I am now in the camp of promoting Chiropractic care. I don't love going, but in completing eight weeks of adjustments I must admit I've seen a huge improvement in my back, neck, and overall health. It's amazing what you grow used to when your compensating, "Well so what if I can't turn my neck to the left, who needs peripheral vision anyway?" Pitiful really. Clearly I needed help. When I first started going to the Chiropractor I must say it was a bit of a culture shock. A girl in Mickey Mouse scrubs gave me the dime tour. The main room was described as "The Adjustmentorium." This room had people in all manner of interesting positions. The name alone suggests a cross between a Medieval torture chamber and a Sanatorium.

The staff are incredibly friendly, but have no problem strapping a six pound ball to your chin and asking you to hang your head back behind a chair for ten minutes. "There you go sweetheart, be back in ten!" they say cheerily as they leave you in anguish until released from what I have come to name "The Ball of Death". Two minutes feel like thirty. To distract from the pain I would try to read the upside down blurb of fun pinned up for our perusal, like "How to Achieve Your Dreams!" or "How to Become a Positive Thinker!" Both articles made me want to cuss, and I would have if my larynx hadn't been so restricted from the weighted head strap. My feeble attempt came out in gurgled sputters nearly choking myself on my own saliva. There was nothing left to do but submit to The Ball. This is what they call "therapy".

I am grateful however I do not have to use the Walking Head-Brace. Now there's a ritual in public humiliation. It is exactly what it sounds like. After your adjustment they strap on a head brace that rests on your shoulders, and you walk around the office, waiting area, down the hall, around and around slowly for an allotted period of time. It's meant to add more curve to your neck by lurching it a bit forward and keeping it there by way of straps, bolts and padded metal bars. A woman shuffled through the waiting room in that contraption as I was filling out my first patient profile. I was tempted to drop my pen and run. What strange vice will I be strapped into? And more importantly, will I be asked to bare the shuffle of shame through the waiting room?  One wrong move could land you in the magazine rack,  oh horror.

By far the easiest therapy is the Wobble Chair. In a small room five chairs with wobbly seats sit snugly side by side in a half circle. You sit on the wobbly seat and shift slowly in all four directions. It's a strange thing to be doing next to people you don't know. Seems rather intimate really, with no music or television as a social buffer,  just silent shifting forward, back, side to side. I can never let silence go for too long before I offer up some cheesy small talk, "Sure is chilly today huh?" I'm hoping this will become as familiar as two people riding the subway, but it won't. We are in a small room... wobbling. It's worse when the other individual is a man. Then I can't even handle small talk, I just wobble and smile, which is way more creepy, "watch out for that one, she likes the Wobbling Room. Best keep your distance."

The thing is this stuff works. Easy to poke a little fun, but I've noticed a huge difference. And without any need for medicine. I had real pain in my hips, neck and back for a while, but now I hardly have any. After only a few weeks of adjustments I began to feel like a new person.  Like the Tin Man after a few dabs of oil I could move with such freedom, such ease, and suddenly eager to link arms with Dorothy and Brainless to brave the flying monkeys. But you must submit to the program, there are no shortcuts. It can be humbling and weird, but you grow accustomed to your little tribe of weirdos you see every week, and together you wobble, hang your heads, do the stairclimber thingy with one arm raised, whatever it takes to be free of pain and stay that way.

I'm amazed what we will submit to to be free of pain. But yet its so hard to submit wholly to Christ. He promises freedom, peace, joy, life to the full, and yet the day to day time I need to spend with him sometimes gets forgotten. Why? The sad human condition of selfishness and laughable self-reliance. Slowly, I become hunched, rusted, more and more immobilized by encroaching sin and selfishness. And only when it hurts too much, well then I'm screaming for that oil can. Living for self leads to death. Our resurrection has been bought at the highest price. Not only to be saved, but it was for freedom Christ has set us free, and the only thing required is complete surrender under His hand. Continually I pray for the fog to remain lifted, and that God would not allow my deceiving heart to lead me back into bondage. Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

"If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it." Matthew16:24,25

This week I had the wild idea I would juice fast for three days. I lasted six hours. One of the conditions of a juice fast is that you give up coffee. I have one or two cups a day and I relish them. But I thought, "why not? It's only three days." By three o'clock it felt like my four year old had wrangled my head into a vice, and with each waning hour without caffeine granted another turn of the clamp. Finally I cried mercy and reached for a cup. It was so delectable I nearly cried. By four o'clock I cleaned out the fridge, did the dishes, folded three baskets of laundry and organized the utility room. I love caffeine. How dare I turn my back on it when it has been so good to me?

Granted, more than two cups a day turns me into a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist with a facial twitch. Using a legal drug comes with responsibility, we must have balance. Reminds me of the time I was at a church function and I offered to get someone a cup of coffee, and the woman replied, "I don't use caffeine." She doesn't use it. She said it with such emphasis, like I had just offered her a stoke on my crack pipe. What did that make me? A drug pusher? It sure felt that way, and I shrank back like a shamed felon and sipped my coffee in silence among the other users.

Along with juicing I have also taken up running in my quest for better health. I haven't run in years, well apart from running from small angry dogs and deep regret, then I run like the dickens. I don't necessarily enjoy it. I hate it really, but nevertheless I preregistered online for several 5k races. The challenge is good and keeps me training, so essentially these races serve as a vicious form of accountability. At first it feels like a good idea, registering from the couch as I enjoy air conditioning and sip fresh kale, "Well 3.2 miles isn't that far. And by golly I need it!" A swift "click-click" of the space bar and I was committed. Then race day arrived. As I stood in the mingling crowd of intense racers and walking moms, my inner voice quickly changed its tune, what the crap am I doing here?

Like a dream that throws you into an unthinkable scenario, I had been slapped out of my sophomoric  hope and suddenly knew I was in for a world of pain. I just paid twenty bucks to suffer for thirty minutes. My brother in law, who had also recently taken up running again was standing next to me. He was a track star in high school, so this challenge thrilled him. He wanted to beat his last time, I wanted to finish without hurling my last meal. We are both in our late thirties and I suppose that is part of the reason we find ourselves at the beginning of a race. We have just entered the beginning of the second chapter of our lives a little softer around the edges, a little slower.

The first lap around Central Park went well. I worked on my breathing and hung in there. The second lap was a bit rough. I ran along this other girl for a while and finally mouthed, "I'm dying." She gestured the same breathlessly, in tired runner sign language, a combination of a hanging tongue and a quick eye-roll, and we chugged along together. So far I was content with my performance. That is until a woman pushing a stroller blew past me. My pride spoke up.

"Seriously? Your going to let a woman pushing a fifteen pound baby pass you? "

My body responded,

"Yes. Yes I am."

"Oh suck it up Spitler, the Finish line is just up ahead, if you don't push past her I'm going to take a serious hit. Are you listening to me?" cried my pride.

"Can't hear you over our exploding lungs. Remember the burrito we ate two hours ago? Wanna see it again? Your choice Pride." My Body was unwavering in her response, out of desperation.  

We finished Fourth in my age group, Pride, Body and I. Right behind Crazy Stroller Lady. I felt pretty good actually. I'm not sure why this is but after my pride takes a hit, a new contentment washes over me. Knowing I don't have to shoulder the weight of my own worth or lack thereof, is a relief. And that my Dad in heaven is still proud of me, still rooting me on. The "win" matters to the world, but not to Jesus. The "win" to him is letting pride spout off, then letting it die to make room for Him, our Redeemer, the only voice that matters.

I signed my son Noah up for a kids Fun Run this weekend. He is very excited and tried on his running shoes this afternoon. He plopped down next to me and said,

"Mom, I just prayed to Jesus that he would be right behind me the whole race with all those other boys." 

"I'm glad honey, because He will be there, running right along beside you." 

"Well no Mom, I don't think he'll run. He'll float. He doesn't need to run."

 "Yes, I suppose that's true."

There are some things that can never be erased from memory no matter how hard you try. Back in January my husband Raegan and I were driving around to kill some time before church. We just so happened to be having one of those intense marital discussions, when upon rounding a corner we witness a man’s fleshy backside, only a glimpse before he quickly pulled up his pants. He was apparently taking a leak on his fence. If I could scrub clean my visual memory I would. Disturbing yet pitiful, the vision stopped our conversation in its tracks. Here it was January, the cold gloom that hits after the forced joy over the holidays. Of which this guy’s frumpy pinks typified the general mood of post holiday blues, sad, despairing, like the moment you open your credit card bill.  Let’s face it, most backsides leave much to be desired, comical at best. Time will always have the last laugh and we all end up wilted and withered like two week old lettuce, our own reminder that we indeed are on the way out, that we are mortal. 


After the Fall God handed cover-ups to everyone. We blew it, so now the fig leaf is required. The ugly side of humanity is better left in the dark, clothed, securely fastened by way of zipper or buttons, or the shapeless Snuggie that comfortably hides everything under a lovable fleece sack. The unveiled horror capped our morning perfectly. 

We were discussing why it was we could not get through a day without bickering over something ridiculous. Over whose turn it was to wrestle our second unruly child, "Budget", into submission. Or why someone can’t throw away candy wrappers instead of stuffing them into the couch cushions to supposedly, “be picked up later.” Those cyclical arguments that keep going and going, a miserable Merry-Go-Round, blame and shame divvied out like carnival tickets to be tallied up later, declaring the Winner and the Loser.

That’s when it hit me like a pair of puckered buns, vulnerable and ugly- our fallenness exposed leaves not something, but everything to be desired. Somehow God actually loves us, so much he invites us off the Merry Go Round. He tore up the tally tickets of blame, wore the shame himself and let us off the hook. Alone we are incapable of change, miserable schemers out to win at any cost, (oh how I love to be Right). But up against the white canvas of Christ our “righteous” schemes show up like black blots that mar like violent scars. Sin. All fall short of the glory of God. So we repent, we get it. We get that we bring nothing to the table, and I mean NOTHING. And He takes our hand, our Rescuer and leads us off the cyclical death that leads to nowhere. 

Customer Service


Recently I had an emergency run to the bathroom at Walmart. When you have a kid, knowing where the bathrooms are in every store is your first order of business. We made it in time, and I saw written in angry scrawl on the toilet paper dispenser, "I HATE MY JOB".  I simply had to nod to that, and pray for that individual, because I can't say I wouldn't hate my job too if I worked at Walmart. Any Customer Service job can make you ponder things like, "would I rather deal with another ridiculous question or put my head through a plate glass window?" If Customer Service were Dante's Inferno, I imagine Walmart would be at the very least, the fifth ring.


 Ten years ago I was single, had my own apartment, and worked as a Customer Sales Representative for an Organics Foods Distributor. I could care less at the time about Organics, knew nothing, and it showed to my Customers. We were required to go to these Customer Service Seminars every year, and there was a list of things you should never say on the phone to your clients. "I don't know." which I said on a regular basis. "Hold Please." which was my go-to for every question I was ever asked. And "Call back later when I'm not so flipping busy." Which was not on the list, but is now due to my seminar participation. 


I was guilty on all counts. Apparently, when you say "I don't know" it gives off the impression you are out of control. When you say "Hold Please", especially in the voice of an automated machine, this denotes someone who doesn't care. Well Yes, and Yes. I was twenty-eight, single, and was cycling to work because I couldn't afford a car. So yeah, I was probably out of control and could care less about where one can find Ostrich Eggs or if Brazil uses child labor to package their bulk nuts. Both questions were asked by the same woman who I imagine lives in a crumbling manor like the eccentric Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. Caked in white powder, a matted cat in her lap, she dials my extension. 

"Oh yes is this Lonna?" I had given her a fake name from a previous call to throw her off my scent. It didn't work. My coworker Nick sold me out. He gave me a thumbs up from his cube. 

"Yes," Sigh. "It is." 

"I must know, something has been bothering me and I cannot rest, I tell you I CANNOT rest until this is resolved. I bought six pounds of Brazilian nuts and I saw on the news that little children are packaging these nuts! Is this true? Little children?" 

"I have no idea." I assumed the finality of my answer was enough. Was she unaware she dialed an Entry Level Employee? That's Corporate for "powerless"and for the most part "clueless". Nine bucks an hour will buy you this response,  

 "Let me put it another way, I don't know. Hold Please." 

I give it a minute or two to give her the impression I'm actually looking into this, as if I have inside information on Brazil's Nut Industry. It's not that I didn't care about Child Labor, it was that I could barely get my trucks out on time for delivery, let alone investigate an international crime. She's probably envisioning our office like some sort of news room, hot on all topics of Food Causes. I yell out, "Child Labor in the Brazil Nut Trade! Has anyone heard?!" And another concerned Customer Service Rep rises from their swivel seat, throws off their earphones, "I had a hunch kids were packaging those! Let's blow the whistle on this!" And like the Scooby Doo Gang we rush from our cubicles, unveil the true criminal, and then race back to the phone to give Miss Havisham the good news. But no, I wait, and wait, doodle a few birds in flight, an eyeball, a noose, then click back on, "I"m sorry ma'am we don't have any answer to that. Was there anything else you needed?" 

     "Yes Lonna, there is. I also heard they pee in the nuts." 

     "What?" 

 "They PEE in the nuts." She said indignantly, as if I hear that complaint all the time.  "I need to know if that's true, because I'm not eating one nut, not one, until i find out if children are peeing in them."

Something told me the latter concern was of greater importance. I can only hope every Controversial Brazil nut she popped in her mouth caused some mild inner turmoil. She could have opted for the American Peanut, an innocent nut minus the sweat off the brow of a Preschooler. But urine laced nuts; now that is the unforgivable crime. And of course the real reason she was calling.  

"Hold Please." 

I worked there for three years and it was my absolute favorite job. I had regular store managers who placed orders with me every day, and I did my best to get their trucks out on time. That was my job, in a nutshell. Far better than the Entry Level Receptionist jobs I had in endless succession in Boston. As a Secretary you had to look and sound friendly, a difficult task. So as a Customer Service Rep it felt great to hide behind a phone. It made it far easier to feign interest nestled in a cubicle wearing headphones while surfing the web. The amount of eye rolling in our department was unmatched, and could be viewed as an art form by the more seasoned and skilled Service Reps. I'm not saying my work ethic was right, or justified, but certainly my employment history could be a harvest of entertainment just waiting to be picked.

I asked a friend at Church the standard churchy question, "so how are you?" and she replied, "Enjoying life in the blink. Well, I'm over fifty, so half a blink." I love this woman. She is one of those people that has fire. Without pretension or self awareness, it is something other worldly, supernatural, and without apology. She is a lover of Christ. She is still Debbi, but the amplified version, the risen version. She would say, "my life is about Him. I bring nothing to the table, He is all I have, all I am, all I will be." Jesus Christ emanates from her. Sometimes He shines through almost too bright, too real, to the point you almost look for the comfort of one of your more insecure friends who knows how to hide behind small talk. But like an aimless moth, I am drawn to people like Debbi. I know just a few people like this, and immediately I want to warm up by their fire because its cold out here in the land of self, let's be honest.

The land of Self is shiny, even bedazzling for a while, and then leaves you feeling hungry and hollow and buried in regret. What you assumed would result in Self Love budded into Self Loathing. To the world it stands to reason if you feed Self, surround it with blind minions, you will feel less alone. You will fill the gap. Well, that's the motto of Self's ugly twin, Flesh.  Flesh is full of sugary anecdotes like that. "What feels right to you, is right, so go ahead, indulge! Follow your heart!" It's fast food for the soul. So delicious going down, but proves unfavorable to your midsection in the end.

 When I was a kid my parents did not indulge us with sugary treats. At school my brothers and I were the last kids anyone would want to trade with during lunch. "How about a small bag of rubbery baby carrots for that Ding-Dong? No? Really? Ok, I'll throw in half a celery stick slathered in natural peanut butter!" At home if the Sweet Tooth beckoned we were left to nibble on sweet grass like rabbits, or in our most desperate moments eat a crab apple. The name alone should give you pause. It's an angry uptight little fruit, and will leave you in the fetal position begging for milk of magnesia.

I blame my parents for my adult addiction to Dot's candy. I can no longer be trusted to buy them because I can't eat just one, not possible, I must eat the whole box. And not a small little fun size box, (which are ridiculous, like two Dots sharing a tiny Yellow Cab zipping toward your discontent..) no, I'm referring to the jumbo mother load box o' Dots, the ones the size of a VHS tape. There is something so satisfying when you finger the bottom and find that last red one hanging on for dear life. You shake it, it comes loose, and oh my, it might as well be Christmas. Then they are gone.  As quickly as I popped that last survivor, gut rot ensues with a vengeance. Followed by intense bloating, because I've just eaten my cat's weight in digestible plastic, Corn Syrup, and dye. I'm useless for the next four hours, bemoaning, "why? why oh why did I eat all those Dots?"  It's a horrible process and a sad display of the Flesh at its peak. Hi, my name is Laura, I am a Dot-aholic, and I had my last Dot six months ago. 

My spiritual life is pretty much the same battle. The Flesh will lead me down many a rabbit trail, following this or that desire that leads to nothing. Life in the Blink is the only alternative. Life in light of eternity, believing the words of Jesus when he said, "If you cling to your life you will lose it. If you lose if for my sake you will gain it." And not just an existence, but life to the FULL.  A life ruled by Self and Flesh, the twins of debauchery, with linked arms will happily skip you down a path leading only to death. So death must happen. Death to Self. Death to the Flesh, so Christ can live and move freely inside us. Along with the twins He drives out fear, self loathing, discontent, replaces them with joy, peace, and His righteousness. Life to the full. We are here only for a Blink, and then its over. A life so precious to Christ He died for it, so what is our purpose? In light of Eternity this short life has a divine destiny. To live for Christ, to die is gain.