Y'all.

So I was at the hospital today getting my last (hopefully) MRI following up for the "medical incident" of last fall. Because I have had this bubonic plague cough that lasts forever and a daysix weeks, it was difficult to hold my head and neck motionless while concentrating on NOT COUGHING. Sadly, they needed to pause the MRI while I had my bout of coughing a few times. Finally, it was over and they were unstrapping me from the contraption. As they took the I.V. out and I sat up, I said,
"Y'all.That trying not to cough in there was killing me."

What?

"Y'all?"

Am I from Alabama, all of a sudden, or Georgia maybe?
No, I am not.
I am from Wisconsin and now live in Oregon and have never been within peach pit throwing distance of any of the Southern states.

The only answer I can come up with is that I am deeply religious about reading Boomama and BigMama. Every. Single.Day.
Apparently, their accents are contagious. Through their blogs. Or, maybe it is their podcast, I'm really not sure. Who knew?

On the other hand, it might just be me.
Earlier, in the waiting room, I was, well waiting, along with a nice couple. The wife was American, but her cap-wearing husband seemed to have a nice Irish accent.
When she was taken back for her MRI, her husband and I had a little chat about the lack of proper reading material (seriously, Golf Digest?) and the other patients in the waiting room that we were concerned about. We were both avid people watchers and liked to try to figure out why they were there. That is good and entertaining fun. Until I heard a lilting, Irish brogue as I asked him a question.
It was just a wee bit.
But it was enough for me to clamp my mouth shut, pick up the Golf Digest and scan the pages blindly, hoping he hadn't noticed my picking up the sing-song cadence of the Emerald Isle. And also hoping I didn't inadvertently begin crooning "Danny Boy." Or suddenly explode into a furious rendition of "Feet of Flames; Lord of the Dance" on my way to the restroom.

Faith and begora, but I was humiliated.

Am I that much of a chameleon, even changing the way I speak, when I am around someone for more than a minute? Hopefully I don't take on the color of furniture I sit on, or I would have taken on unattractive teal Naugahyde hue. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.

It made me think on the long drive home about being in the world, not of it. That is a balancing act, my friends. But it can be done.
It also made me think of how we become very much like what we spend the most time with, and how I should be filling my mind and heart with things that make me more like Christ.
God says this in Deuteronomy 6:7-9 about how we should be treasuring His laws: "Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up. Tie them to your hands and wear them on your forehead as reminders. Write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates."
I want to be a Christ-chameleon,spending time with him and his word so it is as though it were tied to my hand and worn on my forehead.
I don't know about you but there is room for improvement in my life.


Right now, if I were to become what I spend the majority of my time with, I should either become America's Next Top Model, or the 2008 American Idol.
It is a toss-up, y'all.