Suzanne Schaffer

I've regularly exercised for most of my life. Not because I love it, but because it benefits me; it loves me. As a child I spent most of my time on my bike, in a pool, or playing Freeze-Tag or one of its variations, TV Tag anyone? When I grew older I had an indoor exercise bike that I rode to nowhere. I took an aerobics class in college taught by a teacher who was in love with James Taylor, Fleetwood Mac, and Don McLean. 

Somehow jumping around to, "Bye-bye Miss American Pie," didn't get my heart rate up, though it did give me shin splints in both legs. Sigh. 

After I married I bought a treadmill and continued my quest for fitness. Then came babies and the treadmill was another rack for my clothes. 

I joined some health clubs over the years:

The karate place - smelled like feet, I couldn't get past the stink.

The women's-fitness-in-a-circle place - the small talk was dizzying.

The Judgement-Free-Zone place - too many people, too many machines, too much of other peo…

In my book, Simple Things, I wrote about representing the Lord well in our daily lives. I mused that when we call ourselves Christians we ought to be sure we're wearing the label well. The Bible warns about those who aren't serving the Lord wholeheartedly:


Revelation 3:15-16New International Version (NIV)15 I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other!16 So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth. How are we representing Christ when we engage in conversations about controversial topics (both in real life and online)? It's as if some of us leave our Christianity on the couch with our Bible and Jesus Calling devotional. And I get it. When something we care deeply about is being destroyed it's easy to suit up for battle.

It's no secret our nation is broken, but when we jump into the wrong battle we aren't doing anything more than putting a bandage on a severed limb. We'…

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I remember the distinct sound of high heels on the hallway floors. The school I went to was k-12 all in  one building and I couldn't wait for the day that I was a high school girl, wearing shoes that clicked on the floor when I walked. It seemed so grown-up. My years in fifth, sixth, and seventh grade passed slowly with my constant daydream of being a heel-clicker. 

I remember the days of high school. Wearing my heels that echoed through the halls. I remember running down the hall my senior year with my friend Kelly. We both wore high heels and laughed as we ran, saying we were just like Laura Holt in our favorite TV show, Remington Steele.

I remember sometimes my heels being the only sound in the hall, drawing attention when I'd rather not.

I remember my heels clip-clopping along the Kohl's parking lot on my first day as a merchandiser with a new company. I was over confident as I marched across the street and stepped onto the curb. I felt like I l…

Long before the delete button on the keyboard there was a liquid miracle worker called White-Out. Similar to what's seen in the photo above, this magical formula was able to right all of the wrongs on our school papers, work papers, and more. It came in a little bottle about the size of nail polish and was painted on with the same type of brush. I admit, I did use it to paint my nails a time or two. I also used it to change the grade on my report card when I was in high school.

Sorry, mom, if you're reading this.

My school used White-Out on report cards all the time. What was to keep me from doing the same? I neatly covered over the bad grade and changed it to one a little better. Mom signed off on the report card and I changed the grade back when I turned it in.

Oh, the good old days...

But it didn't change anything. The grade was still the same. Unfortunately we can be the same way in our walk with Christ. Someone comes along and speaks truth into our lives that we don't…

Angela recently finished radiation treatments, a medical war against breast cancer, a battle she hadn't anticipated this time last year. At the end of agonizing months she was able to ring the bell, signifying victory. She stood strong and proud and rang it. I imagine tears in her eyes for winning the battle, for relief that the treatments were over, and that her pain would ease soon. Facebook friends cheered her on from all over the world.

My daughter chose a wedding gown and was invited to ring the bell.

Wait....what?

Ring the bell for shopping?

Welcome to America: 2018 

Where we are rewarded for menial tasks. 
Where we make a much bigger deal out of finding a wedding dress than we should.
Where we have to make everyone feel important about everything.

Honestly, I was embarrassed when the salesgirl asked my daughter if she wanted to ring the bell. Yes, she found a dress to be married in. To wear for about four hours. It took forty-five minutes for the decision to be made. It wasn't …

"My daughter is getting proposed to tonight," I told Alexis, a friend I hadn't seen in a while. I knew she'd be happy to hear the news, "But don't tell anyone, keep it between us." She promised not to say a word.

Later that day I made a few calls and invited some people over for an impromptu engagement party, complete with cake and confetti.

"You should stop by tonight at about nine o' clock," I told Trisha, without revealing the reason for the invitation.

"Because your daughter is getting engaged tonight?" she asked.

I almost dropped the cake on the floor when I realized our mutual friend had broken the news to Trisha.

Okay, I almost threw the cake when I realized it.

A promise of, "I won't tell anyone," was record-breaking short lived. My heart dropped and I silently vowed to never tell this friend anything again. 

My list of those I can trust seems to grow shorter each day.

If Alexis couldn't be trusted with this new…