A Trip to Israel and Change of Allegiance

Over the holidays, I was kept busy.  My sister, Jenny, came down from Portland for a week, with plans to see whichever of the other Carson clan we could we could round up.

We had craft projects planned with our brother Tom's kids, and a day at the San Diego Wild Animal Park with our oldest brother, Chris, and my kids, Nick, Erin and Brett.   

Then, of course, there couldn't be a Carson gathering without the ocean involved!  So we had a day at the Long Beach Aquarium planned and a whale watching trip....

But then late in the planning game, I got a call from my dear friend, Betsy.  Her sister-in-law had a long-anticipated trip to Israel planned for the holidays.  And at the last minute, her dog-sitter had backed out!  

Would I consider house/dog-sitting for her for ten days during the holidays? She didn't live too very far from me.  She was just in Newport Beach.

Her two, adorable, shaggy, white dogs are pretty highly strung, and are no longer compatible, shall we say, with staying at the kennel.  The younger of the two has severe separation anxiety issues.  

Even when her owner leaves her in the comfort of her own home with a dog-sitter, she has terrible diarrhea  problems, among others.  So, needless to say, the kennels no longer want to board her.

Okay, this really isn't sounding so fun....  But how can I say no?  Anna's plans are all made, her tickets paid for, and her bags probably all packed!  Of course I will do it.  If she doesn’t mind Jenny being there, too.

I went a few days early so that Anna could show me the park they walk to twice a day.  

And then the many trails beyond the park where you can take long, leisurely hikes down to and along the Back Bay of Newport Bay.  

A wildlife nut’s dream!, I think.  Jenny is going to LOVE this!

On this visit, the younger of the two dogs, Jewel, would not let me near her.   She is the neurotic, diarrhea, anxiety queen.  She wanted no part of me. 

But Sarah, her mother, is a sweetheart. She loves everybody!  She came right up to me and wanted to give me all kinds of love.

I asked Anna how much food to feed them, etc.  She showed me a case of canned food, but said she didn’t know how much, as she usually fed them whatever she was eating.  “But I don’t expect you to do that…” she said with a quick glance at me. 

“That’s why I bought the canned food….  But the LOVE Double Doubles from McDonald’s!” she said, slipping me a $10 bill.

She showed me where the leashes and toys and doggie treats were all kept; then the towels, the pots and pans, etc.  

Anna seemed really worried.  I assured her that the most important thing was for her to just go and have a good time and not worry.  Just leave everything to me.  We would all be fine.  I’ve raised kids and all kinds of pets.  I could handle it.

On Christmas day, I picked Jenny up from the airport and the next day Anna left for Israel, but not without a bucket load of last minute nerves. 

I just kept telling her, whatever came up, I would handle.   The dogs would be fine.  It’s okay if they don’t know me.  

I am really, really good with little kids and animals.  Men, maybe no quite so much....

The time flew by, what with trips to the aquar- ium, whale-watch- ing, an after- noon at the Wild Animal Park, and of course lots and lots of dog walks! 

But by the end of day two, the neurotic, fearful Jewel transformed into a happy, playful, loving sidekick that followed me everywhere and followed my every command.

Jenny left and the last two days were kind of quiet with just Jewel and Sarah and me and the walks to the Back Bay (with the camera in hand, of course.)

Early on the morning of January 5 ^th, I got a text saying Anna had landed at LAX.  She was back in CA.  

So I got up and started dust mopping the hardwood floors, cleaning up the last minute white hair bunnies of playful dogs, fed the dogs and took them for their walk.

It was three hours before she could clear customs, gather her suitcase, and get a shuttle ride home.  But finally, I heard her at the door.  The dogs alerted at the sound of someone at the door and came to the door, barked once and sat their growling.

I had left the door unlocked so she could come in easily when she arrived.  She opened the door and stepped in and…

Both dogs growled viciously and barked... and barked... and growled... and barked..., backing away from her toward me protectively!

“You guys!” Anna said, holding both hands out in surprise.

They stopped barking, then growled for a second and looked back at me.

“What’s this?!”  Anna laughed.

Finally Sarah realized it was Anna and ran to her.  But Jewel still held back for a minute. 

Only when I told her, “Well, go on!” did she run up and greet her owner. 

Then she got excited and jumped on her.  But she immediately followed this by running back to me to see if it was all right.

And she spent the next few moments running back and forth between us, not sure where to show her allegiance.

The lesson of this story has nothing to do with vacations in Israel, or house-sitting, or even dogs.  It’s about allegiance.  About knowing who you are and what you believe in and sticking to your guns.

In this case, it was just a humorous moment when two dogs simply had such a good time adapting to their new handler that for a moment or two they forgot that they had another, real mom out there who was going to come back to pick up where she left off.

But often you’ll see that with us human types.  We change our allegiance at the drop of a hat because we don’t know who we are at our own core.   We don’t have a solid base of our own, so we sway this way or that, influenced by those who have stronger personalities and/or opinions.  

It is so important for a healthy self worth to know who you are and where you stand.  With that solid base, you will have no need to waver.

Stay Thirsty, My Friend!

He sits in the dark corner of the bar.

The top two buttons of his shirt are unbuttoned, offering freedom to the greyed chest hair that now protrude shamelessly.

He leans back arrogantly in his chair the buttons slightly straining on the front of his shirt.
And he has an arm casually slung over the chair on either side of him as though he owns the woman in both chairs.
If he got up to walk across the room, I know he would swagger.
His yellowed, nicotine-stained mustache is too long.
It completely obliterates his upper lip and slides down, untrimmed, into the creases of his aging face to melt into the yellowed, untidy beard.
And his grey hair could stand a combing.
The creases on his forehead and bags under his eyes are emphasized by the dirty, smudged look of his skin.
Then he begins to speak with the gravely voice of someone who has smoked way too many cigarettes and drunk way too many drinks in his lifetime. For me, that is the final nail.

The guy just creeps me out. Period.

But it’s more than just his appearance.

It’s his arrogance. The way he looks at you and assumes that you will admire him…. That he somehow owns you.
Then his unseen wing man starts to speak.
His voice is not so gravely, but still deep and suave, authoritative yet personable.

But it's hard not to laugh as he begins to feeding you the cheesieet of lines:




“His personality is so magnetic that he is unable to carry credit cards…”
(You’ve got to be kidding?! Do they think any woman will buy that?)
“His beard alone has experienced more than a lesser man’s entire body…”

(What the heck does that even mean?

Maybe that explains those yellow stains?)

“People hang on his every word, even the prepositions…”

(Okay, I am a ‘word’ person by nature. And I don’t even get that one at all!)

“He once challenged his reflection to a staring contest, and on the fourth day, he won!”
(What an idiot!)


“If he were to punch you in the face, you’d have to fight off the urge to thank him…”





“Sharks have a week dedi-
cated to him!”
(Ummm …. okay.... I guess that is a lame reference to Shark Week on the Discovery Channel?
Maybe that is included just to win over scuba diver?
Or female marine biologists who like rugged old men…? By now he's beginning to win over a small audience...)
But as you pan out, you can see a beautiful young woman on either side of him, each immaculately dressed and coiffed.
Okay. Be serious now. Certainly these young, beautiful women just happen to be sitting at the same table because there are no other seats available.

They don’t look at him, but smile at each other and laugh quietly at untold jokes, nodding and and communicating with each other.

There is a red candle on the table top.

It reflects in bits and pieces of red satin that you can almost see in the shadows.

Red...
...and satiny...

...and sensual.
And now they show glimpses of this sleaze bag in his adventurous younger days:

…he is arm wrestling with what appear to be Cuban soldiers in some sort of camouflaged bivouac ...and winning, of course.

(…maybe speaking to our men in uniform? Or reaching out to those of us in the audience old enough to have been around for the Bay of Pigs and the Cuban Missile Crisis. His audience is increasing by small increments...)
Now he is bench pressing two sexy young Asian girls in short, crisp white nurse’s uniforms while crowds laugh and cheer him on.

(…okay, so maybe he has all of the boys’ attention now…. or is he trying to focus on the Asian market...? That's a much larger demographic!)
In yet another clip - remember, each of these clips is only 15 or 30 seconds - he comes upon a ferociously angry grizzly bear who has managed to get caught in a bear trap.

He calmly approaches the bear. He’s dressed in his three-piece suit, of course! And then he sets the bear free without getting hurt.

And his wing man says, “His blood smells like cologne!”
(… okay … maybe now he has won over the environ- mentalists and those folks from PETA … or even us sensitive gals who hate to see any animal in pain...)
Then, of course, his wing man tells us that “His mother has a tattoo that reads, “Son.”

(…okay, now he’s got the Marines on his side too?)

“He could disarm you with his looks…or his hands…either way…”

(Hmmm… Not sure what that means... But surely it speaks to someone out there, or he wouldn't have said it.)
“…at museums, he is allowed to touch the art.”

(…okay, now I am embarr- assed to admit that that one really even appealed to the art-loving/museum-going part of me!

Seriously. Surprisingly, I relate to that comment on a very personal level. Silly of me, but he's finally hooked me.

Now he's even got my attention. Maybe even my allegiance.)
“He can speak French... in Russian."

(…okay... That one is very witty and always makes me chuckle.

I guess that one covers all the lovers of romance novels and spy thrillers. The group is definitely widening.)
“Even his enemies list him as their contact number.”

(…okay, hmmm.... You have to admit: that is pretty amazing. Now tell me, who can’t like this guy?!)
But, of course, they don't stop there.

That's just the basic stuff.

You can't sell sensual without satin-garbed beauties, and the warm tones of Spanish guitar.

The music rolls through the room, tantalizing, soothing, luring – all very alluring.


“He’s the life of parties he has never attended …”


(…okay, now nothing the guys says sounds the least bit silly any more.

I want to go to these parties!

I want to meet this man!!!)
“He’s the most interesting man in the world...”

Or that is what his wing man tells us.

And by now, we are wanting to be like him. Or at least one or two facets of him...

Then we hear from the man himself.

His raspy, gravely voice now sounds sort of sexy… interwoven with the swelling, pulsing Spanish guitar…
“I don’t always drink beer...,

but when I do, it’s Dos Equis!”

…okay …. if you know anything about me, I don’t drink beer - ever!


(I prefer rum. Were I a drinker, I would definitely be a rum and coke kind of gal.)

But I am ready for a bottle now!

Waiter, bring me a cold one!
How did he do that? In very brief 15 and 30 second bits?!

How did I ever get from finding this grungy, nicotine-soaked, smugly- chauvinistic man revolting to wanting to sit down at the table with him, swig a few cold ones, and listen to the tales he has to tell?
When did his creepiness cross over into the realm of sexy and appealing?

That’s the way the devil does it.
If he came to us with a dirty face, nicotine-stained mustache, grizzled beard and greasy, uncombed hair, we’d shudder and turn our backs.

So he tells us he is something that he’s not.





I know it's a cliche, but it's so very fitting here.

He's a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Initially, I found these commercials silly.. sometimes funny. Until I heard that thing about being so cool he could actually touch the art.

Silly, huh? That that was the one thing that struck a chord in the depths of my being. Hey we all have our soft spots...

And then I was really surprised to find myself intrigued when I heard (from across the room while I was multi-tasking) the “He’s the life of parties he has never attended …”

I've never been a party girl by any stretch of the imagination. But I am a very social, people-person. And I miss interacting with people as I did when I was a teacher, a mother, even a massage therapist. I miss the interaction.
He tells us what we want to hear and gets us each at our weakest or most vulnerable spot. He always has a hook.

He tells us he can do it all.

He has something for everybody.

People hang on his every word...

Sharks revere him...

He is sexy and suave and surrounded by the most fascinating people....


From a Christian's point of view, this commercial is all backward. Makes you want everything that you shouldn't probably focus on in life.

But at the very end, we have a quick turn-around.
For then our "most interesting man on earth" says the only words that are really worth anything in this commercial.

Less than two quick seconds. If it weren't at the end of the commercial, it would be lost.

But I think these last four words of the commercial bring us back to where we should really be.

These are the best words of the commercial and what is truly important here:

“Stay thirsty, my friend.”

So important, it bears saying again:


“Stay thirsty, my friend.”


For we are told...
...for He satisfies the thirsty and fills the hungry with good things. – Psalm 107:9

I spread out my hands to you; my soul thirsts for you like a parched land. – Psalm 143:6 and Matthew 5:6



and possibly my favorite:

He said to me: "It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. To him who is thirsty I will give to drink without cost from the spring of the water of life. – Rev. 21:6


So, along with the "most interesting man on earth," I ask you to "stay thirsty, my friend!"

(And have a wonderful 4th of July as we celebrate the freedom our men and women in uniform provide us. God bless America!"

My Secret Tattoo

The southern California sunshine washed the February afternoon with the warmth of early summer.


My kids were at their father’s for the weekend, and I looked forward to a very rare day of “me” time.


I decided to step way outside of my comfort zone and drive down to the Orange County Fairgrounds for the bird mart being held there that day


I pulled into the fairgrounds’ parking lot and followed the path that the parking attendants indicated, waving their orange cones. When I parked the car, I followed the signs until I could hear sound of birds of all types singing – both indoors and out. I breathed in deeply and let myself relax, eager to enjoy a leisurely afternoon.



Once inside, I strolled slowly up and down each aisle, taking in the sights. Macaws, parakeets, lovebirds, finches, cockatoos, even kookaburras from Australia. Bird cages, bird seed, bird books, bird t-shirts.


A kaleidoscope of colors and sounds pulled me in and fed my soul. I eventually even splurged and allowed myself to buy one single twenty-dollar lovebird to add to my flight at home. Quite a bargain for an Australian Cinnamon male!

I stayed almost until the last, just relishing the independence and the circus of sights and sounds. But eventually, I reluctantly headed toward the door. The bored young man at the door sporadically offered to stamp the departers hands so they could re-enter the building should they want to.


When he asked if I wanted my hand stamped, I was about to decline but then figured, what the heck! It will be a piece of the adventure I could take with me the rest of the afternoon. I held out my right hand and let him stamp a purple ink bird on the back of my hand.


I smiled at the stamp and headed out to my car and the drive home. At the car, I placed the new bird in his tiny carrier cage on the floor of the front passenger seat. 


That way I could keep an eye on him, but he’d be out of the way of the cool breeze coming through the open windows as I drove home.


All the way home, I stole glances at the little guy on the floor, excited to be able to add some Australian Cinnamon genes to my flock.A mile from home, I headed northward on Rosemead Blvd. 


As I crossed the intersection at Mission and Rosemead, I heard a loud chip from the floorboards and glanced quickly down to be sure he was okay.



In that split second, a car pulled out of the parking lot at Rosemead High School, cutting me off. I tried desperately to swerve to the left, but there was no time, and I crashed into their left rear fender.


Fortunately I wasn’t going all that fast, so damage to their car was minor, but the front of my big, old Chevy Caprice buckled in, smashing the radiator and engine.

I quickly got out to be sure the people in the other car were okay and then remembered my poor little bird in the front seat. His tiny carrier cage had rolled over a few times, but he seemed okay. 


I got back in the car and pulled it to the curb in front of theirs. Out of traffic’s way, I waited for the police to come file a report.


The afternoon sun hung low in the winter sky and suddenly the lightweight silk top I had donned earlier that day seemed a bad choice. 


I shivered as the early evening breeze cut through to the bone. So I quickly rolled up the window to block the chill, not sure if the shivering was from the cool air or the pumping of adrenalin that didn’t stop once I realized no one was hurt.


A few minutes later I saw the sheriff’s car pull in behind the others’ car and waited in the relative warmth of my car while he talked to them. 


I reached down to put the bird’s cage up onto the seat next to me where I could keep distracted, trying desperately not to worry about what might happen to my insurance rates.


Suddenly, the sheriff knocked on my window with his baton, making me jump. I quickly rolled down my window just 6 or 7 inches and said hello before handing him my license, registration and insurance papers.


“I’ll be right back,” he mumbled and I watched him in my rear view window as he returned to his cruiser. I began to tremble again and quickly rolled up the window, even though I knew that wouldn’t make the trembling stop. 

I reached down and turned on the radio, hoping the music would calm my rattled nerves. The soothing voice of Vince Gill calmed me a little, at least giving me something to think about. I hummed along.


Suddenly a knock on the side of my car made me jump. I turned to the window but couldn’t see the officer. I craned my neck to see him, but still couldn’t. Glancing in my side mirror, I saw him standing close to my car, well behind my field of vision, baton in hand.

I rolled the window down half way, shivering at the cold air that rushed in and heard him gruffly say, “Get out of the car!”


I’d never been in a car accident before, so I didn’t know if this was standard procedure, but thought he sounded unnecessarily rude.


“Put your hands on the wheel,” he said. “Then reach over with your left hand and open the door from the outside!” he barked. 


I tried to process what he had said, and at the same time wondered why he stood by the back door and didn’t come talk to me face to face. 


Why do policemen always have to be so rude? I thought, but reached out and opened the door from the outside as I was told.

I stepped out of the car and turned to face him, concern- ed about the traffic rushing by so closely and wanting to get over to the sidewalk.

But then I noticed that he had his baton in one hand and his other hand on his gun handle in its unfastened holster.


“Stay where you are!” he snapped angrily and I noticed beads of sweat on his upper lip despite the cool air.


“Okay! Okay! I’m not going anywhere!” I answered, not recognizing my own, high pitched voice.

"Show me your hands!” he barked, and I quickly thrust out my hands, palms up.


“Palms down!” he growled and I quickly complied, turning my hands over. But this only kicked the stress level up a notch. 


He pulled his gun from its already opened holster and pointed it at me as he took a small step backward.



Suddenly I forgot the busy end-of-the-weekend traffic whizzing by just feet from me. 


All I could see was his not-quite-steady hand on his gun, feeling like I’d stepped out of my comfortable old car into the Twilight Zone.


"Tell me about your tattoo!”


I looked at him quizzically, as though he had spoken in a foreign language. What tattoo?!

“Don’t look at me like I’m stupid. I see the tattoo right there on your hand in plain sight! An eagle tattoo!”


I looked again at my extended hands and finally realized that he was referring to my pretty, purple bird mart stamp. 


Without thinking what a sudden move might cause him to do, I quickly reached up and licked the fingers of my left hand and used them to wipe at the purple bird stamp on my right.


“It’s not a tattoo…!” I babbled nervously. “Look!” I wet my fingers again and continued to rub at the now smeared bird stamp, as unexpected tears began to fill my eyes.


The sheriff nervously glanced from my hand to my face and back to my hand, trying to keep up with my frantic movements. Then he took a deep breath and seemed to relax some.

“It’s not a tattoo…” I continued, less frantically now. “See…? It’s a bird stamp…” I continued to rub my hand, keeping my eyes on his, trying to read his next move.


He slowly lowered, and then reholstered his gun, and asked me again for my name and address. He looked again at my license. 


And now he smiled a bit sheepishly as he reached out to hand me back my license, registration and proof of insurance.


“Sorry about that,” he said, wiping his sweating hands on his pants. 

“When I ran your license they kicked back an arrest warrant for an Elizabeth Rosas in Rosemead who is armed and dangerous and has an eagle tattoo on her right forearm…. 


She was shorter than you and has brown eyes and black hair… But with the eagle tattoo….”


This time it was my turn to breathe a sigh of, but now my legs began to shake noticeably.


“That’s not me. I don’t have any tattoos…. And I’ve never held a gun in my life!”


He apologized again and then called for a tow truck to come tow away my now inoperable car. Then he got back in his cruiser and pulled out into traffic and drove off.

For some odd reason I pictured the Lone Ranger riding off into the sunset. And in some odd way, I felt violated.




***********************************************************************


And that’s the end of the story. Sort of…


This true story has proven to be a funny one to trot out when the topic of mistaken identity comes up. But even more, it has served as an object lesson for me as well as my children and students.


So often in life, we take on burdens and unnecessary problems that are not ours; undeserved labels and misidentified tattoos that incorrectly define who we are.


Instead of standing up with confidence and assuredness and declaring (for all the world to hear) exactly who we are, we stand, shell-shocked in the rushing traffic of life unable to move or defend ourselves. 


We try desperately to say who we are not. To defend ourselves from tattoos that aren’t ours.


We stand before them, psychologically distraught and anxiously wiping away at a ‘stamp’ to prove our identity.


I can’t help but think that the only reason we have to frantically dampen our fingers and anxiously wipe away at the tattoos others may want to put on us is because we don’t really know who we are. I mean, really are.



Who among us hasn’t heard someone say something about us that isn’t true and wonder – even for a fleeting moment – if there is some truth to it. 


Or fear that others will think we are defined by these figurative tattoo. 


Or worse, travelled through life without proclaiming any stamps or tattoos of our own; not declaring anything at all.


I can’t help but think that maybe it’s because we haven’t already defined ourselves and made our character clearly visible to others. Maybe we haven’t taken any stand or declared who we are.


One day, long into the ugly custody battle with my ex, my 14-yr-old son, Nick, and I were on our way to their dad’s house to deliver birthday gifts to his sister, Jen.


“Why do you even try, mom?” he asked as we drove over to deliver a birthday present we both knew would be scorned and discarded. “You know they are just going to throw it away and hurt you,” he said.


He desperately wanted to convince me to turn around and go home. And I could feel his anguish.


“They’re just going to laugh at you and make you look stupid…” he pleaded.


I felt that it was such an important, teachable moment that I actually pulled the car to the side of the road when he said that to me, and turned off the engine.


“Coke,” I told him, using his childhood nickname. “I am going to tell you something very important that I want you to remember forever.


"I know they are going to reject this and treat me in a hurtful manner. God doesn’t hold me responsible for their actions. But he does hold me responsible for mine.


“No matter what the circumstance in life, we need to always do the right thing. Even if others laugh at us or try to make us look stupid. Our duty is to live our lives in an intentional manner, and do what we know to be right.


“How others respond to our actions is sometimes out of our control. But we’re not responsible for their actions. I cannot allow their hurtful actions to identify who I am. I choose to do the right thing, even knowing that it will result in rejection.  That's not my problem. I love your sisters unconditionally. And because of that, I will act accordingly, because that is who I am, and that is what God tells me to do.”


So now, when I think of the time the officer pulled a gun on me, right there on Rosemead Boulevard, I vow to myself that never again will I let someone else decide who I am.


I will not allow others to tattoo me with their eagles or define me with their behavior.


I will stand on my own two feet, sure of who I am, by God’s grace, and knowing just where I stand.


And it will be just as visible to a ‘tattoo’ as that purple bird – visible for all to see. God demands nothing less.




Liz Carson Rosas
10 April 2009




“He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To do justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."


Micah 6:8


"Yet if you devote your heart to him and stretch out your hands to him, if you put away the sin that is in your hand and allow no evil to dwell in your tent,
then you will lift up your face without shame; you will stand firm and without fear.


Job 11:14-16