*Poof*

I’m about to disappear for a while. (Wouldn’t it be fun to really disappear for a day? — to walk around unseen, listening to other people’s conversations, finding out what they say about you when you’re not around . . . or, um, on second thought, never mind.) Anyway, back to my original topic. March promises to be a crazy month. Here are a few reasons why:

Spring Skiing

Months ago, Luke — who, by the way, now has red hair. And I’m not talking a “real handsome auburn,” as Mrs. Lynde, the benevolent benefactress, described Anne-with-an-e’s hair. Luke’s red would halt traffic a mile away. A real handsome stoplight. Where was I? Oh, right. Months ago, Luke decided he wanted to go snowboarding over spring break. He didn’t have to twist my arm. After about five seconds of careful consideration, I agreed to meet him in Colorado on March 6 for a little downhill jollification. Luke will have to head back to school on the 12th, but I won’t be leaving just yet, because . . .

Sibling Revelry

My parents and siblings are showing up in Colorado on the 11th. For the past three years, Dad has organized a Father-Daughter-Daughter-Daughter-Son+Mom trip in the spring. No spouses. No kids. (Mom doesn’t ski — that’s why her name looks a little superfluous up there.) Our annual family ski trips started when I was nine. As teens, my sibs and I loved to veer off into the trees, blazing our own trails, seeing who could get the most air on jumps — long before the days of helmets and parabolic skis. Did I mention God is merciful? None of us were injured. But this is mostly my dad’s fault. To ski with my dad was to ski with style. Even to this day, he glides with the grace of an eagle coasting in wide arcs from a mountain top to the valley below. Dad made us do it right. Which stirs a pleasant memory for me. When I was a sophomore in high school, I joined my church youth group on a ski trip. When the trip ended, a group of seniors handed out mock awards. A tall, attractive guy (who I later dated for two years) announced my award: “Best form — and you can take that however you want to.” His wink told me how he took it. But I digress. On the slopes with my sibs, the years and cares fall away. We’re teens again, laughing, racing, doing tricks. Last year we all rented snowblades — short, trick skis that lend themselves to spinning, jumping, and other nonsense. I fell in love. I even bought a pair at a 50% off sale, along with boots and the now-indispensible helmet. I can’t wait to strap those party planks on my tootsies and fly. But. This trip won’t be entirely carefree, because . . .

Another Kind of Mount

Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference, the conference where I met my agent, the conference where I landed my first book contract, the conference I’ve attended over Palm Sunday weekend the past three years, starts two days after I return from Colorado. Yep. Two days. This means I have one week left at home to get ready for an event that begins on March 18. Did I mention I think I’m insane?

But I’m looking forward to all of this March madness. If you think of me, pray for safe travel, injury-free skiing, and wonderful times with Luke, my family, and the world of Christian publishing. If I don’t show up around here much in the next month, you’ll know why I disappeared. And you’ll also know to be careful what you talk about. I just might be listening. ;o)