individual.

If you're my friend and you think I smell, tell me now.

I don't want to be living a lie.

I have become close friends with the elliptical in my gym. It's the only way I can accomplish exercising for an hour AND catching up on my Law & Order obsession all at once.

There are two people that I usually see when I work out, but until the other day, I never saw them at the same time.

One is a nice-looking gentleman. I am not a lustful hussy, but he is of a bearded nature, and that is attractive. He also does not sweat....he just glows a lot.

The other is an older gentleman. I will not go into detail. If you know him, do not speak of this to him nor mention his name at any point of time on this blog or in any aspect of your life. He is a straight-up "I am on crystal meth" ellipter. He goes to town on that thing. I perspire normally just because he is making me physically exhausted watching him go like an extreme skiier on that machine.

This man has an odor. I noticed it the first time he worked out. Not when he enters....he smells just fine. It's the dew emitted from his skin. As he slowly starts to dehydrate his body of any and all fluids he could contain, I can smell it. Everyone can. If an iguana ate a family of stinkbugs  and a bowl of cottage cheese and then was left for dead on a hot summer sidewalk for eighteen months, it might have a similar scent. I have dry-heaved.

Since I had never worked out with these two at the same time, I am fairly certain that by what I am about to tell you, they had not worked out together either.

I was in the middle elliptical....learning all about the legal system and how to be very dramatic at certain pauses in conversation.....when bearded man walks up.

Well hello there.

He begins doing the same thing to my right, probably watching some manly channel or QVC. Then the older man comes in.

No big deal.

He goes right to it. Well, to my left. Right to it.

Right to it.

The sweat followed quickly.

The smell, yeah, it was there.

Then, the worst thing.

Bearded guy looks over at me in disgust. Wha....no. No sir. Not I.

I kind of side-looked at him so as not to catch the attention of the kind old soul to the left of me. Dude, no, I spray Febreze on e'erday before coming into this place.

His face gets worse. He scrunches more. Why is he doing that? Stop doing that.

Then I do the head point. You know, where you move your eyes and your head just a little towards the person you're trying to pin out. I mouthed "NOT ME"....but bearded man is not easily convinced. I guess common sense doesn't filter it's way through the facial tarp...oh geez.

Then....five minutes into his workout, he gets off, grabs his stuff, and just straight up leaves the building. I look over at Old Faithful and he smiles at me, ignorantly happy about destroying my nasal reputation.

I mean, come on! I finished my work out. This nice human didn't even realize what was happening, and I will never tell him.

How many times do people mistake us for what we're standing next to? I thought about negativity. You can be the most positive person I've ever met, but if you're spending time with someone who is selfish or negative, chances are, people are going to start to think it's you they're smelling.

Keep a Febreze odor in your life. I struggle with negativity in my own mind quite a bit. It's a tough thing to conquer. But if you're hanging around the right people with the right scent....you're gonna be just fine.